And so it begins...

Yesterday was my last day in Charleston. I didn't think it would be tough to leave. That sounds callous, but I am ready to begin my career and move into a less antiquated and contradictory location...

I think I need to begin this at the beginning...

Monday was emotional. I finished packing early and sat around most of the day waiting to leave. It felt weird. I watched Grey's Anatomy and ate apple slices and drank an inordinate amount of water. Pretty awesome. We are lucky to have a relocation allowance, meaning we had to pack very little and wait for the whirlwind of Allied to pack and load our belongings.

We also don't have a large amount of personal items. We own a home in Charleston, SC that is currently unlivable due to mold damage. All of our original furniture, appliances, linens, towels, and some odds and ends are staying behind in this house. We will still pay for this house and cannot buy until further notice. It is a bad circumstance that I refused to cry over until Monday. Those were my anger tears. I feel so betrayed and so angry that our house has been reduced to a large fungal colony (just wish I was able to finalize something, but someday I will get my chance to be a catty female and prove myself the victor)

The sad tears came with two things. First we gave away Moxie. It was done with a heavy heart and much regret on my part. Moxie is a bad kitty. A very, very, bad bad bad kitty. She will zero the zinnias in two seconds flat, she will eat old Uncle Irving if you give her half a chance. Truly all joking aside, she was unhappy and we hated to see her so aggressive and scared. She wouldn't even cuddle in my lap anymore. She just growled, hissed, and clawed. Nothing was physically wrong with her, but I think in the shuffle of the Brody Avenue fall-out she was unable to transition.

Conor's school brought on the second wave of tears, and it was that embarrassing barrage of snot and slobber that only true sadness comes with. I am so thankful for his school. Conor is the most special 3 footer I know. He has the ability of empathy and makes people so much happier with his stink and stubborness. He is amazing and his school is amazing. They threw him a party (in which most of his classmates were adorably confused by. Cupcake are for birthdays only, a fact this mommy should have known). It was a train themed day full of Conor's favorite activities (playing chase, trains, coloring, dinosaurs, dirt, cupcakes, and jumping). I hope his next school is as special.

That night Stephen and I ate Park Pizza and finished up random odds and ends. The emotions of the day got to me and I feel asleep in my bed with shoes and bandana still on. Once again, I'm pretty awesome.

Tuesday was the day I left to my parents, and the movers came to pack our house. 3 people took less than 4 hours to pack our house. Less than 4 hours. They are a machine. 1500 square feet of stuff. Insane. I wish I had that talent.

Conor and I headed out to breakfast with Crystal, Amanda, and Carmen. It was almost impossible to say good-bye. These three ladies are amazing and have hearts of gold. They each touched my life and Conor's in such a magnetic and empathetic manner, it is hard to put into words the pain I felt driving down 17.

It also something that shouldn't be put into words, especially the relationship between Conor and Carmen. It is something so special, my words would not only fail to describe their bond, it would somehow belittle the magic. As I said before, Conor has an amazing sense of empathy. I do wonder if being carried by a nurse has anything to do with this. He has my ability to care and calm, to soothe and heal. It makes him Conor, and makes Carmen an equal. See, my words somehow make it tangible, and I want it to remain intangible.

I had to pull over twice as tears overwhelmed my ability to manage South Carolina drivers. But, I made it to Beany Joe's, a place filled with cookies, ice cream, endless pots of coffee and love. It is going to be hard to say good-bye again, so the next 3 days are going to be a blast. We started off right too, a pool date. I think the kid drank half the water, he is such a water bug. In drinking half the pool, holy cow that kid has a bladder!

Day one at Beany and Joe's also had a power outage, but that brought on the fun of a flashlight. He fell asleep in my arms with a flashlight on. Adorable. Something about that sweet toddler belly, the warm curls, and a perfect snore to settle a sad lady.

Just writing to look like I am doing something

Moving! I am so excited and so ready to be back in T

exas. Things are still extremely up in the air....

TEXAS!! TEXAS!! TEXAS!!

I HAVE A NURSE PRACTITIONER JOB!!!

I am so excited my job search is finally fraking over. I still catc

h myself looking for jobs, writing the cover letter, but I get over it and don't send it. Since July of last year, I have been consumed in finding a job and living with the fear that SC nursing and I do not get along well at all. Not at all. So, we are moving to a state that treats its nurses so much better. Score times a bunch.

I find it interesting when I say I hate Charleston people argue that opinion with me. It is an opinion. I hate Charleston as a whole. The food is good, yes, but you know what I like cooking at home just as much. There are beaches, sure, but we go maybe 3-4 times a year because it is a production with a child and I am not a fan of bath-tub warm ocean water. There are pretty homes, but those are in isolated areas of the wealthy. Charleston is prejudiced, dirty, stuck holding on to Hugo, slavery, and when good ole' boys were men.

I hate Charleston, let me hate Charleston.

Mainly I am excited for Conor. It is sad that Beany and Joe won't be a quick drive south, but I wouldn't be surprised if they move. We will be a little further away from Susi and Rob, but for some reason I think the drive would be easier to Texas (New Orleans is a good stop).

As long as we have strawberries or something equally as fun to pick, Conor will be great. There are so many amazing day-trips for families in Texas: Zilker park, San Antonio zoo, THE ALAMO, children's museums in Austin and Waco, caverns, Schlitter

bahn, railways...

Plus, everyone I met talked about what a great area it was to raise kids. Unfortunately, a sentiment I have not heard in Charleston.

Texas

Texas

This girl is coming home

3-4 years ago, I would have never wanted to move back. I actually liked the physical Charleston at one point in time. Now, I don't. Stephen and I always reminisced on the things we loved about Texas: bluebonnets, sunsets, genuine hospitality, Dublin Dr. Pepper, cows, oil rigs, trucks...the list could go on and on truthfully.

So now after a whirlwind week we are not ending up where we thought, and I am super happy but definitely nervous. To ease my nerves I have decided to create my FIVE YEAR PLAN so I can go back and laugh my arse off, much like my list for my 30th year of life.

The Plan

• Pursue my Acute Care Nurse Practitioner post-masters certificate at UTA with clinicals done at S&W (which is a level-one trauma center)
• Learn everything I can about GI medicine in the inpatient and outpatient population
• Move either to Austin or Dallas and pursue employment as an FNP-C ACNP-BC in an emergency room
• Rekindle the happy with husband. This should be easy when we both don't hate where we live and get grumpy at the smallest things
• End our lawsuit and purchase our "first home"
• Have another sweet baby and not gain SO MUCH WEIGHT with the pregnancy (a girl can dream of a cute baby belly)
• Find the best BBQ place in Texas
• Participate in a Chili cook-off (maybe even Terlingua??)
• Join team-in-training and run a full marathon

My little Conor may not be Texan, but the republic will forgive him when they see those baby blues and look at his heritage.

How'd you get there mommy.

He's cute. He's trouble.

He squeaks. He loves trains. He reads books from memory. He sings teapot really well.

His girlfriend's name is Abbie and she is adorable as well.

He thinks storage sheds are farms and that elephants and piggies live on farms. He thinks bedtime is the end of the world.

He is always prepared for rain with his yellow rainboots.

Wow, this kid keeps me smiling day and night. He has his moments of meltdown but overall he is the greatest. Now if we could just potty train.

Last Rant for Awhile

I'm still grumpy. Unfortunately, it is not that cute Grover from Sesame Street grumpy that everyone can love.

I am highly analytical and question every intention and every piece of information until I find a postulate it follows. I look for rule and reason in action, reproducible circumstances, and written fact.

It is difficult when everyone is yelling as loud as they can to be heard. People talk for themselves so much of the time, and fail to listen. It is a fallacy in the heads of most that we are good listeners. Repetition of word and phrase is proof. So is complaint.

We all complain. It is human and somehow increases our self-worth and value. Sometimes we complain to be funny, sometimes we complain to blow off steam. Some complain more than others. This one is wearing a funny hat...

I'm complaining right now, but it is an admission I readily make and try to avoid in polite conversation. This blog is for me. Not for every man, woman, and child to read. I would never sell any product, I would never give stuff away, I would never give advice, and I could really care less if anyone besides my husband reads this. I blog because my handwriting is so slow and I lose a notebook way to fast.

In fact, my advice giving days are winding down fast. My job is to give recommendations and health advice. I diagnose and treat similar to a medical doctor with a heavy dose of education mixed in. I am really good with this kind of advice.

Not so good when someone is asking just to ask, or just to draw attention back to themselves. I don't care.

Your money problems? I have my own. Trying to save to buy a house, move, put my child in private education, and build a professional wardrobe isn't easy.

Your job problems? I have my own. I am actively seeking, continuously looking and applying for new jobs. I don't put my trust in anything because the most qualified, the nicest, or the best doesn't always get the job.

Your boy problems? How about a rambunctious two-year old who throws amazing yet heartbreaking tantrums. It is tough not to lose your fuse and to continuously provide positive discipline. The world is way to confusing for a 30 year-old let alone a toddler who refuses to potty train or take a bath.

I am glad I am exercising again. It lets me pound the faces of those who are bigots, liars, and fakes without actual violence. It lets me be angry. It lets me think without repercussion.

It also lets me remember what I am so thankful for and what I have that makes me so happy:

• Conor
• My mom being happy again and her CA-125 holding steady
• My dad respecting me
• Moving
• Stephen

Grumpy Party of One

I'm a really grumpy person these days. Non-forgiving and cynical of most. I am bitter, I am skeptical of the goodness in humans, and most of all I am tired of the idiocy.

This time last year, my world fell apart. I spent so long thinking I wasn't a good mom or wife. Spent so many nights wondering what the hell I was doing. With an email and an admission, my husband became my enemy. He lied, he thought of cheating, he drank and well he made me feel like I wasn't a good wife or mom.

It is now humorous, when I finally CAGE questioned him he asked me how I didn't notice. I didn't notice because he had mentally and physically checked out. So had I. I was too busy worrying about being a good mom and getting the fuck out of my grad school.

I completed my masters with a 3.9 GPA and glowing recommendations from all my clinical preceptors. I wrote a paper accepted by a journal. I became board-certified and passed my certifying exam in the 90th percentile. Yet, they wanted to kick me out and almost did. The stupidity of the matter is, I switched clinical placement twice because the first doctor had his DEA license revoked (couldn't write prescriptions) and the second was retiring in a matter of weeks. Neither my fault, neither allowed under their rules.

To round out the summer, our house we built was infected with all sorts of fun molds that made the house a danger to our health and unlivable. This house where my newborn learned to sit, crawl, and walk. This house where my mother battling ovarian cancer came for chemo. This house could have killed my mother easily and caused permanent damage to my son's lungs, GI and nervous system.

Fuck that house. Fuck the lies forged in it. Fuck the pain. Fuck the humiliation.

I am not a whiner. I don't emote well to others. Most of the time I am to fucking busy taking care of others to take care of myself. Maybe it is how I cope. Maybe I am codependent. Maybe I am a sucker.

All I know is it makes me bitter and angry at the inherent stupidity of most.

Part of being a great nurse and a fledgling nurse practitioner is reading the intentions of people and anticipating their actions. I do this really well. In a form of stereotyping I can also guarantee I understand you before you say a word. It also makes me numb and sad that others cannot do the same for me.

Once again, I clam up too often. I am highly aloof. I am also highly judgmental.

I judge based on sound reason and reproducible circumstances. I don't take the written word at face value. I can't. It isn't scientific. Those websites we read and post, those are meant to sway your opinion and make you fail to see every angle and minute detail. They are meant to make money. Just remember Huffington Post was created by a socialite akin to Paris Hilton.

It has been a year now, and my husband and I have begun a new relationship. It is still a work in progress but the laughter is back. The fun is back. This makes me know I have one champion in my corner.

Make that two. I know I am a good mommy.

I have a opportunity to pursue a career that I cannot in Charleston. The "good-ole boy" mentality of nursing in Charleston is outdated, rude, and not the place I want to be. I am unconventional but creative and will be really, really good at my job. How do I know this? From working, from clinical, and because I care about making people feel better.

I care too much sometimes. I am the RN/FNP-C that goes to funerals, that brings your family pizza, and will exhaust all opportunities to educate you, empower you, and make you smile. I'm really awkward and will drop my stethoscope but I won't miss that dropped heart beat when I listen.

Please allow me to be grumpy. Please ask me how my mom is doing. Please anticipate my needs sometimes. And please realize I don't really care about your "boy" problems. I had shit handed to me on a platter with "boy" stuff. I made it through, you can to.

Pit Etiquette

After EIGHT YEARS of band cancellations due to Crohn's disease and turmoil, breaks and remakes, and hiatuses I finally got to see the almighty Glassjaw in concert.

... Glassjaw...

Darryl Palumbo close enough to see his PICC line scar on his inner right arm. Close enough to read the set list and know they would start with "Lenon" and play "Caligula".

This band is about music I love, friends I love even more, and memories that I would never ever replace. I started listening to Glassjaw at the pinnacle of my transformation from mousy, nerdy, and annoying to a pretty decent gal with radical tattoos. This band brought passion to my ears and lips, and made me want more from music than I had in the past.

The thought of this band brings back 2003.

The smell.

The taste.

The anticipation.

The pride.

The freedom of thought and action.

The loft.

As Darryl walked out onto stage, I could feel who I was in 2003. This chick teaming with confidence and pride in herself. This chick who was no longer confined by order and regulations. This chick who found love, friendship, and music.

Glassjaw

As nostalgic and entranced as I was in the moment, reality soon hit with a shove, a beer, and the absolute idiocy of the pit. Pit ethos could be a subject in college. It is teaming with apartheid, misogyny, and sweaty dudes dying for a non-existant cause.

The pit is still largely uncharted ground for us women folk. We have always skirted the barrier, standing away from the action, neglecting our absolute passion and desire to be in the middle seeing and doing as the menfolk do.

I would honestly say this enrages most hardcore dudes. Some fight for their ladies and others to keep them safe and promote their place in the pit. But, it is the biggest, sweatiest dude that lets rage take flight and will purposefully shove, push, and hassle girls half their size and 1/4 their weight until they reign supreme.

But for what?

A lonely bed, a bar tab, and scorn from the band?

Basic etiquette should still rule in the pit. Music isn't freedom from law, no matter how many middle fingers are raised in the air. Listening to music still comes with social norms and laws. As much as music is an outlet, it is an outlet with reason and boundaries. Notes and cords fade, but actions don't.

You give a girl a black eye in the pit or anywhere else and you are still ostracized as a douche and idiot.

Game..well job...statistics

So I kind of, in a backhanded way have an NP job.

Still not sure what the job entails, or if I will ever get to see a patient again, but it comes with two high points: helping out a group of women devastated by the loss of two coworkers, and a killer reference from the father of American ERCP.

...ERCP is endoscopic retrograde cholangiopancreatography...an endoscopic procedure used to visualize the common bile duct, pancreatic ducts, and used to treat biliary dyskinesia, sphincter of Oddi dysfunction, and pancreatic outlet dysfunction that cause pain, N/V, and pancreatitis...

It is an interesting group of patients. We are the specialists; we see, do this procedure, then send back to the referring provider. But, people try to beat the system and my job is to answer those phone calls.

Here is a short list of things I have learned from these phone calls:

1. 95% of patients start off with saying this is life or death. Please don't say this to a healthcare provider, we will only tell you to hang up the phone and call 911.
2. The most popular ring-back tone (that music while you wait to answer) is rap and usually uncensored rap as well.
3. Creon is a witch to prescribe. Creon is pancreatic enzymes used as an adjunct similar to vitamins, to help replace a shortage. It is expensive, not a common drug, and Medicaid makes it tricky to prescribe.
4. If people don't get you on the first time, or get what they want the first time, they will continuously call you and then bad mouth you as much as possible.
5. Nausea is not vomiting. Vomiting is not reflux. And please don't describe your bowel movements as "sheets of diarrhea".

I try to make light of these phone calls, but they are painful and frustrating. I want to help people, but holy moly it's impossible to.

I think I am 0-14 (days worked) on this job, but once again killer resume and I now know how to prescribe Creon...so maybe Lauren 1 Job 14.

The sorta terrible twos

Purposeful hitting. Check.

High kicks meant for the Circle Pit. Check.

A hardcore scream meant for Slayer. Check.

A DIY anti-law attitude. Check.

...In other words my sweet, little, snuggly boy has become a punk...

Not a "let's make him wear skinny jeans, a "vintage" Metallica shirt, and spike his beautiful baby hair into a faux hawk" punk. More like a "DIY, stubborn, I'm smarter than you, anti-establishment" punk.

I just want to pull a Homer Simpson and ring his adorable, tiny, sweet little neck. He is so cute, even when hitting, he is the cutest most amazing thing ever. Everything turns into a competition, a fight for independence. It's what 16 year-old emo kids dream of. The struggle against authority. Taking down the man and turning life into a lawless system based on entropy...

Oh hell, entropy is a system of belief...

Strong-willed this two-year old is. He is extremely smart, loves letters, wait no, hates letters, no, loves them...why again did I want him to be like me?

...Conor...

I LOVE YOU

I AM SO PROUD OF YOU

I THINK YOU HUNG THE MOON AND ARE MADE FROM THE STARS

BUT PLEASE...NO HIT, NO KICK, NO YELL.

BE MAD AND ASSERT THAT LITTLE STREAK OF INDEPENDENCE.

BUT PLEASE...NO HIT, NO KICK, NO YELL.

BE SAD AND CRY THOSE BIG CROCODILE TEARS AND GET RED-FACED.

BUT PLEASE...NO HIT, NO KICK, NO YELL.

MOMMY

The Dirty Thirty

I'm lame. I'm gonna make a bucket type 29 forever list...

1. Run the Bridge Run
2. Make amends with the triathletes of this world. Those lane stealing uber-jerks.
3. Eat a Stephen grilled steak
4. Wear less shirts
5. Visit Asheville, NC
6. Buy a new car
7. Move away from Charleston forever
   
8. Tell my daddy to shut-up, then tell him I love him
9. Clean less
10. Read War and Peace in its entirety and enjoy it
11. Not be so critical of those who strictly formula-feed, start solids early, and let their child cry-it-out
12. Scuba dive
13. Start drawing and painting comics again
14. Paint my toes weekly
15. Plan a real vacation and then go on it
16. Visit Dallas and enjoy the hell out of Charise, Caleb, Wild About Harry's, Cafe Brazil, and my hometown
17. Be nicer to Moxie
18. Be more romantic with Stephen
19. Take Jack on a walk 3-4 times per week
20. Sleep naked
21. Go on a real hike and water water rafting expedition
22. Start a research project
23. Get others to boycott Nestle
24. Lose 15 pounds
25. Take organic chemistry again
26. Iron my clothing
27. Put my phone down unless taking pictures of Conor
28. Re-pierce my nose
29. Catch back up on hockey
30. GET A FREAKING NP JOB WHERE I SEE PATIENTS ON A DAILY BASIS

I bet I do one or two of these, then laugh this time next year. Maybe I will do all.

Randoms

BSN...RN...FNP-C...

Being a healthcare provider is weird sometimes. Really weird. You think in BUN, amylase, and pH. You get giddy when you get a 22 in a liver patient. You can't eat microwave popcorn because it reminds you of lactulose and encephalopathy. You get bitter, you get sad, and you laugh when a little old lady accuses you of making her underwear to tight.

But, most importantly you see, do, and feel everything the patient and their family does. Which is why when you lose one of your own, no matter how vaguely you knew them it hurts. I am in the middle of this pain. To know the loss was unexpected and to fill the role of someone so loved is impossible.

Which is why I do this. Figuring out the impossible. Calming the fear. Reducing the pain. Nursing is not numbers of gauges, it is seeing a whole from the parts with a smile.

Conor...

Loves his especiables. Hates his vegetables. Refuses to sit on the potty. Builds freight trains with skill. Discovers super letters and thinks K-N-A-P-F-O-R-D spells "YOUNG". Smells like an angel. Carries his blanket like Linus. Chomp kisses. Giggles. Thinks...

This little miracle means more to me than anything I have ever done. I get angered at the selfishness of many mothers. The shear stupidity hurts, the refusal to build a bond through attachment makes me mourn for the innocents.

I would deny a million jobs to know I heard Conor's first words, saw his first steps, can comfort his cry easily, and know he spends more time with his parents than in the hands of others.

Other Things...

• Hate Charleston and its weather
• I want a new car
• I cannot wait to design a new nursery (NOT pregnant just bored)
• I miss my neighbors, new ones are blah
• I miss my floor, seriously miss patient care.
• Proud of our bank account
• Want to get my son a fishy

New Year. Happier Blog.

I really dislike New Year's, it doesn't make me feel any different then yesterday. Yesterday I was working, today I am cooking. I guess it does give me an opportunity to cook. I really should have been an army cook. I find it really hard to cook in small quantities.

Or maybe I should have 20 kids. Umm, maybe one or two more...

Last year sucked pretty hard. Last year also ruled some. I graduated and am now Lauren B. Young BSN MSN FNP-C which is pretty rad. Conor has gown into a little boy, and although being Mommy Discipline blows chunks, everything else is alright.

The blows though were pretty darn huge. A house unlivable due to now toxic mold. A marriage that almost crumbled due to a vile addiction. And my mom, struggling to go on.

Yet each suck thing has taught me to back-off and protect myself. I didn't take care of myself again this year. I took care of others. I guess when I get to do that I am an incredible nurse, daughter, mommy, wife, and friend. I don't think I can change that ever, but I can accept it and move on.

Move on into a new clean smelling and beautiful house. Move on in my career and find a job I am ultimately happy with. Move on with my guilt about my mom's cancer and just be her supportive and understanding daughter. Move on and grow with Stephen.

This blog is no longer a place to vent and be angry. I am going to jog or hit my exercise bike to do that. I just want a memory of my mom, my son, and my family.

So heres to a new blog, more pictures, and never having to write 2010 again.