Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
Done!
My semester is over. Papers have been written, chapters read, tests taken, A's received.
On January 23rd, I start nursing school.
Until then, though...I will read. Books, real ones, of my choosing. I will attend the yoga class at my gym, and then sit in the sauna. I will enjoy long, leisurely lunches with friends. I will relish in not toting a 40-pound backpack from anatomy to the library to a ten-minute lunch to lab to microbiology.
I will lounge. I will love it.
Now commencing...relaxation.
On January 23rd, I start nursing school.
Until then, though...I will read. Books, real ones, of my choosing. I will attend the yoga class at my gym, and then sit in the sauna. I will enjoy long, leisurely lunches with friends. I will relish in not toting a 40-pound backpack from anatomy to the library to a ten-minute lunch to lab to microbiology.
I will lounge. I will love it.
Now commencing...relaxation.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
A vow.
I will write a paper today. I will not use the internet as a method of procrastination. I will ENJOY writing about proper handwashing techniques as they effect pediatric nosocomial infections in the ICU. I will.
Volunteers?
You know how sometimes you're kind of stressed out (but not super stressed out) and you have a lot to do (but not so much you're not going to be able to get it done) except you're not going to really be able to start (at least, not yet) because you're just kind of staring at this big pile of STUFF you have to finish?
And you know how you think that you might not be able to even start until you just get a gigantic reassuring hug or at least the verbal reassurance that everything IS, in fact, going to be OK, just because that reassurance alone means that someone out there recognizes that you are able to do all of this (by "all of this" I mean work and school and life) without pulling your hair out and while still coming across as a relatively sane person?
Yeah, that's how I feel right now. So if anyone wants to drop by for a hugging, you're invited. I think a nap may have a similar effect, though, so I'll give that a shot too. And on Monday at 2:01 p.m., I will be normal again. Normal, of course, being relative.
And you know how you think that you might not be able to even start until you just get a gigantic reassuring hug or at least the verbal reassurance that everything IS, in fact, going to be OK, just because that reassurance alone means that someone out there recognizes that you are able to do all of this (by "all of this" I mean work and school and life) without pulling your hair out and while still coming across as a relatively sane person?
Yeah, that's how I feel right now. So if anyone wants to drop by for a hugging, you're invited. I think a nap may have a similar effect, though, so I'll give that a shot too. And on Monday at 2:01 p.m., I will be normal again. Normal, of course, being relative.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
That means "I love you."
I met her when I was five.
She stood out to me, even as a child, because she was the only adult at the family reunion playing football with the cousins.
"This behavior!" gasped the relatives. "At the age of 82!"
She sent me letters, real mail, type-written on yellow stationery bordered with flowers. We drove to Minnesota to visit one summer, staying with her in her tiny house. We spent days swimming in the pool and exploring the surrounding gardens and lakes. She swam laps every morning. It kept her young, she said.
Before we went to sleep at night, she would reach over and take my hand, squeezing it three times.
"That means 'I love you,'" she explained. "My husband and I used to do that every night before we went to sleep. It was my secret with him, and now it's my secret with you."
I didn't see her much, but there were letters, always letters. I wrote back religiously, even learning to type on the electric typewriter that my parents kept in the basement. Then she got sick. She moved from her tiny house into a tinier room in a nursing home. The nurses continued to read her my letters, and I still received them from her, sporadically now, even as the cancer progressed, eventually forcing her into a wheelchair and then into bed.
She died when I was fourteen. Weeks later, I received a package. It contained her wedding ring, and several smudged photos of me. When I looked more closely, I saw that the smears on the photos where the places where she'd kissed the images, to say goodnight, or perhaps good morning, or just as a way to tell me she loved me, since I was too far away to squeeze her hand.
Her ring sat in a safety deposit box for years. Now, I wear it on a chain around my neck. It reminds me to hope. It reminds me that somewhere in me runs the blood of the woman who swam laps to stay young, and played football with the cousins, and loved unconditionally and well.
She stood out to me, even as a child, because she was the only adult at the family reunion playing football with the cousins.
"This behavior!" gasped the relatives. "At the age of 82!"
She sent me letters, real mail, type-written on yellow stationery bordered with flowers. We drove to Minnesota to visit one summer, staying with her in her tiny house. We spent days swimming in the pool and exploring the surrounding gardens and lakes. She swam laps every morning. It kept her young, she said.
Before we went to sleep at night, she would reach over and take my hand, squeezing it three times.
"That means 'I love you,'" she explained. "My husband and I used to do that every night before we went to sleep. It was my secret with him, and now it's my secret with you."
I didn't see her much, but there were letters, always letters. I wrote back religiously, even learning to type on the electric typewriter that my parents kept in the basement. Then she got sick. She moved from her tiny house into a tinier room in a nursing home. The nurses continued to read her my letters, and I still received them from her, sporadically now, even as the cancer progressed, eventually forcing her into a wheelchair and then into bed.
She died when I was fourteen. Weeks later, I received a package. It contained her wedding ring, and several smudged photos of me. When I looked more closely, I saw that the smears on the photos where the places where she'd kissed the images, to say goodnight, or perhaps good morning, or just as a way to tell me she loved me, since I was too far away to squeeze her hand.
Her ring sat in a safety deposit box for years. Now, I wear it on a chain around my neck. It reminds me to hope. It reminds me that somewhere in me runs the blood of the woman who swam laps to stay young, and played football with the cousins, and loved unconditionally and well.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
An inconvenient tuth
An excerpt from Thanksgiving dinner:
Brother: "So I'm thinking about getting a tattoo."
Mom and I, simultaneously: "Of WHAT?"
Brother: "Of the phrase, 'Are you comfortable with your truth?'"
Brooke: "What if they misspell something?"*
Me: "And then your back would say, 'Are you comfortable with your tuth?' You'd have to be a dentist."
I love the holidays.
*Disclaimer: This statement was not intended to degrade, demean, or disgruntle any tattoo artists who may or may not read this blog. Rather, the implication was that if one chooses to tattoo such a long phrase across one's back, one should fully consider all possible consequences.
Brother: "So I'm thinking about getting a tattoo."
Mom and I, simultaneously: "Of WHAT?"
Brother: "Of the phrase, 'Are you comfortable with your truth?'"
Brooke: "What if they misspell something?"*
Me: "And then your back would say, 'Are you comfortable with your tuth?' You'd have to be a dentist."
I love the holidays.
*Disclaimer: This statement was not intended to degrade, demean, or disgruntle any tattoo artists who may or may not read this blog. Rather, the implication was that if one chooses to tattoo such a long phrase across one's back, one should fully consider all possible consequences.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
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