Life Lost?

Tonight, after receiving grave family news, I have started to reflect on my life and wonder how I will be remembered. We are given a very short time on this earth to make an impression, to do something good, and to give back to the world. That is how I believe life should be remembered. What good deed did this person do in his or her life?

Looking back on how my brother, Maurice, lived his life and how he should be remembered is very difficult. If there is such a thing as a "black" sheep of the family, ours is Maurice. There are so many events in his life where I believe he deeply wronged someone. I have been trying to push all those depressing events to the side, in an attempt to remember the good times. Those good times were few.

I remember the brother who was my mother's prodigal son. When I was approximately 13yo, I was the one who asked her, "Why don't you want to see your own son." Driven by the guilt that I laid upon her, my mother allowed a then 25yo Maurice to move into her home. In the late 70's, Maurice was a Vietnam veteran and a hippie with a thick Italian accent. My hippie brother introduced my ears to Cat Stevens, Jim Croce, and Ted Nugent. He was going to "stick it to the man." Unfortunately, at times, his family was "the man." During this time, Maurice indulged in street drugs and alcohol, and he served as my cautionary tale. I made a note-to-self, "never try street drugs or become an alcoholic."

In rolled the 80's, with Maurice's continued dizzying wild-child ways. Sometimes I attribute my stubborn ways to him. I wanted to be wild like him, but I would not dare do things that he had. He and my mother would have sternly corrected me (beat my ass.) He married, but never "settled down." I remember the brother who could have a wicked sense of humor. I, too, can be just as wicked. Maurice was the type of person who could charm or bullshit his way through many things. I envied this skill of his. I could not bullshit my way through anything--still cannot. Maurice liked to cook, and at times, was an excellent chef. I detested cooking and wanted no part of it, though deep down, I envied this skill too.

After the death of our mother, in 1998, we eventually stopped communicating with each other. It would take years and his poor health for me to even make an inquiry into his life. Even with several more inquiries, I kept Maurice at a distance. Maurice never stopped indulging in street drugs and alcohol; his life had become a mess and I wanted no part of it. I find myself asking was I being selfish?

Now Maurice is dying. No medical treatment can help him and I remain shocked that his end will come when he is only 57yo. I know how it has come to this, but it is still hard to understand how my brother could have allowed this to happen. Years of neglect and living wild have caught up with him; his body has given up.

It is very hard to lose a family member. I keep struggling to remember the good times with Maurice. I want to remember him as more than a difficult person, contradicting and manipulative. An ass when he was drunk, and funny when he was high. I want to remember him as the big brother who looked out for his baby brother and sister, and eventually taught them a thing or two about life. The only thing that I keep coming back to is my note-to-self so many years ago. There just has to be more, but I cannot see it.

Life's Tragedies

It is odd how the news of something that seems irrelevant at first, will make me ponder and reach a dreadfully gnawing truth. When I saw the flash headline news of the death of Amy Winehouse I thought, “I saw that coming.” When I saw her age, 27yo, I then began realizing the tragedy of the situation and how this tragedy could very well happen in my own family. Set aside the fact that Amy Winehouse was a star, and instead look at her addiction to illicit drugs and alcohol, her failed rehab attempts and eventual return to vices that would shorten her life.

To be a family member or close friend of someone who cannot admit there is a problem, or have the person admit the problem but be unwilling to change the bad habits is devastating to observe. I liken it to watching someone you love commit suicide; you watch as your loved one walks closer and closer to a high ledge. You are able to talk, yell, and listen to this person, but nothing ever sways him or her away from the ledge. And then there is the fall… the devastation that is left is heartbreaking.

I currently lay witness to a loved one walking closer and closer to a ledge. I talk to him, telling him what I observe; I listen and watch as he tells lie after lie, he ignores advice and careens carelessly closer to the edge. Will his end come sooner, like Amy's? He will be 21 soon; will he actually make it to 21? Will he ever admit there is a problem?

It is easy to pass judgment on others, so I try not to do that. Bystanders to tragedies like to lay blame on close family and friends; “Why didn’t someone step in and make her..." do this or that. Truth be told, you cannot make an addict do something he or she is unwilling to do. I cannot make my family member enter rehab. I cannot make him quit his vices. He has to do be willing to change and commit to the change. I am sure Amy’s parents and friends reached this same realization.

My biggest fear, after pondering on Amy Winehouse’s death, is that I will be the family member who gets the late night call telling me my loved one is dead. I will be the one who will have to be strong enough to face other family members and say, “Yes, he had a problem. Yes, I tried to help him. No, he never cared to change.” Why is it that he will not show this same strength in defeating his vices? There is but one of life’s great tragedies.

I feel deeply for Amy’s parents; the grief they must be experiencing I imagine is overwhelming. It is but a tragic end to what could have been a promising life and career. I remember watching Amy perform the year she swept the Grammy Awards, and I thought, "Here is a woman who is going to show the world that she can overcome anything and become stronger. We will hear her roar in song!" I now think about my family member and hope that he will overcome his problems and show his family that cares about his life. I will continue to carry hope for him; as a parent sometimes that piece of hope is all our children will allow us to have. When that hope is gone, there is only heartbreak, devastation.

Nostalgic Memorium

The passing of Sargent Shriver, saddens me greatly. Though I was a child of the 60's, I was much too young to remember Camelot and the assassination of one of my heroes, Bobby Kennedy. With Sargent Shriver's death goes the passing of a great man from a great era; an era that I wish I had been old enough to experience and remember. While reading the many tributes to Shriver, I came across this posting by a man who was a child during the Camelot years. He remembered...

http://www.politicsdaily.com/2011/01/18/sargent-shrivers-death-severs-the-last-major-link-to-the-kenned/

Stupid is as Stupid does

Even nerdy girls have their not so bright moments. Tonight, I had one of those moments, only this one is going to be rather costly.

Everyone knows that you should never attempt to catch something sharp, if it slips out of your hand, for fear that the falling object could cause injury to a body part. Knives, widgets, and blades are prime examples of what you should never attempt to catch.

My stupid moment began while I was cutting tulle with a rotary cutter. The rotary cutter has an extremely sharp 45mm blade and is supposed to have a functioning safety mechanism to prevent injury to users. While I was cutting tulle, the cutter slipped out of my hand, soared in to the air, and my immediate reaction was to grab it. Not so bright, I know, I know... Regardless, I grabbed for the cutter, only it came down blade end first, and the safety mechanism failed. I was left with a 1.5" laceration that extended from the base of my palm to the inner aspect of my wrist.

At 1:00a.m. I find myself in the waiting room of the local ED, feeling like a complete idiot with a dirty kitchen towel pressed against my wounded palm/wrist. The triage nurse asks, "What is the nature of your visit?" I wanted to say, "Stupidity," but instead opted for the other ridiculous response, "Laceration from a sewing accident." Imagine how that sounds to the ED worker...completely ridiculous. A question that was asked more than once, "Were you intentionally trying to hurt yourself?" Seriously, when the laceration was not over my radial or ulnar artery? I chuckled to myself, because of the hilarity of the whole situation. Yeah, this was my grand idiot moment where I wound up with three sutures and a sore hand and wrist. When I receive the bill from the ED, it will be excruciatingly painful.

Note to self: Do not catch rotary cutter when slips out of hand.

Lesson learned.

Evil Concoctions

I thought corn pudding was wrong to do to corn, but I have now found something that tops the inconceivable concoction. Chocolate covered bacon--that just sounds wrong. Instead of heeding to my inner voice, I tasted the evil duo, and, yes, it tasted as nasty as it sounds. I still have that awful aftertaste in my mouth...who would do such a thing to chocolate? Chocolate covered bacon sounds like a manly concoction, something for those going through male menopause perhaps? As I sit now savoring my Reese's cup, I curse the man who created this sin. Damn you!

She lies in a bed of flowers

I knew this day was coming, and I dreaded the day it would arrive...

These past few weeks, I noticed that she was not quite herself; she had slowed with age, but managed to still keep up with me. I glanced at her sadly, knowing her time as my companion was nearing it's end. It has been 5 days since her passing, and now I find it fitting to retell one of our past adventures. With this, I say goodbye, my little princess; you will be missed.



Dropping my phone has become a habit; a bad habit that to this day I have not overcome. The back of my phone will not even stay on now, unless assisted by tape. Ahhh, but I love my phone; my phone and I have been through a lot and into a lot of things. She is a girly phone too, all shiny and pink like a princess.

There was a day when my little princess phone became a dirty girl. On the day she became a dirty girl, I made the mistake of carrying her in the breast pocket of my scrub top. On this day, I was eagerly awaiting a call and she was set to vibrate when calls came in, and the only pocket I could place her in where I would feel that vibration was my breast pocket. I thought to myself, when I placed her snugly in my pocket, that I was going to drop her today, and the question for the day would be onto or into what would I drop her? Early afternoon, that question was answered.

A patient rang out to be assisted to the bathroom, only this patient was in the Chest Pain Center, actively experiencing mild chest discomfort. I, being the vigilant and thorough nurse, would not allow this patient to ambulate to the bathroom which was 6 feet from her stretcher. My patient was destined to void on the ever popular and loved plastic bedpan. After my patient completed her business, I removed the beloved bedpan, placed it on the floor, and carefully assisted my patient in redressing herself. When finished, as I bent over to pick up the bedpan, I felt a sense of dread, and then I felt my little princess slipping out of my pocket. I watched and heard her plop into the urine filled bedpan. My cat-like reflexes kicked in, immediately plucking her from her dirty bath. Ohhh, she was now a dirty girl!

After cleaning her multiple times with toxic wipes, alcohol, and again with toxic wipes, she functioned beautifully. Now, she no longer rides along in the breast pocket of my tops, and when people ask to borrow her, my princess phone, I never tell her dirty secret.

Saying Goodbye

My week started off horribly and it has continued to be extremely sad. Saturday night and into Sunday morning, I cared for a former coworker who was gravely ill. Probably the entire staff of the medical unit I work on, at one point, assisted in trying to stabilize this person. All our efforts failed, thus my former coworker experienced a horrible death. It was utterly horrific.

Today, my son's dog, Molly, was put down. In 2002, we found Molly at the SPCA when my son, Seth, wanted a dog for his birthday. I told Seth, "The smaller the better," and so he settled on Molly, a cute 1 yr old 5lb terrier mix. Molly was one of the smartest dogs we welcomed in to our home. When she was younger, Molly would do what we asked of her with spunk in her step. Her favorite toys were a tennis ball and the latex squeaky chew creations the pet store offered. With the tennis ball, if you rolled the ball to her, she would stop it with her nose, and then very precisely roll it back to you...she loved this. The squeaky chew toys, she wrestled with...she was our comic relief. Molly also loved car rides, hanging ten with her nose out the window taking in all the scents. In more recent years, Molly had lost her sight, but not her spunk. Though Molly was tiny, her personality remained huge. It is sweet to know that someone so small can leave such a warm feeling in your heart. We will always love you, our little Molly-bo-Bolly. We miss you dearly...