Under the Knife

Well, the day has finally arrived!

In approximately 8 hours, I will be checking in for surgery. Three months ago, I wripped my TFCC lifting a patient at work, and after three long months of wearing a ridiculous velcro-brace contraption, I am finally going under the knife.

I work at a children's hospital, so the patient I was lifting was actually not that heavy (only about 50 lbs), but I was at the wrong angle, there wasn't communication about the lift, and voila!...a wripped TFCC.

I've been on 'light duty' for the past 6 weeks or so, and I've come to realize that 'light duty' is just code for TORTURE. I've been doing date entry...in a cubilce...with one hand...for six weeks. Office Space comes to mind. I think I even submitted a TPS Report or two...

I'm built for interaction with people, for patient care...not Excel. It has really been a royal nightmare. My data entry boss asked me the other day if doing light duty has been beneficial for me in any way, other than psychologically. I wondered how to break the news to her that this light duty stint has been anything BUT psychologically beneficial. But, I bit my tongue and mumbled something about how light duty has made me feel like I'm still contributing to the big picture...or something.

My latest light duty assignment has been to confirm data about all the 2006 mortalities that took place either in the OR, or up to 48 hours post-op. Yep, NOT comfoting to read about things that have gone wrong as a result of surgery as I count down the days to my own OR encounter. So, tonight I had a good meal and a stout drink...or two...so that I don't go to sleep with visions of a large metal spatula left in my wrist post-op.

So, that's the latest. I'll probably be under the influence of some decent pain meds for a bit, so I will be out of comission for a few days (not that I'm complaining). I'll post again when I'm on the road to recovery.

OK, goodnight all.

The Bald and the Beautiful

So, I'm sure by this time you all have either heard about or have seen Britney Spears' new hair do. On the off chance that you've been living under a rock and haven't seen the evidence, take a long look at at the disturbing picture to my left. You can join the masses that are wondering when this poor girl is gonna stop making an idiot out of herself for all the world to see.

Now, while some may see this move as a serious career buster, I have come to the conclusion that the former pop princess just might have something else up her sleeve...er skanky tank top.

While many celebs spend thousands of dollars making sure their manes are fit for public appearances, there is a select minority that has done quite well for themselves being bald in Hollywood. I have taken the liberty of highlighting just a few of the many bald and beautiful individuals that have forged a path using nothing but the glare from their disturbingly shiny heads.




Take our dear friend, Mr Clean. While he looks like he shines his dome using the very same products he promotes, I have to say he's got the bulging biceps of a Gold's Gym personal trainer. I sure wouldn't want to come face to face with him in an arm-wrestling match. But I would be interested in borrowing his earring for this great nautical shirt I've got...

We all remember the Coneheads. These weird aliens taught us that it's not the freaky things on top of our heads that matter but, rather, the heart is the tie that binds. They taught us about life, love, and teamwork. But I have to admit, it's one of the most annoying movies I've ever seen.

Then we have Mr. Bigglesworth. If this doesn't make you want a kitty, I'm not sure what will. Look at how cute and cuddley this little guy is! Reminds me of when I used to cut my sister's Barbi Dolls' hair trying to get them to look like Lady Diana...and they all just ended up looking like freaks...(sigh)

Last, but certainly not least, we have our national mascot, The Bald Eagle. This is an example of a serious bald bad-ass. I sure wouldn't want to run into him in a dark alley. He could probably even take down Mr. Clean.

So, there you have it. Dry your eyes, Brit Brit. Even though the majority of the country thinks you have done lost your freakin' mind, you're dangerously close to loosing your kids to K-Fed, and you've blown your shot at ever being BFF with Madonna, look on the bright side--as a baldy, you're in good company. And with the bald eagle as your ally, I'm sure you won't have to worry about the pesky paparazzi for much longer.

the ugly cry

So, here it is: my inagural blog.

I have to admit, I've been quite resistent to this whole blog thing. I've managed to ward off MySpace, but I'm sure it's just a matter of time...

Anyway, there's something about the idea of one putting one's thoughts down for anyone and everyone to look through or comment on that gives me the creeps. Maybe it's becuase my own thoughts often give me the creeps. But today, for whatever reason, I decided to begin writing my thoughts for others to see. Maybe this will only feed the voyeuristic appetites of the masses. Maybe I'm assuming way too much.

Or maybe writing is a way of confessing. Maybe it is my way of confessing. Regardless, today I feel the need to confess. I confess that I am having a very hard time grieving. I was in church this morning and for the entire 60 minues, or so, I was fighting the urge to weep. Now, I'm not referring to the weeping of a beautiful maiden waiving goodbye with her beautiful hankercheif to her beautiful love as he sails off into the beautiful sunset to fight the beautiful battles of the new world. That is weeping reserved for Lifetime Original Movies or Jane Austin novels. No, I am referring to something called the 'ulgy cry'; this is the swollen-eyed-snotty-nosed-can't-quite-catch-my-breath-beacuse-I'm-crying-so-freaking-hard-and-I-don't-think-I'll-ever-stop cry. Hopefully I'm not the only one who has experienced this.

It takes a lot of self-control to ward off the ugly cry. Part of me felt very proud of my self control. After all, who wants to look like a freak show in an mid to upper class Presbyterian church packed to the gills with people? Who wants to look like they need a major intervention, or minimally a sedative? Who wants to look like they need? Not me.

"I don't want to be needy! Who wants to be around needy people?!!" I angrily asked my counselor a few weeks ago. "Who really wants that?"
"Jesus," he said softly.

I felt the wind knocked out of me, and again found myself fighting the urge to weep.

I have not let myself need for a long time. I have grown up despising my need, for my need has left me wanting. I know that I need, but I do not let myself feel the extent of my need. Instead, I get a bachelors degree in nursing, and a masters in counseling, and spend my life tending to the needs of others. Maybe that's a way of tending to mine. Maybe it's a start. Hopefully there will soon come a day where I am not tending to my needs in the third person.

I am hoping for the day that I free myself to grieve and cry the ugliest cry I have ever known. I hope this day comes soon. For it is there, in the midst of my undeniable need, that I will know the true love and grace of Christ as he holds my tears in his hands and calls them beautiful.