September, 2008 Archive

if my mom didn’t die in 2001, she would have turned 74 today. it would have been expected that the memory of her birthday caused this bout of deep ugly thoughts, but hosnestly, it really doesn’t have anything to do with it. for the most part, i always focus on the the memories of her life that bring back happy thoughts, and these ponderings are far from happy.

a couple of nights ago, at work, i rode the elevator down to the pharmacy, and a nurse from the third floor joined me. i knew she was working at the birth center, because her badge said so. the lanyard that hung around her neck was probably given to her for free, or she could have bought it to express her personal noble sentiment, i don’t know. i didn’t ask. what i did know was, oblivious to my presence, she didn’t notice i was staring at the words written on her lanyard, and my thoughts brought me somewhere else.

“babies are born to be breastfed babies are born to be breastfed babies are born to be breastfed babies are born to be breastfed”

i remember my aunt telling me “you didn’t try hard enough, you have no patience, and you don’t know how to sacrifice”. words spoken right after she found out i only breastfed (well, technically, breastpumped, since he was in the NICU the first 8 days of his life) my eldest for 15 days. a decision i made then that obviously still haunt me with guilt now that he is already 5 years old. he never had a major illness, except if you count unresolved hydronephrosis, which he was diagnosed with, when he was just 20 weeks in utero.

i got the same kind of remarks from well meaning family members/friends when they found out i breastfed my second son for 15 days only. he is 4 now, never had a major illness, except if you count the fact that he is still being followed up by an ophthalmologist for having delayed visual response, which was noted when he was only a week old. they are both healthy and active, but if they grow up and encounter ANY kind of problem, the possibility of blaming myself for not persevering with breastfeeding them till they were 2 years old will be as predictable as the sunrise.

i never listened to mozart to increase the chance of my kids being musically inclined, or i didn’t read the encyclopedia to prepare them for college entrance tests. i didn’t do any of those things suggested by studies to make a kid’s life predictably successful in the future, yet i am hopeful. hopeful that they will turn out as good citizens, as opposed to being the menace of society

my mom didn’t really know how to read that much. she was only able to sign her name and write numbers, and she barely finished first grade. she probably breastfed all 8 of us for a month or two, then left us to my grandma while she worked her butt off so we can have food on the table. she was physically abusive, and to her defense, didn’t really know any better.

a few years before her death, i started my journey of truly knowing who she was and why she did the things she did. i found out what i wanted to know, and to facilitate healing, forgave and accepted her. to my surprise, on her part, i have never sensed a hint of guilt, not a sense of regret as far as raising her children was concerned.

she was not guilty she didn’t plan all her pregnancies. no guilt in not reading or not singing to us. no guilt in beating some of us till we bled. no guilt in “abandoning” us, leaving us to my grandma so she can work. no guilt. all she knew was, she did what she thought was best, and that was enough.

she passed away without worldly honor and accolades, but one thing she didn’t lack was the genuine love from her children. when we were all mature enough to see beyond the pain, we all chose to accept and understand, and we understood she did her best, and we truly loved her for that.

that’s all i want from my kids. that when they grow up, or even when i’m gone, they would know one certain thing. that their mother loved them. if they returned that love, that would be the bonus.

as far as i know, we all we returned that flawed but sincere love. my mom knew that, and she didn’t flinch in owning that knowledge. no amount of guilt haunted her for the sugary foods she gave us, for the hurting words she threw at us, for her absence from our student life, or for missing out on those well talked about milestones. she didn’t know much about the first few years of our lives, she just knew that whatever it was she chose to do, all those years, she did it knowing it was the best.

why can’t i be like her?

why do i have to be affected by some words written on a some lanyard? why do i have to beat myself up when i’m told home schooling is better? why do i have to beat myself up when i am told private school is the best? why do i have to feel terribly small when i am questioned for not staying at home full time? why do i eat guilt for breakfast, lunch and dinner when it comes to raising my kids?

why can’t i, as a mother, just do what i believe is best, and leave it at that?

so, displacement.

i get it. sick people are usually sweet, nice people who only get to show their ugly side when they are in the hospital, because they can’t help it. when they are dependent on others, they lose control of themselves, their lives, and then they snap.

i get it. i am one hundred percent sure i will go through something very similar if i end up being chronically sick with something that requires me to be at the mercy of people i don’t know, who sometimes act like they don’t care, and sadly, sometimes act like it’s my fault i have an autoimmune disease or something.

i get it. sick people are tired of healthcare people poking, touching, asking, ordering, disturbing them like they have no feelings.

this things are not new to me, and are not unexpected.

i understand that illness and the stress that goes with it blur one’s usual reasonable mind. when you are aching all over and are worried sick that you might lose your life and your all very soon, it is natural to think that most, if not all of the people in the hospital are either a threat, or a nagging piece of calloused human being who go through their responsibilities without any hint of empathy. it is easy for patients to generalize and label every hospitalpersonnel to be the villains of their lives, just because they are the ones who are available to be blamed. i get all that.

i realized that my confusion is based on a selfish sense of entitlement. somehow, despite all the things that patients suffer while they are in the hospital i have often assumed that when they see nurses, they will see people who, for once, are their allies, not their enemies.

it’s logical that they don’t like some of their doctors because they feel like they withhold pain meds, they order unnecessary tests, they come at the most unholy hours and ask the same stupid questions, they don’t really listen. it’s logical that they hate the lab people because they cause them pain. it’s logical that the hate the dietitians because they think the food is crappy. it’s logical that they hate the PTs because they think they force them to do physical activities that they’re still too weak to do. it’s logical that they hate….you get the drift.

but nurses? why hate us? in the midst of chaos, of pain, of goos, and blood, we are the ones who keep patients comfortable and happy. we give even when there is no more to give, we listen, we advocate…you get the drift.

i just thought that that fact separates us from all the “annoying” people in the hospital. i just thought i can just say to every rude patient, “i know, they are all uncaring here, you can hate them all, but spare me, i am an angel, don’t you see?”

i just thought that with the things i especially do in attempts to make patients feel comfortable even when they are in a very uncomfortable situation makes me stand out among the rest, and excludes me from patients’ natural responses to illness.

thank you for your comments. it made me realize i was wrong, and that it was arrogant of me to assume that just because i try to do my job well, i will be treated differently.

i really need to hear an explanation for this. i do not understand it and i’ve been racking my little brain thinking of reasons, but i can’t come up with anything logical.

my burning question: why is it that SOME patients give nurses THE attitude?

it doesn’t make sense.

we are the ones who give patients everything that they need while they are in the hospital. from that little kleenex box, the emesis basin, the commode, the new gown, the extra pillow, the back rub, crackers juice. we change the tv channel, empty the bed pan, empty the urinal, clean dentures, give meds, ask the docs to increase meds, ask the docs to advance diet, ask the docs to talk to their family members, take the vitals to make sure everything is fine, carry out doctors’ orders to facilitate healing and discharge. just as a matter of fact, the list of things we do for the patients is almost endless.

so why the attitude?

i know you cannot call us your friends, but clearly, we are not your enemy. you don’t even have to be nice to us, that is probably asking too much. but is it too much to ask for at least a good amount of civility? just plain and simple.

i just don’t get it. is it because you see us do the dirty job, you automatically think we are lower class professionals and do not deserve the same respect you give your doctors? if you act like you don’t need us and you are better off without us, what made you think that? what?

WHAT IS IT?

_____________________

i apologize for the nonsensical post title.
blame it on my 5 year old’s homework, which has something to do with rhymes.

i looked away when she went out of the room, almost running, trying to get away from it all.

her voice was tensed and i knew it took a lot to hold those tears. she told me to hold her mother’s right arm, and make sure she won’t reach her foley catheter. i have never seen a tiny, frail looking old lady get so pumped up, that it took four nurses to stop her from getting up and pulling her IV line. i think she didn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds, but as she gripped my arms, she scared me.

she was screaming, her voice hoarse but determined, it scared the patient in the other bed. obsceneties that i have never imagined she knew, she smugly belted out. i’m pretty sure she wasn’t like this. the face of her on-the-verge-of-tears daughter said it all. this wasn’t the same person she called mom, this wasn’t the same person she knew.

while keeping her hand still, i asked if she wanted to sing. she said no, but i started softly humming “amazing grace” anyway. to  my surprise, the other nurse sang a little bit louder than i did, and the next thing we knew, the patient was singing with us, slightly gasping for air.

after a line or two, she started shouting again. the charge nurse decided to transfer the anxious patient in the other bed, we got another nurse to almost pin the patient down, so she can be given a shot. she eventually calmed down, a dressing was placed on a skin tear caused by her kicking the siderails, new blankets replaced the bloody ones that covered her prior to her pulling her IV access out. i wiped her sweaty forehead and stroked her hair, went outside to get her daughter, who, like me, was speechless as we walked what seemed to be an endless hallway from outside, back to the patient’s room.

she started talking to her mom with that controlled but undeniably shaky voice, we all sighed a deep breath, went out of the room, and quietly mulled over our future.

we all had that look that said nothing but meant everything. even when silence seemed enough, i couldn’t stand it. i looked around and begged. ”please, if i ever get alzheimer’s, can somebody go to my house with the insulin, and just give me a thousand units?”

i didn’t say it out loud, but i wanted to add…”so i can call it a day, die in peace, and leave this world without causing so much sadness i didn’t even know, and so much pain i didn’t even intend.”