His last pedicure

I had thought I'd thought of everything. Until we were swaddled in Paw Patrol fleece on our way to dreamland.
He asked me why his hair was getting wet. "Mommy, my hair is wet. Can I have a pedicuWa? Are you feeling a little sick? Is it the gerwm?"
Can I get some more of those 4 year old, East Coast "R"s?
Can I live long enough to hear if they are always W's or will I die, alone, hot and forgotten, drowning in sounds and fluids, the beeping reminiscent of those years I spent assisting in cardiac, compressing and ecmo-ing...wishing I were swaddled in his blankets...Can I still add that to my advanced directive? Did I really enjoy the rush? Yes. I lived for it. The high, the comedown, the rush, the helping, the recognition and camaraderie.
Until I felt this love, this pull, this obligation, this drive, this warmth, this constant frustration that is motherhood. I don't want to die. I want to feel frustrated every day. A 4 year old is stronger than I am.


Back to reality. I'm home, not in ICU, yet. Jay is looking at me, as if I am stable. But, for the first time in my life, and I mean career, I am not stable.
I threw instruments at a doctor today. 
"Here! I can only do 14 things, what do you want first, this should not be a priority right now, you didn't do the thing and the other thing! You're asking for something you don't need AT ALL. (His response was simply, "ok. yeah, thank you, always keeping me on track. i'll get this and you get that and hold this").
What can be more stressful than closing the operating rooms for electives, then scheduling horrendous total revisions and asking me to "be sure i'm there, I'm your favorite, your cases go so well, you need me to punch all day" and I leave my child is in the care of someone I've never met, in my house, who cares for 3 other nurse's children each week, at a rate of nearly my whole day's pay?
I'm asking for infection. I'm putting my family at risk. For what? For patients who need me? I'm not a nurse, I've assisted in surgery for 20 years. You don't want me to start an IV and suction someone's...no. no. Airways are my biggest fear. Get away from the face. Blood, bones, yes. I do not want to wathc someone die the way my dad died. Suffocation looks awful. Cancer & lungs and not breathing, nope.

Back to bed...

No, baby, mommy was sobbing silently on your pillow, wishing this reality wasn't really happening to us, to everyone, worldwide. And, of course we can go trim your baby toenails. I may not get another chance. I tickled those baby feet, his little "kickstands" and back to bed we went. I wished I hadn't been so insistent on getting him to sleep in his own bed. I'll always regret that I didn't just hold him every night of his life, in my big bed that I so selfishly needed to myself. I'll always wonder if I could have possibly loved and held and kissed and read and played and stayed home instead of working.. should I be staying home rather than working? Do I care about consequences? I've never cared about money, as long as I can eat what I want and spoil my friends. I would give money away... Can I just live inside?
I had signed my will only hours before. Before I planned to get a studio apartment by myself and reduce the risk of exposure. I'd spent years obsessed with reading about pandemics, fascinated, curious, and willing. I'm not sure i'm willing to help anymore. I need to be here for random stall tactics, pedicures, and those 2, 4, 6 am "mommy, is it morning yet? screams.
I took a 2 week furlough to think. I don't GAF about money.



I have never been happier to get out of his blankets than I was at that moment he wanted a pedicure. Should I bring Paul in to show him how to cut Jay's nails? Will he always try to stall this way? Does he know I'm crying? I told him I'm not sick, it's not the germ, and yes, Mommy gets really hot at bedtime in the Paw Patrol fleece.

10 years since my last post, Coronavirus, marriage, and joy vs. grief

I've never thought about how my writing could ever "affect" anyone. It's simply therapeutic. I dive in, make things up, or I tell the truth, I exaggerate. Often and a lot. I like it. 
I've never edited my work. I just keep "pen to paper" and go on, and on, and on...
The last time I was into writing I was dating, uncertain, lacking creativity because I had always written best during times of grief. At this point in life I will write less creatively and more about a subject. Mortality.
I married the guy I was dating the last time I blogged. We live in Washington, DC. We have the smartest, more adorable 4 year old son, Jay.
A lot of my thoughts are about Jay. What this experience and "lockdown" may do to him, how he will be shaped. Mostly I think about my own death.
I want to keep a journal about our time isolating from the dangers of Sars-CoV-2, Covid-19, Coronavirus. The blog posts to come will be my thoughts on this.
I love you, those who may be in my life.
Welcome back, me. The writer. I'll find my way back.

essays

I'll be writing a personal essay (for class)on one of two things...
Either the topic of how waiting tables (serving) has contributed to my patient care skills
or
an old blog from long ago, more of a fictional piece.
Thoughts? The topic is open as it is our last paper.

Gotta get into the writing mood....

Injured squared

if only it were that easy.
to drift effortlessly away into the nothingness that ive become.
forgotten and alone i sit wishing for my old identity.
what is it about a career that defines who we are? why doesnt anyone remember me?
i made that life my life and then one day my life ended.

and i havent been able to get it back.

i found something else.
something old and familiar and easy
easier than cake and much more stale.
i crave a new flavor and something with frosting.
but everything makes me yawn.
and everything hurts.

i feel like ive been murdered. and i keep reliving my death.
maybe i killed myself?

thinking about writing... again

I have moments.
Moments of inspiration come suddenly. i'm rarely thinking its worthy of anyones time.

school is taking up so much. and it is really all i have right now. i keep taking these stupid jobs that get me by for a few months and then i go away. No one calls no one answers emails when i try to reach out.

i ramble
that is why i keep waiting for the inspiration to come.

but my paintings are going well...

i wish i had a real job or an identity.

futile attempt

futile. incapable of producing any result; ineffective; useless; not successful: Attempting to force-feed the sick horse was futile. Is it also a feeling? I am hoping for the best in this transition. To have made a firm decision, in a real partnership, to leave a talent behind for a few years to take the chance of possibly strengthening it.... tough choice. Nothing worth having comes easy. Like relationships. It would be so much easier to be alone. But I am committed to stick around until one of us can find a way to fuck it up. So I keep rambling, hoping for some revelation and some pancakes. Watching the travel channel makes me want things I don't know I need. But I need 'em. I wonder about my choices since losing my job almost a year ago. I've tried like hell to find another, was complimented on my accomplishments just to watch others get the job instead. I feel that my decision is sort of a cop out. That if I am a student, I can get away with being broke, uninsured, injured and living with pain and hoping for a future. I made some kick ass money. And its gone. I have too many choices and I picked just one. I AM following the dream I've dreamt for 13 years. So I wonder. Do I have faith in myself and what I've done? uh huh. huh. ok. Y. ? I wonder about...

out of practice

It has been 8 months since I last attempted to blog.

To be honest, I think I have lost the ability to communicate. I stutter with words, I lose interest in my own stories. I have heard them all before.

There has to be something out the to inspire me.

But I have nothing but a beginning that I have yet to begin. A story to write eventually.