Feels like I'm losing my best friend

I think my mom is dying.

Not that "everyone dies some at an accelerated rate nonsense". No this is the I know to much because I am a healthcare professional and just want to be a supportive daughter dilemma.

I lost two patients this week. I didn't witness the last gasp of either, but I had cared for them multiple times. Both were amazing individuals, both had supportive wonderful families. I wish my mom had the supportive wonderful families.

It is so hard to be supportive. She is my best friend and my mom. For the longest time, all I had was her. During high school I hated myself and my school. I just wanted out. All I had was my mom, and all she did was make me smile and feel that things would get better.

I don't do that for her. I worry, and I research. Worry more. Research more. Question more. She is so secretive. She is so forgetful. She is hurting and weak.

I know her speech is delayed and aphasic. I know the signs of renal insufficiency without lab tests or other diagnostics. I know a liver that isn't functioning 100%. I know lungs that aren't getting enough oxygen.

I know fatigue.

I know nutritional deficiencies.

I don't want to know those things. I don't want to know the reliability of CA-125 tests, or how to read a CT scan. I don't want to know what Cr and BUN stand for and what elevated levels mean.

At least not for my mom. I need to know those for my patients. But not my mom.

I've crossed the line. Dreamt of signing the DNR. I'm not ready for this.

I hope she is.

When is a house just stuff?

Long time no blog. Not that my words matter to anyone else besides me. I don't blog for people to read, I blog for catharsis and emotion. I blog so I don't scream and so I sleep.

Needless to say, I feel like screaming and could use a good night's sleep.

Our house, Moldemort, 1126 Brody, it goes by many names now but the only thing it isn't is a home. It smells like Conor the day he came home from the hospital. It smells like the day he took his first step. It smells like visitors, and memories. It smells like Tubby.

Yet it also smells of deceit, lies, hopelessness and frustration. It smells of poor planning and even worse construction. It smells like we were taken advantage of. It smells of death and mold.

I can't emote over our house. I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to punch and get revenge. I want my son's little blue room with airplane decals to be filled with books, toys, and laughter. I want his fish to be alive, and not in the big fish bowl in the sky.

I want my books, pictures, and blankets. Those are my security and my happiness. Right now it "isn't just stuff". It is something bought for Conor, something made for our family. It is a memory and hours of hard earned money. It is our savings that ins't growing, it is our life that is stagnate.

This stagnation smells of bitter anguish and mold. We are trying to start our lives, trying to save for a rainy day and provide for Conor. We have given him confusion and what we can. We have done everything to make him happy.

He is happy. He is well adjusted. But his room sits empty, his fish dead, and his yard overrun with weeds. He hasn't played in his sand box, his red wagon sits empty waiting for a walk.

I wish I could cry, wish I could get it out of me, but I am beyond emotion for the card we have been dealt.

It isn't just stuff. It is OUR stuff. Yes, we can buy new, but we shouldn't have to. We shouldn't have to spend and spend and spend on a sinking hole. We shouldn't keep losing our possessions.

Stephen found mold in our furniture. We will more than likely need to buy new furniture for each and every room in the house. New couches, loveseats, bookshelves, dining table, side table, end tables, coffee tables, beds, mattresses, rugs, tv stand....the list goes on. Things we have collected from money we earned.

Maybe it would have been better to walk away with the clothes on our back...instead we hear Conor crying "we house" and see his room empty...

I miss Conor.

Does it get any easier sending your sweet toddler to school? Hopefully I will have more than studying to occupy my time soon. I feel so guilty and miss him so much. The house is lonely and sad.

He is so cute at school though, sitting in his chair being a little boy...

Hopefully Moldemort will be vanquished from our house soon. So will our wood floors, possibly our subfloors, maybe a new AC system, some new sheetrock, and tile. Big fun, big expense. All because our builder decided to save a few bucks. I feel so angry and taken advantage of. Thank God Moldemort wasn't present at these levels during Conor's infancy. It could have killed him.

Awesome builder man, thank-you for putting a few bucks in your pocket and leaving us with low-quality shit. You are a real winner in my book...

I think I need to disable the newsfeed on Facebook. It frustrates me when people read one thing and get all crazy. Snopes, Huffington Post, CNN, and every major news outlet isn't saintly. Every story is biased based on who they interview, their political ideology, and their pay check. As a scientist I am skeptical of all written word that doesn't have backing data of a large enough population size. Republicans lie. Democrats lie. Seemingly "good" organizations lie. Sometimes it encourages good. Typically it encourages false activism and frustration on my part. Live according to your code of ethics and knowledge not what "cool kid A" thinks is awesome this week.

I hate Charleston. I hate the traffic, the ignorance, the intolerance, and the general disregard for others. Its refusal to change and be progressive leaves a gentrified and putrid stench that I cannot wait to leave.

One amazing positive. My sorority sisters. They care more than most. It is pretty awesome to know they always have my back. Right on.

Without ovaries we wouldn't have you to read this.

In a sea of PINK I want you to take a second and remember the ocean is in fact TEAL in color and remember that September is Ovarian Cancer Awareness month.

I have actually been thinking of what I want to say in this blog for several weeks now. I don't want to come across rude or disrespectful to brave women fighting breast cancer and winning. I have more admiration for cancer survivors than I do most, with the exception of military men and women and women who choose to breastfeed. I would also never disrespect the work on various breast cancer awareness organizations such as Susan G. Komen. It is amazing the awareness women (and men) have of breast cancer prevalence and prevention.

Unfortunately in our continued infatuation with the beauty of the female form (primarily the breast) we overlook significant details. First, the clinical and breast self exam.

There is currently no scientific evidence from randomized trials that breast self-exam (BSE) saves lives or enables women to detect breast cancer at earlier stages. In addition, there are some data that show that BSE greatly increases the number of benign lumps detected, resulting in increased anxiety, physician visits, and unnecessary biopsies. Therefore, NBCC does not support efforts to promote and teach BSE on a population-wide level in any age group of women - National Breast Cancer Coalition

This is not to say that the BSE or CBE (clinical-breast exam) does not detect cancer and should not be discussed, but research shows no difference in morbidity and mortality with the extensive push for women to perform this monthly.

Next, let's talk funding. $2,596 is appropriated by the National Cancer Institute for each new diagnosis of breast cancer followed by colon cancer ($2,361) and pancreatic cancer ($2,200).

Susan G. Komen has raised over one billion dollars to date and awarded over 180 million in monies towards research. They have also been accused of pinkwashing women and corporate sponsors. No matter what, each dollar spent towards breast cancer is amazing. Early diagnosis leads to better outcomes. Better outcomes leads to more survivors. More survivors leads to

...AT LEAST YOUR MOM DOESN'T HAVE BREAST CANCER...

I have been told this one three separate occasions. THREE. My mom has stage IIIC ovarian cancer. She was initially staged at stage IV. Last staging for women with ovarian cancer is common, it is nicknamed the SILENT KILLER after all. Why the silent killer?

Because the Ovarian Cancer National Alliance and other related organizations have not dominated the market nor received the celebrity of other "fashionable cancers". Its symptoms are vague and include...

Bloating
Feeling of fullness
Mild abdominal and pelvic pain
Changes in urination such as urgency and frequency

To compound matters, there is currently no recommended guideline for evaluating and detecting ovarian cancer in its earlier and more treatable stages. In contrast colon cancer has fecal occult blood testing and the colonoscopy, breast cancer has mammography, cervical cancer has the pap smear, and prostate cancer has the controversial PSA test.

A blood test for ovarian cancer markers has been developed and FDA-approved to little fanfare, public knowledge, or insurance coverage. A simple blood test to detect cancer earlier, you would think insurance and the media would be all over it. Sadly no.

We often overlook cancers due to a myriad of circumstances: vanity and celebrity, poor education, and poor fundraising. Few knew how deadly and painful pancreatic cancer is until Patrick Swayze fought it bravely and in the public eye.

Did you know Kathy Bates and Carol Channing are survivors of ovarian cancer? Did you know Coretta Scott King battled the disease? What about Gilda Radner? Yet, we can easily spit out names of breast cancer survivors (which is sooo amazing that we can).

This brings me back to my mom who is battling the SILENT KILLER to this very second.

At least she doesn't have breast cancer

December 7, 2006 at approximately 5 in the afternoon. My mom was first day post-op from a complete hysterectomy, lymph node dissection, partial colectomy, ablation, and removal of the omentum. She had just gotten up and walked for the first time and was laying in bed. The attending dermatologist was rounding on her as the cancer caused a skin condition which lead to massive blisters all over her body. As she was talking, she stopped and slurred "I feel funny". Her oxygen saturation plummeted to 41%, her heart rate stopped for over a minute, then raced to the 200s and she began coughing blood. As she semi-aroused the health team called a medical emergency and went into action. BILATERAL pulmonary emboli. I watched as the debated intubation, debated cardioverting her, and watched as she was wheeled away to CT scan then the ICU for two weeks. I watched as she struggled for each breath, struggled against the BiPAP, then to sit, then to stand, and then to walk 10 feet. This proud and healthy woman couldn't even walk to the toilet. I watched as she turned black and blue from daily blood gasses.

Lucky she doesn't have breast cancer

January 2007 to July 2007 I watch as my mom endures chemo after chemo. I listen to her at night vomiting continuously and crying. I watch as her once toned arms turn to flesh and bones. I watch her eyes lose their life and her face sink into pain and despair. In the hospital, out of the hospital. Faceless days and painful nights. She faked bravery and resolutely refused to give in. I watched as they punished her body time and again with 3-4 agents. Watched her turn ghostly pale and wonder if I would hear her last breath in the night. I watched as she couldn't eat. I watched each drop of TPN enter her fragile body. I watched her head bald.

Lucky she doesn't have breast cancer

August 19th, 2008 a proud grandmother undergoing tumor removal and ablation of the intestines on the 4th floor and new mom and baby on the 5th floor. My son was born August 18th, 2008 in the same hospital that my mom receives her treatment from. My mom, Beany, a new grandmother should be enjoying the first moments of her Conor's life. Instead she is under the knife for new growth. This hospital course was her best by far. She only spent 3 days in the ICU with respiratory compromise. This time pneumonia and pulmonary effusion. She did not hold him for other 6 weeks as she slowly recovered.

Lucky she doesn't have breast cancer

No cancer is better than another, and no cancer worse. They all are awful and all take emotional tolls on the family. No matter the stage, no matter the type, and no matter the treatment.

My mom's battle is far from done. Her CA-125 levels are rising again. The last time they doubled from previous. We are gearing up for another fight. This November will celebrate 4 years of continuous battle.

This September, please donate a dollar or two to the OVARIAN CANCER NATIONAL ALLIANCE or if in Charleston LOWCOUNTRY WOMEN WITH WINGS.

I want nothing more than for this world to be as TEAL as it is PINK. Then I know women are taking better care of their gynecological health and the survivorship of ovarian cancer will rise.

62% of women are diagnosed at later stages when spread has occurred. Only 28.2% make it to 5-years. Of all women diagnosed with ovarian cancer the 10-year survivor percentage is 39%

Please reduce your risks. Breastfeed your infant. Use birth control. Eat well. Exercise. And please think of my mom when you see pink. She is more than worthy of the admiration and respect any cancer survivor or fighter gets. Not the stares of condemnation and pity.

She is a cancer patient not a douche bag.

Stop.

I wish I could have stage IIIC ovarian cancer and not my mom. I wish my mom was happy. I hate seeing her this way. It isn't fair. I can't help her. It doesn't work.

No child should see what I have seen with my mom.

No one deserves her pain. No one deserves to see her pain.

I just want her to be my mommy. Not my mommy with cancer, fear, and sadness.

Grumpies

Take a break for five from...

1. Facebook rants in which one allegedly calls out "scenesters" by pointing to some inane fashion trend then proceeding to say how "cool" it was when they did it while still in diapers. No you didn't, yes you still participate in the "cool", and yes your post is simply annoying.
2. Facebook rants about politics when it is merely one-sided vapid post of misguided thinking spurned on by above scenesters.
3. Boycotting without resolute adherence.
4. Facebook ranting about every little nonsensical thing wrong in the FML vain. "I was constipated today, FML". Nothing in my life has ever been so bad that I say ____ it. Nothing. Stop whining my generation, life is pretty much amazing.
5. Ranting at the doctor's office when you make an appointment to be there. I'm not here for humor, I'm here to prevent death and disability.
6. Realizing that my family was used over Facebook. Frustrating, angering, and humiliating
7. The WRITING CENTER AT MUSC! They were supposed to review my paper this week. Oops they are out of the office.

Please be quiet when you don't have anything useful to say. I guess politics and the internet don't mix.

Helping the toast-shaped people since 2010

I totally had the "ah-ha" moment of my budding nurse practitioner career today. I have found a breast lump, sent 3 individuals to the hospital, and discovered a valid reason for resistant hypertension without referral (coarctation of the aorta, fancy). Those are all cool and exciting, but today I actually made a true difference ...

I have a gentleman who presents to clinic with his young son. His son is a metal kid, and I speak his language fluently and he loves his dad without pretense. His dad is depressed and battling chronic disease. I have initiated the conversation on seeking help for the depression to closed ears 3 times now. His depression doesn't take a clinician to recognize, it is the kind where a random stranger would offer help, a hug, or a sorrowful face and nod of understanding. Each time I leave the room in near tears, because I feel empathy and overwhelming respect for the son. He keeps his dad alive, gives him a reason to smile, and wants so badly to help him (side note, where did individuals like this disappear to?). Today I decided to focus on this beautiful dynamic, and I rallied the son to the rescue. We threw a Hail Mary pass and the play was perfect.

HE AGREED TO TRY AN ANTI-DEPRESSANT!!!!

That was my feel good moment of all my clinical experiences combined. Better than the one time CPR worked. Better than proving the CON wrong about my semi-awful luck and performance in school. I just wish now I had follow-up to see the difference I hope it will make. Maybe I will be okay when I graduate. Maybe.

In ode to my clinical experiences I present the worst/best marketing for an erectile dysfunction drug ever. I love and keep giggling when I see the sexy toast people.

Holy Crap my Toddler is Cute

Seriously, he gets cuter everyday.

Even when he is cranky and wanting dear old Thomas before the golden hour of 400 pm, he is beyond words and comprehension adorable. Those moments when he utters something new or hilarious are to previous to be taken for granted.

Those stolen moments when I sneak into his room and tuck in pure innocence make me realize what a good life I am giving him.

Those soft snores, and the warmth of his chubby cheeks and soft arms gives me the determination and dedication to spend even more time in his life so he can stay innocent and adventurous.

The sweet and oft slobbery kisses I get when playing "eye-spy" somehow invigorate my soul. Playing "ready-set-go" and running endlessly around our kitchen and living room gives me minimal exercise but real belly laughs and a smile that makes my cheeks hurt.

It is amazing, and I hope every mom I know feels this way. We may disagree on schedules, books, nutrition, socks, and the use of bibs and burp cloths but there is something so undeniably unearthly in the relationship between mother and child.

This weather makes me grumpy

1. Why is breast cancer fashionable? I am so confused by this. I tell individuals my mom has ovarian cancer and they give a small tsk, tsk then proceed to pass it off as not as serious, elegant, or as courageous of a battle as someone with breast cancer. This happened in clinical today. I divulged the stress of my mom's fight against her cancer and a lady proceeded to say at least she doesn't have breast cancer. The nerve! Breast cancers survivors are lauded with praise and respect while those undergoing similar chemos, surgeries, radiation, and HELL are placed several notches down the awesome ladder. Let's face it, cancer is cancer. Whether it affects your boobs, your butt, or your brain it all sucks and is all just as bad as the other. Get over your love affair with boobs. Without the ovaries boobs would not be possible.
   
2. This is near blasphemous, but drivers in the south with religious identifying material on their cars are some of the most dangerous drivers on the road. I guess putting your life into the hands of another power makes it okay to disobey traffic laws, lights, and gives them the grace to drive over the posted speed limit. I really think a religious higher power would not tailgate, speed, run lights, or cut another off. They would cruise with the top down, playing some Beach Boys, and obeying laws dictated by others. I just want to make it from point A to B without slamming on my brakes, honking, episodic tachycardia, or fear.
   
3. Cats suck. At least my Moxie and Royal are on the wrong side of the awesome chart.
4. Daycare. Vehemently opposed. I don't understand why we as parents must shuttle off our sweet little babes to someone else for most of the day. I am glad I will have my MSN/FNP and a well-paying job, but it isn't worth it if I see Conor less than another caregiver a day. The whole institution is lame. He is too amazing not to be mine. I am too in love with him to be apart from him the whole day. Same with my other toddler Stephen.
5. I want to grow down. Stay 25 with a decent head on my shoulders, but not the weight of the world.
6. Cookies need to be delicious, fat-burning and CALORIE FREE. Especially Oreo Fudgees. I'm grasping now.

Those under 5 feet in height should not get sick.

I didn't think I could see anything worse than seeing my mom fragile, listless, and fighting for her life. Well, I think seeing her scared, depressed, and fighting hope is worse.

She has fought so hard, why is she so scared now?

I can tell she is not sleeping well. The circles under her eyes are dark and she is extremely painful and restless. I hate knowing signs and not being able to help as a practitioner or really as a daughter. This is her fight, and she will ask for support and help. But when?

When it is too late to take control?

I fake strength and go on numbers, studies, and hope. Inside I am crying stop, why, and not my mommy. My mom has had enough @*!$ in her life. She doesn't deserve fear and pain. She doesn't warrant sleepless nights and depression. She is the greatest mom I could ever have and I don't want her to be anyone else than who she is: busy, opinionated, little, and Conor's Beany.

So, the one or two people who read my blog, please send those positive vibes to my mommy. Wish for no elevation in her CA-125 levels, no CT or PET scans, and no more pain, depression, and insomnia. Maybe all the energy will somehow someway stop her suffering and maybe get in her hard-headed noggin that an anti-depressant could help with sleep, pain, and fear.

Conor needs his Beany and Beany needs her Conor.

Prescription drug free is the way to be.

Healthcare providers are the worst patients, and I am as guilty as they come. I read too much, analyze too much, and stop my medicines abruptly. The result?

...NO FATIGUE, LETHARGY, OR HEADACHE...

Maybe I am studying to be a quack after all. At least quackery pays a decent salary. I am less than one month away from finishing my FNP which is scary, a little overwhelming, but mainly a relieving "been-a-long-time-coming" feeling. I am ready, I still need experience but I know enough to be safe and know when to ask for help.

Things are changing quickly in the Young household. Stephen graduated with a BA in English, and I am so proud of him. His reward? "Antennagate". Actually the IPhone is wicked cool and I am immensely jealous. He also got to fill his belly with brisket, potato salad, and cobbler (not to mention start looking for employment).

Conor is a talking, hilarious, adorable, wonderful, lovable, affectionate, choo-choo addicted fool. I am so lucky to play with him as much as I do. I get to see innocence and new discovery daily, and this makes me so motivated to grow, learn, and make myself the best MOM (yes, he finally calls me MOM) I can possibly be. I think I do my job well. Our next steps are potty-training (yikes), numbers (he knows one and two), and his SECOND BIRTHDAY!

I cannot wait to go for my first jog in months and get this mopey, headachey, feel pathetically sorry for myself body back in better shape (again).

Punch in the brain.

Is there such thing as being happy-depressed? Epocrates says no. So does the American Psychiatric Association. What use are those anyways...

My mental-physical being is out of equilibrium currently. I think I am somaticizing as I tend to do: eat poorly, sleep poorly, not exercise, and have basic complaints. Case in point, headache for 3 weeks, stomach pain for 1 week, and pure annoyance for awhile now.

Yet, I am ridiculously happy. Conor is this adorable, precious, amazing, talking fool. He finally calls me mom (or mamom, or damom). Stephen and I are happy and building a relationship on mutual love, trust, and sacrifice. My relationship with my parents is extremely strong. My friends kick ass. So does my phone.

What gives? How can I be so-o-o-o sound mentally yet act like a crying fool? How can I treat my body like pure crap? I don't get it.

I feel better when I eat better. I feel better when I workout. I feel better when I laugh, which I do often now. I guess I need to punch myself in the face. Wish I could punch my brain and mood, those are what is holding me back. On second thought, maybe Cymbalta, Welbutrin, or Pristiq would be way better.

Stupid thoughts and feelings. Somedays I wish I could be a size 2, tan, dumb blonde. Most days I don't. I pretend to hate them instead.

Listings

THE GOOD

• Conor is FINALLY talking. We took away his beloved Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends forcing him to use his little stubborn head and play with other toys. The result, gems such as Joe, Carmie, weenie, bath, okay, more, bugs, and about 50 other words.
• I get being a clinician. I am making the right decisions, prescribing the right medicines (some even approved by Russian spies, grouchy 8o+ year-old men, and crystal wielding 80 year-old women), and talking a mean game. Best part is all the free food drug/home health/DME companies bring us. Yummy!
• Our new fish are ALIVE! Success.

THE BAD

• Headache. I have had a dull, throbbing, shifting headache lasting the previous 4 weeks. Tylenol and Motrin don't do anything, and if I scratch my head or put too much pressure on the ole' noggin I feel like I am going to barf. Eyes okay, labs okay (TSH elevated to 3.9 but not Synthroid worthy), and not CT worthy.
• Fatigue and weight gain. Yuck, I love napping but HATE napping. I like my baby and my hubby more.
• Shifting abdominal pain. Makes me think cancer, then gall bladder, then spleen, then just idiocy.

THE UGLY

• Our yard. We just had a tree cut down, a 40 ft. red oak. We couldn't afford stump grinding, so we are at a stand still in planting a new tree until then. I need to weed badly and get back to work on the back. But, maybe now we can have some grass in the front yard.
• My waistline. Yuck. Tomorrow begins feeling better by not being so sorry for myself.
• The weather. Air quality orange. Awful.
  
• Typhon
  

A little bit medical a whole lot nonsense

We are starving to death on full stomachs.

Running miles, new hearts on old legs.

If I had known all the howls were false alarms,

Oh just imagine the ammo we'd save.
- Keith Buckley, ETID

I have lived more life in the last 3 months, than in my other collective 28 years. My chest has been cracked and the bypass machine almost failed. Now I am left with a rotting, gaping suture line and an IV running 50% anxiety mixed with 25% self-doubt and 25% anger. No pill, no ointment, and no homeopathic treatment will fix-it.

The only remedy is thought, emotion, and cutting the rotting portions of my personality and life out with a rusty scalpel and a bag of Riesen chocolate chews.

I am extremely intolerant of the actions of others and even of my myself. Why do we pollute and ruin life in such inconceivable ways?

Today my family was at Sam's (I personally cannot stand the layout or aisle size of Sam's or Walmart, but do enjoy a good price on diapers). A lady rudely cut in front of us at the card greeter mumbling some "excuse" for her poor behavior. Inexcusable. Then I later wished diarrhea on her without toilet paper in a public restroom. Inexcusable and considerably disgusting (mind you I am an RN on a GI floor and a nurse practitioner student talks daily to elderly patients about those finer details of life).

Neither one of were right in the situation, but somehow my disgusting and poor thought was amenable in my brain. I act in a similar manner to "mainstream" mothers, "scenesters", "hipsters", and those "dude-bros" who think a tattooed girl with glasses equals a quick and dirty romp in the sack.

A mother who uses Baby Wise is an example. While I know it is "banned" (only good word I could think of) by the American Academy of Pediatrics, the dude was kicked out of his church, and it is detrimental to the breastfeeding relationship, I hate it more for the "mainstream" use of it. Pathetic. I should just be happy that I had the joy of breastfeeding my child and co-sleeping and get over what other mothers do. Maybe not though, this one is kind of fuzzy to me. More than anything the thought of letting a newborn infant cry so you can sleep is gross.

I think I am losing my steam and train of thought, that last example could have been better. Who really cares though. I am trying not to. I don't hate "scenesters" or "hipsters" (those skinny kids who think fashion before substance, look before material, you know walking American Apparel ads). I pretend to, I feel like I should sneer because I "know more" about the "scene" (What scene in Charleston? CHARLESTONIANS DO NOT SUPPORT MUSIC) and music than they ever could. Alas the predicament, the fact that they probably do actually enjoy the music. Who cares if you look the part, v-necks and skinny jeans aside, music is to be appreciated and loved by all.

And the dude-bros, especially those that pollute my usually quiet street at all hours of the night. Yes, the dude-bros with necks the size of trees, whose hypertension and obstructive sleep apnea will lead to early-onset ED (erectile dysfunction made popular by presidential hopeful Bob Dole) and problems urinating. They usually hold a door for you, will give up a seat, and buy you a drink. Of course they assume their actions will lead to their one thought "is she wearing black panties or none?". They are harmless, but annoying and I want to key their cars and roughly pull down their collars. I don't know where I am going with this one. I am so tired of my neighbor at 1129 Brody and her inconsiderate friends. Yelling doesn't work though. Neither do cops. Maybe brownies laced with Ex-Lax. Nope that is the old Lauren.

What I am trying to say is my well crafted sneer is just as bad as all these poorly typed examples. I need to be friendlier and more genuine. Maybe then I won't get so unbelievable annoyed at Walmart or my neighbor at 1129 Brody. Then again, maybe the world needs a superhero to sneer and explain the inherent contradiction of most actions.

Clear as mud. Great. Maybe I can rub Bactroban on my rotting soul. Wait, external use only.

Gloat time.

Summertime and the livin' is easy. Conor's jumpin' and the water is ni-i-ce. Or a song in a similar vain. I wish babies would come out as fun as they are at this age. I get to play everyday I'm not in clinical. Parks, slides, sandboxes, hoses, pools, beaches, swings, and trains. This amazing, incredible, wonderful, slightly sticky/stinky Conor of mine is a KICK BUTT kid. Wow am I lucky.

I am also KICKING BUTT in clinical. I am finally getting to see patients on my own, not freaking out, and am able to diagnose and prescribe with growing confidence. It feels good that I am not a screw up and can do this whole NP thing. Sweet.

End gloat time...

I Heart Oil

Let's face it, I am totally without a doubt in love with oil. So is my baby, he loves the stuff as well.

I love crude oil and everything about it. I love the vintage vinyl records it helps make. I love the hipster sticker it made on the back of my car. I love the quirky yet realistic slogan shirts it lets me wear. I love the medicines it helps make that save starving babies in Indochina. I love that it helps support all my causes tirelessly for world hunger, freedoms, and cancer. I love the vegan, no-animal-harmed body products I use from Vermont.

Seriously? Yes. Well not the hipster crap. I understand that BP should be investigated and held culpable if shortcomings are found. I agree with doing right and doing right now. Accidents and shortcomings happen. Drilling for oil is not an exact science. Similarly medicine is not an exact science and people unfortunately die from error. BP doesn't have malpractice to support it though.

11 people died from an EXPLOSION aboard a rig. This explosion and other accidents caused a gash in an oil line. BP is trying to fix the gash, but must pass through hurdles, jumps, and hoopla because our precious wildlife must be protected.

Sometimes you must do damage before good. Similarly a surgeon's cut. Without the cut the cancer cannot be taken out.

It drives me beyond nuts the posts I see about BP, oil, and death. We learn from error and mistake. We will learn from this. Animals are dead and dying. Some we love and will mourn, must we think are gross, dangerous, or merely a nuisance. Why don't we see the photos of dead bacteria, plankton, corral, ad nauseum? Because we don't care. We care about dolphins and shrimp.

I will support BP, and support drilling offshore and on. We will never be clean energy, at least not in our lives. Everything has oil in it, or has been made on things that use oil. I feel we need to rely less on foreign oil and more on our own. What? Export oil? Reduce our dependence on others and have a MONEY-MAKING EXPORT on our hands would be a smart move. So is finding more green energy alternatives. But those beautiful windmills take oil to make and run.

It could also be because my great-grandparents were wildcatters and "I got oil in my blood".

A little more Emily Post...

The mosh pit. An interesting beast and a unique part of the music I listen to. Oh, the mosh pit.

According to Wikipedia, "moshing or slamming refers to the activity in which audience members at live music performances aggressively push and/or slam into each other". Better yet is the east coast variation where "which strays away from 'traditional' moshing, in which members of the mosh pit, stand in a circle made by other fans, and they perform moves such as the two-step, "windmill", and spin kicks".

I understand "what happens in the pit stays in the pit" and if a female enters the pit it "is at her own discretion". What? No! I a female wants to enjoy the music and be close to the band, she should not suffer for that desire.

Your need to show the band who won't remember you 10 minutes after they leave your city that you too can SCREAM lyrics does not surpass the basic tenet of the male/female dichotomy. You don't push, shove, or kick a girl anytime anywhere even in a "pit".

You look like an idiot and your sweaty shirt and stench won't get you laid or get you any closer to the band.

I'm a girl, I don't like coming home smelling of tacos or onions. I don't like finding bruises. I like being able to see my favorite bands up close.

Chivalry is dead in the "scene". Oh well, maybe it was absent in the first place.

Feeling better...Moving on

I've been working hard on myself. I hope others are working hard on me. I am feeling better, feeling cleaner. Our yard is looking better. Our Conor has a new summer hairdo that is weird. He is growing up and in a big boy bed. I am a bit overwhelmed with how old he is. I am feeling slightly aloof still. Maybe tomorrow I will be more verbose.

Ghosts, spirits, and such.

I could sleep

I could sleep
I could sleep
I could sleep
when I lived alone

Is there a ghost in my house?

- Band of Horses -

I think I have a ghost in my head or in my house. I am not sure which and not sure if this "presence" is benign or cancerous. I am leaning toward the latter. I feel threatened and guilty, angry and betrayed, sad and despondent. My medication has failed, my mind is exhausted, and my threshold cannot receive another action potential for quite some time. Worry gets you wrinkles and anger gets you a documentary on Discovery Health.

In all reality, I think I have some sort of spirit in the house. This one benign. He is a he, younger guy, mid 20s at the oldest. He isn't threatening or scary, more mischievous and in a weird way calming yet alarming. I see him out of the corner of my eye upstairs and in the stairwell. Lights flicker on and off, and I notice my books rearranged on occasions that I did not clean. This house has history, and I need to find it.

I also need to find the cancerous spirit in my soul. Why am I so mad? Why am I so unforgiving? Why am I so depressed? I have a beautiful child, a mom who just celebrated her 60th birthday, a body I tolerate now, a wonderful doggie (though sick), a 3.8 GPA, and a husband who is acting like one. Yet, I am unsettled, exhausted, and unable to remain emotionally desolate and serene as I once was. Too much coffee? Too much crap? I don't know. I don't know much right now, which is a first. I wish I did. I wish I had a plan.

I could say "sorry I'm a huge b---- right now, I'm going through stuff" or "sorry, my life is so hard" but neither of those are true. You can't take aggression and emotion out on others, and I am alive, well nourished, and not facing disease, famine, or war. My country protects me, my parents help me out financially, and I am able and willingly pursuing my goals without excuse.

Don't worry, I won't "tell it like it is" or "be brutally and sarcastically honest" those sayings are for the masses. I will continue to help, continue to offer myself fully and willingly to the cause, and learn to let my anger out constructively and without repercussion.

It may just take time.
Tomorrow I'll be better.

Rants in my Pants.

Wow, just got into a cyber argument with a kid who will probably be...

No, I'll stop. He could have potential. It is just hidden under veiled attempts at being rebellious by using grammatically poor, misspelled, and racially derogatory language. What gives anyone the right to speak in that manner. Where is the bridge between decency and self respect?

Anyways, I digress...bigger fish to fry, or some catchy phrase. Well actually I don't. I was going to write about ghosts in the house but I have lost all mojo for tonight. I blame the acute nasopharyngitis for this. I'll be better tomorrow.

Lithium

I'm so lonely. And that's OK.
I shaved my head. And I'm not sad, and just maybe
I'm to blame for all I've heard. And I'm not sure.
I'm so excited. I can't wait to meet you there.
And I don't care. I'm so horny. But that's OK. My will is good.
- Nirvana -

I am tired of being bipolar. I don't think I am bipolar. I don't like lithium. I am on my max out dose and am feeling no changes. I am labile in affect, altered in emotions, and on the verge of a massive panic attack/anger freak out at any second. I don't like it.

Spoken like a true bipolar patient.

I am tired of vascillating between hypomanic happiness and crushing depression. I have had situational depression before and was well controlled on an SSRI. Things got better, I went back to normal and life was grand. The way I feel right now is a whole new beast.

I think the lithium has minor efficacy. I am on BID dosing (twice daily) and I feel leveled for 2-3 hours after dosing. Then I get fatigued, then I get muscle weakness, and then I get numbingly depressed. Even though I labeled it "hypomanic happiness" I think it is merely the lithium wearing off. I get a surge of energy, want to go-go-go, and want to live and enjoy the day.

This is exhausting. Yet, I can't sleep.

This is really wearing on my ability to fix my relationship with Stephen, be a good mom to Conor, and appropriately manage my money, house, and time. I feel like I am adrift on the Bering Sea in 60 knot winds (I am watching Deadliest Catch currently).

I don't think I am bipolar. I think I am depressed

I know that depression isn't a normal reaction, but I think my body is depleted or norepinephrine and serotonin. I think I need an SSNRI and sleep. I think I need someone to talk to, but I don't know how to talk about myself without sounding foolish.

I want a kiss from my baby. He's asleep though.

I just want to be this girl again.

Lesson Learned

Sometimes all it takes is a day working on my floor.

I try not to get bogged down in minor maladies, try not to complain, but recently complaining has gotten the best of me. People get sick and feel like stepped on and wiped off doggy poo, but they aren't close to dying too young or dying with a pregnant wife.

Today on my floor: a teenager actively dying from newly found metastatic cancer, and a young couple battling cancer with a baby on the way.

Puts all my complaining, all my fussing, and all my grumpiness in a recycling bin on the way to Hades. It makes me forget the negative, forget my own sadness and live for what I have. It also makes me realize once again the lessons my mom's illness has taught me.

You never know what may come and you have to fight like only a Beany can.

"Uh-oh"

When you are Lauren, you are tired and grumpy all the time. You also can't complete a sentence without stuttering or mispronouncing words and are always on the verge of an ice cream meltdown.

You also care immensely about others and feel great personal guilt when things are not all happy and perfectly ordered.

I'm a fixer and a planner, but extremely artistic and inwardly disorganized. I follow the rules, even when driving, and put research and immense thought into all actions taken. But, that is all changing for me.

I can't fix and mend, can't be disorganized, and must think rationally and quickly. I am so tired of my anger at being used by others, so tired of selfless action, and so tired of getting cut off on the road, line, and life.

Enough of this self-loathing. It is time for quick action, self-protection, and a deliciously defiant GLASS OF KOOL-AID! Mmm...black cherry please.

At least Conor gets action and appreciates learning and thought. With a "whasthat" and a little chubby finger he learns and grows. Of course that little chubby finger is exploring nose gold which is hilarious and disgusting in the same moment.

This little man also is teaching me about trust. I know he trusts me when he grabs my hand to play, seeks comfort when he is crying, and gets so excited when I pick him up from his nap. I need to be more trusting and more loving like a 20 month old.

Wow, 20 months. And he still looks like a little cherub when he sleeps.

On occassions...

Some days you just step on poop...

Or if you are me, you do it once or twice a week. Stupid cats. This picture is homage to the next two weeks. I can make it through this gosh-for-saken semester with my wits intact and my waist not growing.

Lauren's Clinical Guidelines

Seasonal Allergies

1. Zyrtec (cetirizine) 10 mg 1 tab by mouth daily or Claritin (loratadine) 10 mg 1 tab by mouth daily
2. Neti-Pot or nasal saline wash daily. Start hypertonic as tolerated and progress to a neutral solution.
3. Flonase (fluticasone proprionate) 50 mcg 2 sprays each nostril daily (RX only)
4. Increase fluids as increasing water increasing expulsion of the junk
5. Benadryl 25 mg as needed for sleep.

Boy Problems

1. Grow a "proverbial pair"
   
2. Realize I am not the person to ask for advice
3. Don't choose based on: tattoos, hair color, music likes or dislikes, IPhone, or friends
4. Don't wait by the phone for the call that won't come

Breaking Caffeine Addiction

1. Go to Starbucks
2. Invariably piss off an employee you genuinely care about
3. Get decaf without realizing

The first one is a true guideline and one that I have prescribed to numerous people. The fun thing is you can play with the prescriptions and see how much the insurance companies love you for it.

The other two are for pure enjoyment.

I find it humorous I get asked love and dating advice. I never really dated. A few dates and "boyfriends" here and there, all dispensable due to inherent douchebaggery. Stephen is my only one, and the only person I have truly loved. It just happened.

The other guideline is just ridiculous. Those age 30 and less and petty fools who passive aggressiveness stems from impatience and a society of excess. We lost our decency. I get reminded every Tuesday and Wednesday what America used to be. We are missing out.

I don't want to miss out on the goodness of people.

A Letter

Dear Conor

You know me as mama, but others call me Lauren, Lowie, daughter, nurse, and even friend. I portray many different characters, but behind the glasses you so love pulling off and putting on my face, I am none of these.

I feel abandoned in my ineptitude and confused about the sincerity of others. I am immensely guarded and admittedly ashamed of the selfish tendencies of those I often consider close. I am so alone in a shapeless shell of a person, that I cannot be nor feel anything except my love for you.

You Conor are my reason.

The reason I couldn't jump April 30, 2009. I still have the note as a reminder why I couldn't leave you. You are the reason I stopped cutting and why the scars have finally healed. I'm always a moment away, I will never let my fears envelop you.

My impetus for writing this letter was watching you sleep; encased in the white railing of your crib you breath in a slow rhythm of trust and security. I created that trust and out of love created you.

I look at you now as I did the day we brought you home. I am overwhelmed with love and baffled at the beauty of perfection in the sparkle of your eyes.

Love, Mama

One year ago, I was diagnosed bipolar by an MD typing feverishly on a computer. He seemed nice, doted on his family, and even had a MacBook. Yet, one year later I feel my diagnosis wrong. I have tried several medications, changed my diet, exercised, lost weight. Yet, I still feel the same as I did one year ago. I am not as labile in affect, without the hormones, and more well rested.

Recently my life crashed around me: Stephen admitted a drinking problem, our finances were in shambles, and apathy caused a rift in a marriage threatening infidelity. Somehow, I feel I cannot adequately grieve this event. Reasons are varied and leave me angry and seeking support. Yet, the needs of others must always be managed and followed explicitly before support.

This angers me and leaves me with that same empty depressive shell. Anger makes me want to shout, hopelessness makes me want to circumvent or cry, and reality means I subvert my needs to help others.

I can't pretend this life anymore. I can't help when I need help. I'm not sleeping because I lay in wait for the trials and management of others. I'm not sleeping because I lay waiting for my mom to be sick again. I lay waiting for it all to end. I lay waiting for a break. I lay waiting for the day I don't have to help.

Maybe it will be tomorrow. Maybe it will be May 25. Maybe it will be never.

At least I know I have my life ring sleeping soundly in his crib right now. I will say it a million times then say it a million more, I am so proud Conor is my son and that I am his mom.

One. Two. THREE!!!

One big belly...

Two stinky feet...

Three people to make a family right...


Conor is learning to count. At least I think he is learning to count. Sometimes I don't know what the kid is doing besides being 100% purely, unadulterated insane bananas happy. I gave him a little juice box today and he spent 30 minutes enjoying every last little drop.

He has also termed cars/trucks/vehicles "gottago" as in "got to go". Makes sense.


Wow, I'm tired. This going to bed at 1100, waking between 200-400, and getting up with my angel at before 730 is really getting to me. School, work, and baby paradoxically make for poor sleep.

I do not remember the last time I got more than 6-7 hours sleep. I am averaging 4-6 hours and the last time I had a normal sleep was sometime in December or January.

I do not remember the last time I slept in late. Stephen let me sleep in one day last weekend. I woke at 830.

This sleep deprivation is making me so judgmental and grumpy. Since about March 2007, sleep has been a dream and myth. I love it, I treated it well, but it left me without a note or a good-bye.

Let's calculate...3 hours less sleep than I should be getting per night for 3 months (90 days)...that means I am down 270 hours of sleep. 270 hours that is 11.25 days! No wonder I look pale, have bags under my eyes, and have a wack-a-doodle thyroid.

I'm getting in a gallon of water, eating my veggies, being social, and walking...4 out of 5 isn't bad. At least I have Deadliest Catch to lull me to sleep. And those pesky papers (one down!).

Awesome

According to the practice FNP exam I took, I am 92% awesome. According to my level of comfort and general ability to speak coherently in clinical I am 29% awesome. I am proud of my score, but a good test taker and a reader of journals does not make you a competent professional.

Maybe a killer pair of heels and a sweet dress will make me competent. Oh poop, that whole tattoo thing. Hmmm, maybe a killer pair of knee-high boots, a dress, a cardigan, a scarf, a lab coat, and a good coat of polyurethane...

I like how my blogs go. Nonsense, complain, school, and then BABY AWESOME TIME. What can I say, this could rules way harder than any other baby I have ever had. Today, he was doing donuts in the kitchen, stomping like and elephant, eating peanut butter and jelly, and general rocking his yellow and black Nike dunks.

He is really beginning to talk, and sometime strings together coherent and complex sentences. Such as this gem, "dada bye-bye got to go ousides". Heartbreaking and adorable.

...or...when he "talked" on the phone at Lowe's today when he heard the PA ringing. Precious.

Being a mom doesn't get any better than that. I cannot wait to see him tomorrow morning.

A phoenix, a Beany, and a beach.

April 4, 2010
Sullivan's Island at Station 18
Conor falls in love with the ocean and waves

My neighbor and friend Gillian brought up an interesting dichotomy of life/death in several heart-felt and passionate stories of her family. This idea that "with life comes death, and with death come life" resonates very strongly in my heart and will. In honor of my mom I have a phoenix holding an ovarian cancer ribbon tattooed on my right calf (done beautifully by Jason Eisenberg). She is the most vibrant, beautiful, and toughest person I know.

Conor is in large part a gift to her (and to his Gabba whom treasures every breath, every curl, and every hug as much as I do). He was a gift of the right and wrong time...

The day after my son was born, my mom went under the knife again for ovarian cancer tumor debulking and partial pancreatectomy. As we waited on the 6th floor of the hospital for discharge, my mom had surgery on the 4th floor and was recovering on the 10th floor and MICU. I worried myself sick over my newborn son and my fragile mom. I have stated before, my mom is the queen of complications.

I watched her stop breathing as bilateral pulmonary emboli raced through her heart and into her lungs. I watched her stop breathing after a tension pneumothorax (and subsequent improper placement of a chest tube).

Yet, this time I couldn't watch over her.

Sitting patiently as she slept, waiting to see what the doctors didn't. I had my beautiful son, postpartum depression, and an extremely sore body to take care of. As minutes turned to hours turned to days, she healed well and was discharged 2 weeks after surgery on oxygen and antibiotics for nosocomial pneumonia.

Something miraculous happened as Conor was born and as my mom battled for her life. I saw this miracle yesterday.

He is his Beany at the beach. She takes the water on with such passion and true joy. She may be almost 60, but she turns into a wide-eyed and excited child in the water. Yesterday, Conor ran to the water and didn't look back or regret a second. The water was cold, the waves knocked him down, and the saltwater got in his eyes but he

NEVER STOPPED SMILING.

He has the smile of an innocent, a sparkle in his eyes that creates an infectious joy and guiltless abandonment. His Beany does this, so Conor does this. I kept my composure, but it brought me to tears. Somehow, somewhere, and for some reason he and Beany share a love, a love unknown. It makes no sense to me. This blog probably is incoherent babble, but yesterday was perfectly right. It is how my mom will live in Conor.

I cannot wait to see that connection with Gabba.

I love my son more and more each day. He is developing character, spunk, and a joy for life that makes me want to do and be better. Even if he is shushing his dad for talking during Olivia, or if he has two skinned elbows, or even if he is throwing a temper tantrum the size of Manitoba, he will

always be the greatest gift I give and receive.

Conor at 12-14 months

Wishing for the Easter Beagle to Arrive.

I really enjoy the company of like-minded mommies. Moms who know nursing is a labor of love, food is to be enjoy and to be at its basic elements, and that time away is good but always in moderation.

I am judgmental and I do struggle with things other moms and dads do. I run amok at the playground, swinging, sliding, and feeling the absolute freedom on innocence. I choose babysitters who love my child and have a better day when they watch Conor. I don't send my child to daycare. I understand the necessity of a two-earner household, and one day Conor will be a part of that household. I will either find a nanny or work part-time. If I can pay the bills and save a little, time with my child beats a career, car, house, or haircut (although close) at anytime.

What I don't get is the backlash against intuitive parenting. The absolute despise of breastfeeding, the abhor at babywearing, and the shock when you say "co-sleeping".

Breastfeeding as we know is the gold standard of infant nutrition. Formulas will never mimic nor can they say "resemble" the dynamic nature of human milk. Even one suck, one ounce, one day is better than nothing. Breastfeeding saves premature babies, can decrease risk potential in developing breast and ovarian cancer, and leads to positive development for the child.

Baby-wearing when done safely is so necessary with a refluxer. Conor had horrible GERD through about 6-9 months of life. I feel that breastfeeding and babywearing allowed him to gain weight and decrease my perception of his pain. Baby-wearing lets a mom get chores done around the house, it was great insulation and warmth in winter, and the slings, wraps, soft carriers are fun to shop for.

Co-sleeping does not cause death, and research must be done to assure a safe sleep environment. Co-sleeping was a life saver for a boy who woke up every 45 minutes to 2 hours screaming in pain from reflux. I miss Conor in our bed. In those early morning hours when the world is soft and asleep, seeing an infant in the course of REM sleep is life-changing. You realize the power and beauty of creation, the innocence still present in life, and the overpowering sensation of protection and desire for the best.

Parenting is full of options and compromise. When a parent does not compromise their selfish needs and desires is when you get an eye-roll from me.

My struggling family is learning how to become a team of like-minded individuals. We see the path, we see the goals, and we see the change and compromise necessary.

I'm not religious and wouldn't even say spiritual. But on an absolutely beautiful Easter Sunday it is hard not to feel a presence, a presence who advocated doing the perceived best and always adapting to love, truth, and beauty.

Conor one year ago today.

Dear Dream Job

Hello Dream Job, my name is Lauren. Come in, sit down, and let me tell you a little bit about myself...

I will be graduating in August with my FNP from the Medical University of South Carolina. I have worked on a digestive disease floor since graduating in December 2007 with my BSN. Previously I worked for Starbucks and another small coffee shop and can make killer foam. I can also still draw from memory the entire metabolic cycle of the human body. I write legibly, bathe daily, and enjoy NPR. I look both ways before I cross the street, don't speed, and always use my turn signal. I leave notes and am good a wrapping presents. I make a mean chili and an even better guacamole. I am a Texan which means I am loyal and friendly to a fault. I care. I try. I cry at commercials often. I respect and value my parents and will drop everything to be at their side. My son is the single greatest thing that ever happened to me. He taught me selflessness and the value of breastfeeding and sleep. I would take a bullet for my dog and shoot my cats. I have tattoos but wear at least 4 shirts/camisoles at any one time. I despise laziness but wish secretly to take a 4-hour nap. I worry because I feel. I'm bipolar and can't save the world. I love and respect veterans and wish my generation had modesty and respect. I will make a loyal employee if you can get past my tattoos. I just want to help and to learn.

In return Dream Job, I ask this of you:

1. Flexibility in hours and understanding that nothing means more to me than family
2. Opportunity to educate at-risk youth
   
3. Opportunity to educate pregnant women about breastfeeding
4. Opportunity to medically manage veterans and grouchy grandmas on occasions
5. Enough money to pay my bills, start my nest egg, contribute to Conor's 529, and buy vinyl
6. Opportunity to stitch, lance, or biopsy someone on occasion
7. The ability to wear a dress shirt open a button, to throw out my turtlenecks and to say bye to my white coat
8. A working coffee maker or a Starbucks within walking distance
9. Health insurance
10. The ability prove myself useful and often humorous

Dear Dream Job, please knock on my door, window, email...I know you are out there, alone, unfufilled, and desperate. Right?

Lists.

I'm quitting my job! I couldn't be happier. I truly love my coworkers. The nurses I work with are brilliant, compassionate, and calm in chaos. I wish the patients, JCHAO, CMS and all the other nonsense would see the same thing. The following is my top 3 reasons for quitting:

1. I got called fat for eating a hot dog from the cafeteria one time.
   
2. In an almost 14-hour day, I did not pee, eat, or sit until my shift had technically ended. At that point in time, I had a cup of water and an ice cream.
3. I had poop shoved in my face. This was after the woman had called me an idiot the previous day for asking her simple questions.

It would be hard for me to find time this summer to fit in hours, and I really don't want to spend the next day exhausted and angry. I don't like angry, I like to play and laugh.

For another uber awesome list, I present to you the new things my baby boy has decided to do:

1. He now says "ball"
2. He now says "bubbles"
3. He barks on occasions
4. He can dance and headbang like nobodies business
5. He melts hearts with a smile. I've seen it, it's impressive
6. He now says "peas" for please
7. He can sing, kinda
8. He can sigh as good as any 16-year old drama queen
9. He thinks the front steps are a slide.
10. He can stomp really hard.

The Holy City

An analysis of Charleston, SC by Lauren Young.

Aww, catchy title. I have been antsy in Charleston for awhile. I love "most" of my neighbors, my family of friends, the Aquarium, and the food. The rest of it I have great dislike for. Yet, traffic is bad everywhere else, government is government, and people will still look down their nose at me. Which leads to understanding why Charleston has made me ill at ease and why I want so badly to move.

Today it hit me. Well, actually I almost hit it (her).

I was driving down King Street and was at the intersection of Grove and King when a women high on drugs/beer/god starting walking down the middle of my lane of traffic. No warning, no worry, and no sense of wrong. I slam on my brakes and honk, knowing fully well she saw me and I saw her. She starts carrying-on and swings (but misses) at my car. I am not interested in a pointless altercation and am definitely not interested in hurting her, so I back up slightly and head another way.

Charleston is a small area where socioeconomic status is not separated by land and walls. Rich lives near poor often. This brings and interesting dichotomy to play. In Charleston you see people not alive, yet not dead (no I do not mean zombies or vampires). You see those who have lost any amount of hope or decency and merely don't care.

This translates at all levels, all races, and all genders. It is a dilapidated status quo where no one cares the outcome and no one fears their humanity.

It saddens and disgusts me.

Blabber, babble, and such

In the struggles I am having personally, I look to the patients I see for inspiration.

As a nurse practitioner student, I question and question and question, especially when rounding in the nursing home. We ask a million-and-one questions to get a million-and-one truths. My preceptor see mainly folks over the age of 40 with numerous disease states and he becomes entwined in their lives and health. Most of these folks are salt of the earth war heroes who walk with a sense of pride and composure America will never see again.

They don't divorce their wives when the going gets tough, they admit defeat and own up to their actions (even if it means one more medication or one more educational lecture). They made it through hell, separation, and post-traumatic stress. Yet, they always stood by one another.

My generation does not have that. We care about ourselves, the instant, the right-now. I would blame technology, but I think our morals have changed for the worst.

I am blabbering. It brings pride and empathy when I hear the overwhelming devotion and love so many elderly couples have for one another. I want that. I know that can still exist in this generation.

I really want to blabber about the new healthcare bill, but I think refinding love is more important.

Absolutely posituney

Weight loss, party time, excellent. Although I would rather do it more slowly, 4.8 pounds lost is so awesome. I am 2 pounds to pre-pregnancy and it is nice to feel back in my body.

Stephen and I had a good day. It was weirdly warm-cold outside though. Shinfo.

I could grump about the new healthcare bill, but duck bills are way more entertaining. We play "stinky feet" with Conor and he giggles so hard. He decided to play today, and as I stuck my toes in his face he started waving his hand in front of his nose and giggling. So cute...

Speaking of cute, and oldie but a goodie.
First smile caught on camera.

Looking at the positives

Today was a better day. And for this I am thankful.

I wish it was a better day for Jesse. Jesse is a righteous and extremely intuitive young man. This intuition makes him very emotionally driven and makes him artistic. But, it also sets him up for the highest of highs and lowest of lows.

Poor guy. At least with girls ice cream works wonders...

Conor knew that mommy and daddy were happier today, and it made him hilarious! He was totally showing off all day. Here are EIGHT awesome things my baby can do...

Hiss like a snake
Pant like a doggie
Color like a young Warhol
Dance like a fool (or a skanker)
Hop like a bunny
Choo-choo like a train conductor
Climb like a monkey
Screech like a velociraptor.

This stinker makes me sooooo happy.

Truth, Support, and Wisdom

..."and you shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free..." (John 8:32)

As I have told several, with the recent events I am hoping for divine inspiration, and the above quote (one of a handful I know) seems a perfect (if not cliche) foundation for this growth. Stephen finally admitted to me he was an alcoholic. He has hidden this and failed treatment from me for several years.

I am ashamed and stupid for not knowing. Ashamed for wearing blinders and trusted something as juvenile as a pinky promise.

I am so mad. Mad for my family being taken advantage of and for me looking like an absolute fool.

I am confused. Confused on love, trust, and faith.

I am hurt. Hurt for my family, friends, and child who have all been lied to.

Yet, I know I must move past my pain and emotions to provide support to Stephen. I can't be his wife right now, but I can be his friend. I don't know my feelings for him, and right now that is not what is important. I can help him through the worst of this horrible disease, learn how to be honest, and learn how to cope. Maybe in those steps I will find love again. Maybe Stephen will discover he is a good person, and while past actions cannot be changed who he decides to become can.

Maybe I will find wisdom to help others. Maybe I will finally become an adult.

"Girl's Not Grey"

I have never been one for forgiveness. Tolerance, yes. Understanding, sure why not. Forgiveness to me feels like a failure of will and an embarrassment to self. I guess I should have been an elephant, because the never forget.

I have a very good memory, it is a blessing and curse. A blessing because it makes me intelligent and good in school, a curse because I can remember things most people forgive and forget. I hold on to these memories because I feel ashamed a slight to my character occurred. Yet, it makes me bitter and difficult to friend.

It isn't I am afraid "to let people in" or to "let them know the real Lauren" (horrible, awful cliches left for the vapid scenester to say as they mount their tragically used bike in pants cutting of vital circulation to sexual organs). I have a level of self preservation because I think most are unworthy or stupid. I can see the ulterior motives of others, their plans, and what happens in the future. Almost ESP but not quite. It makes them uninteresting and "fake".

Those I do friend are ones I cannot figure out. Which is why I chose the sorority I did, why I have the friends I do, and why I chose Stephen.

This inability to control and see has lead to heartache and a decision in my court. Every decision in my life has been easy. I plan, think, and know and 99.8% of the time it comes out just like I expect. This time, I have no idea what will happen. In fact, I don't even want to imagine the future right now.

Perhaps it is still to painful...

Perhaps I realize my lack of insight, tolerance, and forgiveness...

Perhaps I need a cookie...

All I know is I have friends, which is amazing. I have never been weak and am always there with support. This time, I need it deeply. Yet, no matter what I have to do what is right for CONOR and maybe not necessarily for my fragile esteem or heart.

I must be vulnerable and forgiving, something I have never done. If I don't do this, nothing will change, everything will fail, and I will remain bitter and pathetically inane.

My block tower has fallen.

What do you do with devastating personal news?

Especially news of the heart and psyche?

I have dealt with devastating medical news and watched my mom try her hardest to die in front of my eyes. I have told someone they have cancer and that they need to stop drinking or die.

This morning I found news that I don't know if I can handle. I spent my day at clinical angry, in tears, and all together intolerant of patients. Pathetic I know, but sometimes work and personal life mix in a negative way.

My nursing background and desire to protect the physical has supplanted my anger to a degree. No matter what I have to protect and maintain the health of others, it is what I do for a living and what I have a passion for. Yet, I still want to throw stuff, break things, and scream. I have had such a SHIT 2010 so far.

• School blows....
• Work is 12 hours of running my ass off for patients abusing themselves and the system...
• I worry about my mom all the fucking time...I also worry about my dad and his unwillingness to treat his COPD and undetected hypertension...
• I can't seem to lose weight and feel good about myself...
• I step in poop/pee/puke at least every other day...
• I clean and clean and clean and the house still looks a mess...
• My sister doesn't talk to me, and I am tired of being in competition with her...
• I can't stay asleep and have been running on fumes and Starbucks...

And now this. Why? No clue. Forgivable? I don't know. I don't know if what I am doing is foolish and demeaning to my character. I don't get any of it, all I know is I am so angry and hurt. I don't know how I will be able to sleep tonight or function in class tomorrow.

Once again and forever, I will be thankful for my son. Every other thing makes me nervous, nauseous, and downright angry.

CAN I PLEASE CRY UNCLE NOW?

\T