With my medical background I get really nervous working with raw chicken. But sometimes I’m like, “Well a little salmonella poisoning could be good for the waistline…”
Alex Wubbels is our leader. I want a tattoo of her face, on my face. So when people get out of line with me, I can show them my Wubbels.
Her arrest has gone viral for being shitty and wrong. Many scary, wrong things have happened to me as critical care nurse as well. But nothing could have prepared this poor woman for being arrested for simply advocating patients rights and clarifying hospital protocol (which was mutually agreed upon by the hospital and the police department in question, might I add). My God, that detective leapt at her like a rabid banshee! He’s lucky the holy hell of nurses didn’t rain down upon him then and there! There probably wasn’t time, he skedaddled out of there.
You would think people would have learned their lesson from The View, you don’t f@&$ with nurses. We take shit too, cops. I’ve held the hand of mom while she withdrew care from her teenage son and walked into the next room to feed a restrained, belligerent alcoholic some chocolate pudding. All while keeping a cool head.
And if that idiot detective ever does something else stupid like lights his face on fire and lands in Alex’s care one fine day, I know he will receive first class and professional care, as if they had never met (Lord knows he won’t have any unnecessary blood draws). Because if there is one thing I can tell you, us nurses can hand you your ass when need be. But when it’s time to save lives, it doesn’t matter what your name is, your life matters just as much as the next guy.
I guess that’s the difference between cops and nurses. Asshole.
I saw my dad as ten foot tall and bullet proof as a child. Heck, even as an adult!
The truth? He was 6 foot 2, and experiencing crippling flashbacks of horrific wartime moments that included having a pallet of live ammunition dropped on his hand and then being Life-flown to army hospital only be to returned to the front line a few days later, being in the vehicle of a car that was being shot at while it reversed and drove over the little boy shooting at them, and watching the man next to him be killed.
Vietnam killed my dad; he died in 2015.
It wasn’t the Agent Orange (although I’m sure we will later find some connection to that and the significant physical and cognitive disabilities in my sister).
It was PTSD. I don’t think I need to spell it out, you’ve heard of that monster. It’s been all over the media. Its gaining support and momentum from everyone! Except the government. He didn’t sign up for the war. His soul wasn’t built to kill. But the one place these men and women were told to turn to, were told that they would take care of them, turned their back on our heroes.
That too is all over the media. You’ve heard of that monster as well. The failing VA. But let me tell you what happened to my dad after his diagnosis.
He had to surrender his guns. His 2nd amendment was ripped away.
He had to “secure a fiduciary”. It was me, his child. He was told his child was of more sound mind to handle his finances than he was.
He was denied disability for two years after taking an early retirement. He had to retire early because his VA therapy meetings and doctor appointments consumed his time. He had very little to no money for those two years being a divorced man.
And on top of it all. He never slept.
He always saw that little boy in his
Disease processes secondary to Agent Orange that my dad was diagnosed with:
-Diabetes mellitus, type II
-Ischemic Heart Disease
-Peripheral neuropathy, early onset
No, my dad didn’t die from suicide. Although he was being treated for severe depression, anxiety, and insomnia in addition to the PTSD and above mentioned diagnosis. But those diseases had consumed his life. And not at all by his choice. The appointments and meetings and medicines. As so often done in the medical field, a list of meds and diagnosis replaced a person. Became the person.
But he seemed so peaceful and happy the year before he died. So involved with the family and relaxed and social. So at peace. We just didn’t know that he was finally at peace because he’d made a decision to take back control of his life and…quit.
The day my husband and I found my dad on his floor was the day before we found out that he had quit taking all of his medications. Quit going to all his appointments. Quit begging the government for help. Quit.
The official cause of death was natural causes, likely cardiac.
But Vietnam killed my dad.
This is the cost of war.
written by my dad after being diagnosed and subsequently declared “incompetent” related to his PTSD
Disclaimer: we’ve moved into my inlaws because we’re building a house and our house sold too fast. We’ll be here about 3 months. I love my inlaws and my husband. They are the best!
Day 4: My husband has developed a tummy ache overnight. By tummy ache, I mean he sat there at 3am for about 30mins thinking he was about to have diarrhea. Luckily, he didn’t. But his stomach still hurt the following morning. He ate breakfast fine and went to work.
Upon waking up, I told my inlaws about our night and how my husbands tummy hurt.
*Umbilical cord regenerated*
It was at that moment he ceased being my husband and morphed into a ten year old little boy who’s appendix had likely ruptured and he was clearly dying….but he was at WORK?
“How could you let him go to work?” Oh crap, I don’t know. Did I miss something? Frantic. What do we do?
Text Hubby et. al, for status update 2 hours into work…
“….it still hurts. I still feel like I could shit my pants but haven’t.”
Time to call the Aunt who cleans the hospital for medical advice.
Her medical diagnosis: diverticulitis
Recommends I look up symptoms, treatments and so on, on the Internet. A bachelors in nursing and 75% of a masters towards a nurse practitioner degree is not enough knowledge in diverticulitis.
One must consult hospital cleaning staff and then google more information. This will save lives.
Noon: inlaws visit Hubby et. al for umbilical reattachment and cuddles (assumption only). Still no vomiting or diarrhea. Still eating normally. Pain still there. Hurts when he coughs. No cough or Coke, he’s just “testing it.”
Hubby et. al home from work. Walking normal. Talking normal. Not taking any over the counter meds for pain. Hurt when he turns to the left and coughs little baby coughs. Still has no cough or cold.
Mother in laws feels forehead with her hand and declares fever. Approximately 106. Give or take. Hubby et. al to bed…with dinner. He is hungry.
Hubby et. al poops. MIL checks it. It’s normal, but she thinks that’s a bad sign. His diverticulitis is trying to trick us.
Her et. al is grossed out…even for a nurse.
Day 5: in laws up early to check on regeneration of umbilical cord partner.
He rates his pain at 12.45% better. MIL recommends maybe not having breakfast.
The thought increases pain level.
Breakfast is served
Baby et. al vomits. MIL declares babies emesis is related to her teething.
She is not teething.
But I’m only her mother and we haven’t called the aunt who cleans the hospital to double check me yet.
2:00pm: I vomit.
No one notices at the moment. Fine. I collect myself, clean up, and brush my teeth.
People come help me..”hello, I just threw up downstairs. I think I may be catching whatever is going around here.”
Dead silence. Apparently diverticulitis isn’t contagious.
Her et. al exits scenario.
We’ll let this be between a mother and her baby. And I’ll try to erase this from my memory during the next sexy time.
The other day my husband was home and I was able to poop alone on the toilet. (Which, TA-DA…is zen!)
No this guy.
So I got thinking about this show I watched, Who Do You Think You Are. Some day my distant ancestors may research me and try to find out how I spent my life and what I did with it.
If I helped people or advanced humanity. How I lived life, what life was like for me. What legacy I left behind.
And here I am, just pooping.
I know what you’re thinking. “Why in Gods name is this freak show always talking about shit?”
I’m a nurse, asshat. You’re welcome.
“Use anatomically correct terms” they said.
“It’s best for your child’s growth and development” they said.
While picking out apples today at the grocery store, my toddler (who is blessed with alarming clear speech) asks, “mommy, are those apples good for your mommy ‘gina?”
Oh God. Please let no one near me make the connection between ‘gina and vagina.
Also, what the frack about apples made her think about my vagina? I’m suddenly very self conscious about my vagina.
It’s been six months since my father passed away unexpectedly. I have had enough “look on the bright side” shit to last a lifetime.
- He’s no longer struggling with his PTSD
- He loved you guys more than anything
- He’s up in heaven fighting the good fight for God
- He’s always going to be with you, looking after you, putting a hand on your shoulder when you cry to help ease the pain
……..wait…..WHAT? Like ALL the time he’s going to be watching me? Does he just close his eyes when I pee or does he leave the room? Do I need to hold in pee farts (you know what they are, you forfeit all fancy-ness when you click on my blog)? While he’s with me, does he maintain his earthly morals and thought process or is it like a whole different mindset once you’re on the flip side?
Now because of these unknowns, I’ve decided to set some Her et al./Papa in Heaven et al. ground rules. I’m positive he’s subscribed to the heaven translation of Her et al. which is my blog without all the shits and far! Hi mom.
And away, we, go: (Love me some Billy in the Streets)
- Please leave the room when I’m naked. You haven’t seen me naked since like, oh my last diaper change with you. I know there was that one time when you almost accidentally walked in on me delivering Sissy et al. and we ALL lucked out when that nurse stopped you. Soooo…lets keep all this yummy between me, my hubby, and the lady parts doctor!
- Goes without saying (I hope), but no watching sexy time with Hubby et al. Maybe we should try the whole tie on the doorknob thing from colle…..er I mean….from TV.
- Baby et al. is the only company I need during potty time and I only let her in because I don’t trust her to not try to swallow 50 hair ties the moment she gets 2 minutes alone. Plus she laughs during those awkward pee fart’s….lets be honest, we all do. It really should become a “thing”.
- If you don’t want to hear me cussing about your precious granddaughters, steer clear of the house around nap time and 8pm if the baby is protesting sleep, and anytime I’m awake before like 7am. Although pre-7am cussing sessions can have multiple causes (the sun, hubby breathing, waffles that don’t toast themselves).
- If, by any chance you see me in the garage freezer grabbing a box of Girl Scout cookies…do NOT under ANY circumstances, follow me into our bedroom. You don’t need to see me like that. The random chocolate spots on my robe and my carb-overloaded facial edema in the morning tell more than I’d care them to.
- Please do not appear to me in my dreams. Those are sacred spots for the hot celebrities I’ll never meet and there is no bigger sexy time killer, than your dad.
- I reserve this right to add to this list via speaking outloud anytime I stumble upon a situation I’d rather my father not witness.
I’ve come to the part in my grieving process where I’ve accepted but not forgotten. I find that humor keeps his goofy-ness fresh in my mind and I cherish those memories of my dad.
Turning, turning, constantly turning.