Tonight I put a ninja to bed

I'm Mulan! Aiyah!

No, it's not a euphamism. Lil Poot has been giving us a hell of a time going to bed lately. She's learned to play us like a xylophone, but I'm on to her tricks. And so we have the 5 stages of bedtime:

Denial: No, it's not bedtime. It's still morning time. (that means it's daylight out)
Bargaining: One more minute.
Anger: No! I don't WANT to brush my teeth!
Depression, actually Despair: "Waaaaahhhhh!!!!!" (Imagine crying with a doppler effect as I walk with said kid under arm down the hall)
Exhaustion: But I'm not sleepzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.....

So, back to Ninja Kid. The Poot has the most amazing imagination I've ever encountered. It's not just active, it's actually elastic and pliable and can stretch around corners and into crevices.

True story:On Mother's Day the Sunday school people had the kids make little plastic stained-glass thingies for the kids to paint. I come to pick Poot up and she's crying her eyes out and I can't really get at what's bothering her. I think she's telling me that she didn't get to make one and now they don't have any left and she's upset. Except that, while I'm sitting in the hallway of church trying to console her, another mom, who's in the hallway also with a crying kid, says, "I know she made one." And then, "Hey, what's her name?"

Little side note: We just discovered Monsters, Inc. Of course, we have to act out EVERY part. "You be Sully and I'll be Boo." "You be Mike and I'll be Sully." "You be Smoochy Poo and I'll be Mike." Ad infinitum. Except that she got bored being the good guys and started pretending to be Randall, the scary monster and so we became accustomed to her flinging herself at us and growling and we'd have to act scared and she'd be screaming, "I'm RAndall! I'm RAndall!"

See where this is going?

When I dropped her off in Sunday school, she told everyone her name was RAndall. And the person who took her craft and wrote her name on it, wrote Randall. Mystery solved, I found my Mommy gift and the waterworks were shut down.

So tonight, on the 3 attempt to get her into bed, she wangled into her red Ninja costume and brandished her sword at me. Fortunately I pulled some fast Tommy Wu moves, disarmed her and carried her off to bed. Sad to see a ninja cry, really. Finally, I put her into her little bed that we've been transitioning to. Got the pillow just so, put a pad under her(still toilet training), pulled the covers up and kissed her. I climbed into my bed. A few minutes later, from the dark, I hear, "But Mama, I miiiiiisssss youuuuuu." How can you even be mad at such cuteness. She's a scamp and a rascal and I love her to pieces.

Quote of the day is from an old post on Revive Hope, from a young man named Nate who became an organ donor:

"A little girl hugged me today. I think maybe I’m on the right path. I’m not sure if I like where the path might lead, but it is a really nice path. Is it possible that we, as a culture, focus too much on the light at the end of the tunnel, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Isn’t it enough to realize you’re standing on a goddamn rainbow."

Zen and the Art of Teenager Maintenance

(with apologies to Robert M. Pirsig)

 

Teen daughter calls me not too long ago.

"I got a new piercing!" She says.

"Where?" I ask, more than a little afraid of the answer.

"I got an 'Industrial.'" She says, skirting the answer.

I sigh. "WHAT part of your body is that in?"

"My ear." I sigh again, this time with relief. "Your ear is fine. Be home before midnight."

Seventeen years ago I thought that parenting just entailed a good manual and a lot of love. My older sister gave me her copy of "Your Baby and Child: from birth to age 5" by Penelope Leach. I figured I was set. And believe me, Penelope didn't steer me wrong. It's just that over the years circumstances came up that weren't easily solved by a book. What to do when your choice is between working nights or working a day job but taking a $15,000 a year pay cut? And how do you find a baby sitter when you're working the overnight shift, anyway? How do you date with a small child? And most important: how to explain to small child why the guy she calls "Daddy" isn't really available when she needs him most.

I'm sure someone, somewhere has covered these problems in a book, but that's not really the point. The point is that no matter how prepared you think you are, mistakes are going to be made, stuff's going to happen. I look back on my 20's and wonder how someone (me) could be so clueless and still be entrusted with the care of a child. I compare with how I'm raising a child in my 40's. I have more patience, less energy. I can stick to a routine better. I certainly have more money, although outside of dire poverty or extravagant wealth, children don't really notice, I think.

I had a coworker once tell me that she wasn't going to breastfeed her second child because she couldn't breastfeed the first and she didn't want to give one an advantage the other didn't get. As bizarre as I found her reasoning, I can empathize. I worry that teen daughter will be scarred for life if the toddler has something she didn't have: listening to classical music, trips to the Met, an appreciation of sushi at an early age. I don't know what all, just that Mommy Guilt is alive and well and a terrible thing. Coupled with it is the strong suspicion that anything bad she does is the result of the time I came to pick her up from daycare late. She was the last kid there and every emergency contact had already been called and my daughter cried when anyone was late picking her up ever again.

This past year, said daughter(now the teen with the piercings) worked on an independent project for school. On her own she found a mentor, kept a journal, worked for a year on her chosen subject and then presented her project to a group of invited friends and relatives. She even made her own programs for the presentation. Her subject-Fiber Arts-spinning, weaving, knitting and felting. Her mentor owns a Saori weaving business on the Upper East Side. Saori embodies the principles of Zen, there are no teachers, only practitioners. Every Saturday, she ventured forth to the Isle of Manhattan and learned how to set up and work a loom. In exchange for free lessons, she helped around the shop, including helping the students who came in for lessons. One Saturday, I came in to film her on the loom for her presentation. Yukako, her mentor told me how helpful she was, how good she was at spinning and weaving. Jen even had a piece she made exhibited at an art show. It was amazing to hear someone else describe my daughter to me. I know she's helpful and kind and talented, but too often that gets lost in the worry that my teenager is too obnoxious, too moody, too unmotivated. I worry that her inability to keep her room clean with translate into a later inability to find and keep gainful employment. Her mentor told me that Jen had helped teach a class of disabled children and was very good at it. Several worries popped all at once, like the soap bubbles we used to blow when she was little.

Later on, I let her direct me on the subway. "No, Mom, we go THIS way." She made her way through Manhattan like a native. I let her guide me, proud that she was coming into her own and I was just "Mom". Earlier in the day my taxi driver had asked why I was in the city and I said, "I'm visiting my daughter." The words seemed grand coming out of my mouth, but very right. The feeling won't last forever, but for right now I'm sure she'll make her way in the world just fine.

That night I left her in the city to shop for a prom dress. A few hours later I get a text from her. With a picture. "Is that ANOTHER PIERCING!" I yell to my husband. "IN HER MOUTH!" Sigh.

Some Stuff

Work has been a drag, for the most part. I feel like I spend 8 hours day making phone calls. Or worse, getting phone calls. "I'm peeing a lot, is that ok?" "Can you fax my test results to my cardiologist, my nephrologist, my endocrinologist, my primary MD and my garbage man?"

I'm still not completely caught up from February. Seriously. My partner and I could really use our own personal assistant, not the least of which is I would have someone to fetch me coffee. Well, I can dream, can't I?

In other news, the first US face transplant has spoken out. I used to think that I would draw the line at donating my face. I mean: come on. It's. My. Face. But at AOPO a couple years back I attended a session on face transplant and saw pics of people who needed a face transplant. One woman hadn't seen her grandchildren, EVER, because her visage would scare them too much. That's about as sad an existence as I can imagine. So, all right. You can take my face, too. If you want to see how beautiful I am, you're just going to have to see my mug in person while I'm still alive. Speaking of beauty, Connie Culp has shown all of us her true beauty and courage by speaking out.

My hubbie sent me an email a few weeks ago, saying, "What's this all about?" Apparently, someone's gone ahead and invented a outside-the-body lung pump. In my neck of the woods, we pump kidneys, which seems pretty straight-forward: you attach the vessels to plastic tubing and keep the thing flushed with an iced solution. But some clever chap has invented a machine to not only circulate but ventilate the lungs for a period of time outside the donor body prior to transplant. According to the article, in addition to testing how the lungs function, doctors can actually repair problems in the donor lungs before putting them in the recipient. Watch the video, it's totally cool.

I had a blue funk in work after lunch today. And no, it wasn't the Cinco de Mayo tacos. I was reading "Family Fun" magazine while I ate and all the sudden I thought, "I should be home doing arts and crafts with the Pooter, not working 9-5." Short of hitting the Mega Millions, I don't think it's going to happen, although I did peruse the nursing help wanteds and entertained the notion of going back to work for 3 12's a week. My horoscope said that my whole life is going to change by July, so we'll see. Naturally, I take the pessimistic view and think that means I'll be in a body cast or something, but I'm still playing the lottery, just in case.

It is so nice to be off. I used to hate working a 9-5 job, but I'm enjoying it pretty well right now. Another sign that I'm getting old. It stinks not to have off during the week, but it makes sleeping late on Saturday so much sweeter. Actually, I don't usually sleep late ANY day, but last night we were at church til late, so the Poot slept til 9:30. Huzzah.

Godspell went GREAT!! I didn't suck, or forget my lines or anything and I got a couple big laughs. I'd rather make people laugh than impress them with my singing anyway, although I think I can carry a tune. My new motto is: "There's a lotta notes, I'm bound to hit some of them."

Work is coming around, now that I have my new, awesome partner. She's so sweet that she actually makes me be nicer. Cause you know, I can be downright cranky sometimes. I'm almost caught up on my phone calls and BK virus results. What? You've never heard of the BK virus-don't worry, neither has anyone else. I'm going to write a post about it soon, but I want to try my hand at a funny graphic to go with it.

Anyhoo, Happy Easter, Merry Passover and have a Spectacular Spring! We have Spring Things planned for the next, several weekends and I can't wait for it not by cold and damp anymore.

See what happens when the baby finally falls asleep...

I can blog! However, I've been up since before breakfast, so I may no longer be coherent.

I'm in a production of Godspell at my church and the free time that I don't have has all been given over to that. Hopefully, after this week, what with the play being over and a slow work week, I can get my act together and catch up on other stuff. Who'm I kidding, I've been trying to get my act together since Kindergarten. But I can dream.

As I may or may not have mentioned, April is National Donate Life Month. With soundtrack, here at donorcycle. Also, for no extra charge, I have a cool video from the folks over at Donate Life Illinois.



Included are a couple of folks I heart a lot, too.

Over at youtube are some video responses to it.

I was trying to think of why I became so passionate about organ donation. I only ever knew one person who needed a transplant: he was a neighbor who died waiting for a heart transplant. However, being young and not veru close, I don't think that played any role. I do remember the first time I heard someone talk about being a transplant coordinator. It sounded terribly exciting-running off at all hours to save lifes, leap tall buildings, dodge bullets and so forth. That was when I was a young, bright-eyed nurse who still stopped at traffic accidents and signed up at every opportunity to be on the hospital's Code Blue team. I have since stopped looking for excitement like that, but occassionally it still finds me.

It took about 8 more years before I got my dream job as an organ procurement coordinator. Stay awake for days at a time-check. Console grieving families-no problem. Deal with difficult doctors-bring 'em on. My motto was, " A 12 hour shift is only a half-day." Humility has always been a challenge for me. In fact, I own a button that says, "No. My powers can only be used for good."

Working for the NJ Sharing Network was different from being a trauma nurse or responding to codes. Resuscitating someone who rolls through the doors of an ER is pretty impersonal. Bringing them back is more about personal pride than selfless assistance. Working with donor families changed the way I thought about the end of life. I had always been afraid to die. Working in a trauma ER only cemented that: now I was afraid of dying in graphic detail. Or afraid of how my loved one's could die. It was only when I started to work with donor families that I lost my fear of death. The more personal it got with them, the less it was about me. The more I understood how to savor every day.

I always considered myself good with grieving families, although I never let down my composure in the ER. As a transplant coordinator, I have cried with so many family members. Before, I logically knew that different grief reactions were normal. With donor families I was a part of their anger, their disbelief, their guilt, their hope. So many times I had my heart stretched out so that I thought it would burst, then it would expand some more. And so many times making the decision to donate opened the door to their healing. It usually came during the "med-soc" AKA the medical/social history. If you've ever donated blood, you've done an abbreviated form of one: it asks about your medical history, including any risky behavior. Ours lasted about 20 minutes, ranging from questions about recent vaccinations to Chagas' disease. When we got to the "risky behavior" questions, I'd preface it by saying, "Now some of these questions are very general and some are, well, personal."

I tell you, there's no ice breaker like asking if Grandpa had sex with men for money.

Seriously, you'd think they'd want to slug you right then and there, but these are people who had been throught the most agonizing days of their life. This was small change. Almost always they'd start laughing. "Oh, if Henry was here he'd be so mad that you asked that." It was like giving them permission to break the tension. Then they'd start talking about the person who died. What they liked and didn't like. What cracked them up. They turned a corner. What had been "how could this happen" now became "how are we going to move on from this?" Organ donation helped. These families wanted to know that somewhere, somehow their loved one's heart still beat, their eyes could still see. I know there are people who regret donating. The law of averages says there must be. Let me know if you find any.

Working with donor families made me believe in the kindness of our species again. Go work in an ER for 5 or 6 years and you may come away with a dim view of humanity. It's not fair, of course, you don't get to see people in their best light. But as a TC, I would walk away after a case, over and over again amazed at how people in the worst moments of their lives could find it in their hearts to help another, a stranger they would most likely never meet. It touches me still.

Today at my hospital we had a table for National Donate Life month. Next to it was one of our donor quilts. I looked at the names and recognized several. "Oh, that's the kid who was killed trying to break up a fight. He had just gotten engaged. There's so-and-so's son, his only son. His parents were just devastated when he died. There's Mr. T-, I remember I had to get consent from all 8 of his brothers and sisters." My friend Pam was amazed I could remember so many. How could I possibly forget? Their names are written on my heart. If I never do anything else again in my life I know that, for a short time, I helped do some good.

Here's the playlist, as promised!

Hope you like it. It does include My Heart Will Go On. `It's inclusion, STEVE, shows the depth and breadth of my affection for you. The fact that it's an instrumental means I am more in line, musically, with Laura. It's not too late for suggestions, if time and project playlist allow. I did want to put in Dancer to the Drum by Beth Nielson Chapman, but couldn't find it on the ole playlist site.

It's eclectic. Boogey Woogie. Enjoy.

We need more monkeys!

It's been quite a coupla weeks. Two Thursdays ago the Hubby and I went off our diets and ate some Chinese food. Tasted good when we ate it. I spent the night throwing up and yet somehow I found the fortitude to go to work. I had to go to work because my co-worker, the only other post transplant coordinator, was canned last month. Oh, if only I could fill you in on that drama, but I'm still trying to stay on the QT when it comes to work specifics. Let's just say that the regime change is complete. Everyone has been chipping in to help me, which allowed me to stay on vacation and only come back a day early. Nonetheless, nobody else really knows the patients and we are not set up with a system that involves someone to step over my cold carcass and take over instantly, should that need ever arise. In fact our technology involves, I think, punch cards and a computer that looks like it should say, in a tinny voice, "Would you like to play a game?"

So here's the rundown of last week:

Sunday night: I feel fine before bed. Wake up with tummy upset a few times, think maybe it's something I ate again and wake up feeling like I've hardly slept. Go to work and an hour into clinic think that I'm going to heave. No, I'm not pregnant. People tell me I look pale. I go home at noon and blessedly the husband and little one are out. I eat what will be my last solid food for 2 days: soup and ginger ale, and go to sleep.

Tuesday: I think I can go to work. I am wrong. Dr. L. the nephrologist comes into my room and says, "Oh my God, are you okay?" I leave again at 12 noon to go home and moan.

Wed'day: feeling better, I eat some yoghurt and tea. Make it through a whole day of work. Go home and eat a big, hearty dinner. Big mistake.

Thursday: I feel odd again, but still manage to make it through a day of work. I don't actually DO much, but I'm present. Eat hospital salisbury steak for lunch. BIG MISTAKE.

I'll spare you the gory details, but let's just say that Thursday overnight I got very well acquainted with my bathroom. Let's also say that I'll never take anyone's cellcept-induced diarrhea lightly ever again. I have to go in to work. I'm 3 days behind on phone calls. My favorite patients think I don't love them anymore. My unfavorite patients think I'm a slacker. I crawl into work around 11:30.

Somewhere in all this, I came home to find parts of Pooter's Curious George puzzle in amongst the rubber tree. It looked like a cartoon crime scene. With dirt everywhere, natch. I asked the hubster what gives. "She planted them. She's trying to grow more monkeys."

Because what this house needs is more monkeys.

This week I have been on the mend. However, Monday morning I had 45 phone messages and a full clinic. Fortunately, I have A. New. Coordinator. She is six shades of awesome. She's friendly, competent, experienced, diligent and she knows everyone in the hospital. She's already covered my ass. And she reminds me of Doggett. In case I haven't mentioned it, I LERV the X-files. I've seen every episode and every movie. I didn't think anyone could replace Mulder. And then they brought on Robert Patrick, who's also 6 shades of awesome. Did you see him in "Walk the Line"? Anyhoo, I digress, but she's a female Doggett and I'm happy as a clam at high tide. And she feeds me. Those in the know know that I have a special affection for anyone who provides me with nourishment. I think it's a childhood issue, whatever. Anyways, hopefully after next week we'll be all caught up again and I can stop stressing.

We said goodbye this week to our pharmacist, who's pretty, smart and works like 3 people. God knows how we'll replace her. They've already hired 1 1/2 people to fill her spot. At the farewell my other coworker had me desperate with laughter. See, we have this thing at work were one person picks the "Friday Colors" and we all try and wear those colors on Friday. It is, in a word, gay (no offense). I do my best to fit in, although I'm not really a good fitter-inner. I mentioned to him that when it's my turn, I'm going to pick chartreuse and apricot. He countered by saying he would pick "clear". This devolved into more ridiculous combos: slate, eggplant, stone, salmon.

"I know" he said, "everyone wear a red quilted vest over burnt umber pants with a skirt in the O'Malley family plaid." By now I was helpless with laughter, hoping no one would notice that I'd lost track of my senses without even liquor to blame it on. "I got it! Forget colors! Everyone dress like a rodeo clown." Tears streaming down my face, I try to hold it in but I have 2 weeks of sickness and stress pent up inside. I wonder if anyone will notice if I pee my pants or if I can leave gracefully before that happens. I try thinking of sad things: war, famine, the NY Islanders. It's no use. I'm weak with the silliness of it. It feels great. Bring on the monkeys.