tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28748187845300179522024-03-05T20:24:04.084-06:00CornucopiaErmasmithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13949031301335184341noreply@blogger.comBlogger588125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-91543831796412743322024-01-27T16:49:00.003-06:002024-01-27T16:49:52.385-06:00The DMV. A Short Story.<p> "Belligerent and threatening behavior will not be tolerated". Not, "please have ID and forms ready". Nor, "No shirts, no shoes, no service". Not even an "open" sign dons the door I open to step in to the DMV. Just a threatening sign about being threatening. Deep breath. I will not be belligerent. I will not be threatening. I will smile. I will be patient. I will say thank you. I will not tell people how to do their job. Deep breath. Though, I now fear that the reduced caffeine intake and belly full from lunch might not have been quite enough to help me keep my composure. Probably should have medicated myself as well. Rookie mistake. I'm 41. When will I ever learn!? </p><p>In my defense, I think this is only the 4th time I've ever had to renew my driver's license, so my naivety can perhaps be excused. Also, as another vouch for my character, I know for a fact that I have all the documents one could possibly need to acquire said license. Found not only my current SS card with the "O'Laughlin" name, but my original one with "Smith". AND a notarized photo copy of it as well. Packed that away into my Tumi shoulder bag along with my current expired license, passport, birth certificate, marriage license, both MO & KS medical licenses, 2 most recent pay stubs, my overdue Gap credit card bill (well, that was already there- because I was supposed to pay it) as well as other various mail, my health insurance card, and finally, my 6 drivers license renewal reminder post cards. (Because, obviously, I'm coming to renew this months to a year after and first card arrived and 6 days before it's too late. Do you know what happens when it's "too late"? You have to take all the tests over again, like a 16 year old. I'm not even sure I'm going to pass the eye test (because, 41) nor the easy blank sign recognition test. I promise you, I'd fail a full driver's test. Don't you feel nice and reassured and safe with me on the road now?) </p><p>I know my strengths and I know my weaknesses, and understanding simple paperwork and the requirements to fulfill as much is extremely high up on my "weaknesses" list. Like, maybe the top. I even mess up the name part if the order isn't obvious. And procrastination? Well, that tops both lists...because, truthfully, is it a strength (I sort of think so) or is it a weakness (meh)? Hopefully, my new license arrives by next week when I leave for Denver...So, anyway, that's why I showed up incredibly over prepared to get my renewed license, and more specifically, the REAL ID. You know, so I can continue to travel whenever that actually becomes a required thing at the airports. </p><p>Despite the sign, I step through the door with complete confidence that I can and will, seamlessly acquire my new REAL ID Driver's license. I'm not even both feet in the door when I hear "Can I help you!!?" I'm half looking for the voice screaming (at me?) and half looking for the little number dispenser. I'm not crazy, I KNOW the procedure used to be grabbing one of those old-timey looking paper slips with a number typed on it, with like, old type-writer style print and ink. "CAN I HELP YOU??" Oh, shit. Yep. She means me. I {attempted to} timidly walk toward where the voice seemed to be originating from to find a folding table set up near the door with gloves and hand sanitizer (will Covid never end?) as well as more signs about not being threatening. This time, there were also signs saying to have documents ready and to be sure and request "REAL ID" if you want it. </p><p>"May. I. Help. You?" She says. Again. Hasitily. So, now I'm looking around confused because there is no line. I am one of the only 6 non-employees here, and the only one standing. The tone so extremely mismatches the situation, I yet again am wondering if I came properly medicated for this endeavor - and the process really hasn't even started. Deep breaths. I will not be belligerent, I will not be threatening. "Yes, I'd like to renew my license." This, received by a huff that depreciates all other huffs, "What TYPE of license" accompanied by an eye roll. "Oh! Yes, Driver's licen...."</p><p>"Previous license and a piece of current mail."</p><p>"Ok, I have those, but..."</p><p>Hand out turned, "Previous license and a piece of current mail."</p><p>"Here you go" Pointing to the sign. "But I'd like REAL ID."</p><p>Handing me my forms back, paperclipped with a number and pointing, "Go sit over there."</p><p>"Ok, got it. That's where I sit to get my new driver's license with REAL ID?"</p><p>"Yes, right there."</p><p>I take my paperclipped stack along with my belongings and go sit to wait for number 83 to be called. I get out some of my other identifying forms, as I just am sure REAL ID calls for more than just my license and a piece of mail. I know I didn't bring every single important document of my life along with me for no reason. Again, my confidence to complete this sort of thing is low, but Matt even confirmed this with me. And if anyone knows these sorts of procedures, it's my thorough, rule abiding, instruction reading (who does that!?) husband. Just as I start to read on my phone (though, I'm really not sure this is even allowed because there are also signs everywhere saying "No cell phones") the number 83 is called. </p><p>I sit, she puts out her hand. As I'm placing my tiny pile of paperclipped documents in her hand, I'm also pointing to, yet another bolded sign that says, "If you want REAL ID, you a have to tell them at Check in. If you did not do this, you need to go back to check in." Deep breaths. I will not be belligerent, I will not be threatening, I will not tell people how to do their job. I smile, politely and say, "I wanted REAL ID, and I told her at check in, but she only requested those documents." I get the slightest of nods and she proceeds. I confirm my address. I pass the eye test. I pass the sign test (she gives me a pass for calling a stop light a stop sign), she tells me it's $27. I never provided any other identification. I know, in my gut, this cannot be right. "This is for the REAL ID, right?"</p><p>She stares. "No. You have to tell them you want that at check in." Deep breaths. As I look up at the sign, directly above her head: Belligerent and threatening behavior will not be tolerated. I'm now beginning to wonder who actually makes it out of this place without becoming belligerent and threatening. </p><p>As kindly and sweetly and apologetically as I can, crouching into my chair, trying to make myself seem as small and meek and helpless as humanly possible, I say, "I'm so sorry, but I really need to get REAL ID. I'm happy to get back in {the non-existent} line to show the right documents..."</p><p>Exasperated, with a huff that might have rivaled check in lady's huff "I have to start the whole process over again to get you REAL ID." She says, eyeing the stack of my identifying documents I've set on the table. I can tell she sees that I have it all right there. </p><p>"I know this makes your job more difficult, and I really am happy to get back in line, but I'm guessing you are the only one doing this, so I'll just be back here in front of you in a few minutes."</p><p>She snatches me documents, she completes the renewal again, she purposely takes my photo while I'm blinking, and viola! I will have my renew REAL ID drivers license in a few weeks. Deep breaths. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-21028466258011823822023-02-07T13:09:00.001-06:002023-02-21T13:11:46.152-06:00What is it all?<p> Every Summer, since Brock turned 9, we make the long, 6 hour trek to Lake Okoboji in Iowa, to drop the kids off at camp. We drive through these back roads, some not even paved, through Iowa farmland. It’s impossible not to see, admire, remark on the beauty of these steads. The pride these farmers take in their crops seems to exude from every angle - or windmill. If we’re lucky, we see a crop duster, gliding through the sky, you can almost taste the exhilaration. One year, a bald eagle flew by our car and Diana, without hesitation, pumped her fist in the air and proclaimed “America”. Even the youngest of our crew subconsciously takes in the sense of beauty and freedom that these farmlands radiate. You might catch a farmer out on his tractor, tilling along, row after row, in some sort of peaceful meditative path. Nowhere else he’s got to be...sigh. We can’t help but wonder to ourselves about the simplicity of it all. This glimpse at life, so vastly different than ours, yet so lovely and sustainable, makes me realize, for some, this is “having it all”. And I think. Gosh. I can see it. What a lovely life. </p><p>While on our honeymoon in Hawaii, Matt and I rented a car and explored the entire island of Kauai. We did some of the touristy stuff, but as we do, we tried to blend in and get the locals experience as well. On our slow, and unguided exploration days, we stumbled upon, what appeared more shack-like than house for sale and found it to be in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. This little beach front property would likely have been condemned and destined to be torn down in the quaint neighborhoods of our Kansas City homeland. We were momentarily astonished, until we thought about what it might be like to move to this magical island we were struggling to leave in a few days time, anyway...do you even really need a house if you live in beauty like this? How much money or hobbies do you really need? How incredible would it be to surf the waves, eat outside every night, listen to the ocean as you doze off. I don’t need 4,000 square feet when I have the beauty of the island available every day. How vastly different island life would be, and it sort of felt like a shack on the ocean equates to “having it all”.</p><p>As we drove across the country, through desert lands we’d never experienced, it appeared that certain areas looked to be developed by “squatters”. Like, we are pretty sure that people got tired of “the man” and took campers to the middle of nowhere, off Route 66, parked their vehicle and never left again. Like cousin Eddy. Though, supposedly, there is no “unclaimed land” left in the US, we’re pretty sure no one is going to kick them out of the weeds. These nomads can hike to their hearts content, and live off the grid forevermore. Though, this life sounds terrible to me, it still makes you think, why? Why the daily grind. Why the lofty goals and the crazy activities schedule. Why all the people? And the friends? And the family obligations? Why the travels and the flights and the hotels and the food? It’s all so much. So gluttonous. So...heavy. The option does exist to to simply exist. To amble and have nowhere to be, and for some, isn’t that “having it all”?</p><p>Years and years ago. In the times before my career had fully bloomed. Before my children had fully bloomed. In fact, I think I’d had 2, maybe pregnant with a 3rd. A long article what published in The Atlantic (I believe) titled something liked “Why we can’t have it all”. It was written by some higher up in Washington, on the Obama administration, who’d had to scale way back (or maybe it was even leave) from a dream job because her teen boys were struggling and needed her at home. In essence, she had to choose between work or family. She’d successfully “made it” only to still have to choose in the end, so she composed a long and extremely well-written thought piece on why women still can’t have it all. I would not have read this article, were it not for the fact that no less than 7. Seven people sent it to me, telling me that it made them think of me. The whole article as well as the fact that people sent it to me irked me to no end. As far as I’d ever heard or figured out in life, literally NO ONE HAS "IT ALL". </p><p>I'm curious. Did this woman think that if society would have more rapidly adapted to a less patriarchal system that she wouldn't have mentally ill sons? If only all the resources supported a working mother or dual income household better? Does she think that mental illness doesn't happen in children when the father works a demanding job even with a stay at home mother? What about homes with 2 mothers? Do they both have to leave their high profile careers? </p><p>What is "it all" anyway? Isn't "it" different for absolutely everyone?</p><p>Did you ever stop to think that maybe almost everyone has it all? Because, isn’t “it all” simply the ability to choose? It felt like this article was just whining. Why can’t we work 90+ hour weeks in a demanding high profile career that we love. And spend time with our children. And have a loving spouse. And a perfect house. And completely physically and mentally healthy family members. And all the money we want. And all the vacations we want. And get appreciated properly for all that we do. And never have a bump in the road or a bad day or a hard break? Why can’t it all work out perfectly? I can’t help but picture Veruca Salt, whining about her golden ticket. </p><p>Everywhere I go, I observe lives so drastically different from mine. I'm intrigued. Curious. Excited. I could see a million ways one could enjoy this one life we are given. Yet, I'm exactly where I want to be. I see no greener grass. And if my grass starts to wilt, I will water it. Even if that means pulling my energies from elsewhere. </p>ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-62419087740723301632022-02-10T19:09:00.002-06:002023-02-06T22:29:49.751-06:00<p> <span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">Dear Matt, </span></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I never thought ours an interesting love story. I don't even like telling people our origins - so banal, boring. We met in high school. You went to an all boys Catholic school. Me, an all girls Catholic school. Same upbringing. Same city. No surprises how we found each other or why we get along. But, it dawned on me somewhat recently how differently it could have all gone. How truly, in my memory of the whole thing, there was one, incredibly brief moment and conversation, on which our entire future hinged. </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Matt. Swimming is my first love." I said.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">You may not remember this moment. Your response made this declaration seem so insignificant. But I'd been thinking about it since the day you asked me to be your girlfriend, the weight of it suffocating me. I felt it imperative to let you explicitly understand this important fact about me, my life, who I am - before anything progressed further.</span><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I'm completely and utterly dedicated to swimming. It comes before school. Before friends. Before family, even. So, it definitely comes before a budding senior high school fling. These represent just a tiny sampling of the incessant, unending, loud thoughts. I interpret this now as evidence of our immediate and incredibly strong connection. It sent me into a panic.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"If at any point, I feel like you, or our relationship, is a distraction or stressor, I will end it. No hard feelings, and nothing against you. It's just where my priorities lie at this moment."</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">You sort of smiled, and shrugged. And said. "Ok."<br /><div><br /></div><div>In true romance novel style. The strong, stubborn, maiden {never} in distress female "had things to do, places to be, stuff to accomplish" and "no man was going to slow her down or get in her way".</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know how long we'd been dating - but it couldn't have been more than a month. In again, the most cliché melodrama, it may have just been weeks, days even, but the unexpected happened. I already felt an attachment, interest, attraction - whatever you want to call it - unlike any I'd ever imagined, let alone experienced. (To be more clear than necessary: I wasn't overly interested in a relationship, nor did I think about them often, but I wasn't immune to teenage hormones nor the general human condition therefore possessed the natural human instinct to have relationships. This is to say that anything I'd potentially "imagined" was absolutely the furthest thing from a fairytale. I tended toward the skeptical pragmatic; I'll probably meet "the one" later, while in med school or residency. And, while we're at it, I don't even believe in "the one", aka soulmates. We all probably have multiple lids that might fit our pot. And, knowing myself, I'm sure I have/had LOTS of matches. Math. Statistics. Facts.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't think you could have known the right answer, nor prepared for this statement to be thrown at you, but, nevertheless, I tossed at you such a cold, stark statement - and then you had me at "ok". That simple, no strings attached, completely genuine reply hit me like a ton of bricks. Knocking down a wall I had sincerely, never even known I'd built. It's as if you could sense that this intense, highly competitive, high energy, high self expectations perfectionist did not need one single other thing to make her feel an ounce of pressure. </div><div><br /></div><div>You just said. "Ok". And then you never looked back. </div><div><br /></div><div>Back to the fictional love tales theme, I wonder now, if as much as I was the prototypical independent, hard to get woman who needs no man - you were the strong, silent type man confidently smirking to himself. Perhaps saying, "ok" stoically on the outside but internally thinking, "I'll let her think she's in control, but the fact of the matter is, she will be unable to resist my charms. She has no idea what's coming. She is mine."</div><div><br /></div><div>To be living this happily ever after of a fairytale love story that I never hoped nor imagined to be part of, still takes me by surprise, 15 years of marriage later. If you were to ask me, to this day, who likes the other one more? There is no right answer. While I'm generally more passionate about, well, everything! Your calm, steadfast and secure presence has never once wavered. Though our story is simple. Seemingly, so boring and cliché. Written a thousand times before - it's truly wonderful to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>I could have never predicted this. Yet, it's so right, and I'm so happy it has played out this way.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sincerely, Erin</div></div>ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-15216631180472248552021-11-23T10:45:00.002-06:002021-11-23T10:56:43.268-06:00The Age of Reason. And Kindness. And Flexibility. And Empathy.<div>Written November of 2017.</div><div><br /></div>I've been putting off writing about Brock for a while. Two years almost. I cannot figure out how to put into words these huge, intangible ways in which he has changed. Matured. Progressed. Developed. There is just something about that first born. That pioneer of your child-rearing career. That kid you brought home from the hospital and thought, "what the #$%k did we just do?" You are simultaneously proud of your little, walking miracle and yourself for every milestone, phase, grade, achievement, accomplishment. You remain in complete awe of the capabilities this little person you are trying your best to mold and guide to be the best human they can be possesses, yet never stop seeing more potential. You look back on the difficult times, the things you thought might never change, and would always be a struggle, and realize, somewhere along the line, we figured it out. <br />
<br />
Brock was born with so much energy, curiosity, willfulness and anxiety that I frequently told people that I believed had he been born to a less energetic, curious, willful and restless mother, they might not have found his antics so lovable, but rather, insanely frustrating. There were moments over the years that I worried about his ability to pay attention, sit still and focus in the classroom. I worried that his anxiety and obsessive/compulsive-type nature would hold him back from trying new things, making new friends, finishing his school work and a multitude of other things. I worried he may need medications or therapy. <br />
<br />
Brock has so many little quirks, and it's hard sometime to know how others perceive them. Are they socially acceptable? Are they a problem or simply an annoyance? Will his persistence cause issues. Will he be bull-headed, stubborn and arrogant or learn to accept that others think and act differenly, and that's ok. Though as much as I want all of my children to be successful, liked, and well-adjusted, mostly I just want them to be happy. So, I, along with all of our family, tried so hard to guide and teach him along the way. Help him to react to changes of plans in a constructive way. How to deal with disappointment and how to learn from it. How to be kind to others no matter what they say or do to you. But how to still follow your heart. How to do what you love. How to be YOU. <br />
<br />
Parenting is such hard work. You second guess your discipline. Your guidance. Your actions. Your words. Am I strict enough? Am I too strict? Do they know I love them and think they're hilarious, but that I have to correct them and quiet them in certain environments. <br />
<br />
It's as if age 8 is the year that Matt and I (and our village) got to see all of our hard work come to fruition.<br />
<br />
When we went on a walk along Brush creek. He saw the homeless man, and saw his stuff and immediately felt bad. You could see he wanted to do something for him. He kept repeating that "he felt bad he had no place to live." <b>Empathy.</b><br />
<br />A teacher witness, that when he spontaneously & wildly kicked a ball at recess that landed right on a girl's head - he ran immediately to make sure she was ok. Instead of turning the other way, trying to ignore what just happened, like many do. <b>Responsibility & Accountability.</b><br />
<br />
He was awarded the <b>Flexibility</b> Virtue of the month. This is something we worked on with Brock, TIRELESSLY. He absolutely prefers to think in absolutes. <br />
<br />
He is so kind. I have to hold back tears when I write those words, because his <b>kindness</b> is simply so genuine and overwhelming. You cannot help but love Brock because there isn't a mean bone in that body. Maybe it was the slightly hippy-infused upbringing I experienced vicariously transposed, but Brock is very much a "live and let live" kind of guy. He has learned how to keep his anxiety and fears mostly to himself, while perhaps cautioning others just a bit. <br />
<br />
Brock has almost no temper to speak of. What he lacks in actual line-waiting-type patience, he makes up for, by leaps and bounds, in patience of his fellow human's nature. <br />
<br />
Though, we've known from an early age, Brock is a bright kiddo, with probably a pretty steller IQ, I am coming to realize that I believe his Emotional Intelligence (EQ) might be off the charts. Amazing how far he has come from the days that we wondered if he might be a socio-path.<br />
<br />
*insert "restless" story* <div><br /></div><div>My sister had 7 kids at the zoo one day. Brock being the oldest (at age 8). The kids were bizarrely lingering quite long at the exhibit of a creek with ducks in it. I mean - this is the ZOO!! Ducks you can often see on your very own street corner! Kids are weird. Anywho, one of the 2 year olds finally became agitated enough to start squirming about in the stroller. So, Leah, said, "Let's move on kiddos, Walter is getting restless."</div><div><br /></div><div>Hours or days later - I can't remember at this point. Brock was having a conversation with Leah in which he was describing himself. He says to her, "What was that word? It wasn't anxious? It wasn't annoyed? It wasn't tired? It's that thing, you know, when you move a lot, and can't sit still or stop? You know, you called Walter it at the zoo?" And she pondered for a bit and said, "restless?" And he lights up, "Yes! Restless. That's what I am. That's me."</div><div><br /></div><div>Again, simply an example of his lifelong desire to be accurate and precise, as well as well spoken, and extremely insightful.</div>ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-12904460657569179482021-11-18T21:14:00.004-06:002021-11-19T08:48:31.267-06:00Perspective - A Patient EncounterWhen I first met her, I perceived she was nervous. I could sense the doctor skepticism. She simply had a negative aura about her. An Eeyore, if you will. A "no" person. A drag.<br />
<br />
To my absolute non-surprise, she declined all screenings that a woman of her age is recommended to get. No labs. No pap. No mammogram. No flu shot.<br />
<br />
I wondered why she had even come to the doctor.<br />
<br />
I think she wondered that too.<br />
<br />
I proceeded with the appointment in my usual manner. Attempting to keep the encounter warm, inviting, welcoming. Explaining, lightly and with a smile, all the reasons why these things are recommendations. What they are testing for, protecting us against, how tons of studies and science have deemed the benefits to far outweigh the risks. Ultimately, though, I always finish in earnest that I'm not here to force anyone to do anything. I am a steward of health, shall you choose to take my advice. Or not. I am obliged to educate. I take no offense.<br />
<br />
Almost to the exact date, she arrived in my office, again, 1 year later. Same air of anxiety. Same negative aura. Her hair grey, her eyes grey, and even her skin a slight grey tone. As it was the year prior. To my surprise, she accepted the lab testing. She still refused the flu shot and the pap. She wavered on the Mammogram.<br />
<br />
This time, she came forth with some extra tidbits. "The last time I had a mammogram, it turned into a whole ordeal. Another imaging test, a biopsy, and a lot of medical bills all for nothing."<br />
<br />
I couldn't argue with that, except to say, we know that now, and won't retest the same spot, but it's still highly recommended. She said she'd think about it.<br />
<br />
I considered that a win.<br />
<br />
5 months later. Results of a mammogram came across my desk. She had gone, and it was abnormal. She had lymph nodes, that on report, didn't look great. My MA called her. She refused US for further imaging. She was sure this would result in all the bills and the same result.<br />
<br />
I called her. I suggested she come in for me to examine. She obliged.<br />
<br />
After I examine a patient, when I am trying to reassure them about lumps or bumps or all the things that Dr. Google has informed them is likely cancer, I say, "Trust me. I've felt cancer. More than I'd like to admit, and it gives me an immediate visceral reaction. I feel sick to my stomach." Cancer looks and feels completely unnatural. Inorganic. Wrong. "I didn't get that feeling. It's fine. We can just watch it."<br />
<br />
When I felt the lump in her armpit. I couldn't say any of that. I felt sick.<br />
<br />
After some gentle explaining, she still refused a biopsy, but was ok with an US.<br />
<br />
The US confirmed our (the radiologists, mine, the patient's - despite her denial) suspicions. She agreed to a biopsy.<br />
<br />
It came back invasive, stage 3, breast cancer.<br />
<br />
I did what I do for anyone in this situation. I set up all their appointments. I get them in within days to see an oncologist. With in a week of diagnosis they have a plan and have maybe already started treatments. I call them. A lot.<br />
<br />
"Are you ok? Who is your support system? Do you need help getting to your appointments?"<br />
<br />
Yes. My cats. No, I'm fine.<br />
<br />
She had no one. This home-body, single woman. Loner. Eeyore. As one might expect, had no one. Her parents dead. No siblings. No kids. I was stunned and stressed for her.<br />
<br />
I reached out to people to find her a partner, or a group, some sort of support. But she quietly went on her way, through therapy. On her own.<br />
<br />
I watched from afar. Via electronic medical record notes. She, as all my cancer patients do, abandoned my office for her new medical home. The oncologist, the infusion center, the lab, the imaging center. I don't need to add to her appointments.<br />
<br />
I thought of her often. Seems to me cancer needs to be surrounded by strength, and warmth, and love to be destroyed. I worried her cats weren't enough.<br />
<br />
Nine months later, she lands on my schedule.<br />
<br />
I wondered why.<br />
<br />
I quietly, and admittedly, nervously, knocked on the door as I stepped in to find a bright woman in a warm brown wig. With these shining blue eyes. A smile.<br />
<br />
I hoped she didn't notice my second take and look of shock.<br />
<br />
I smiled, I shook her hand, I remarked, "you look great! Tolerating treatment ok?"<br />
<br />
She smiles and proudly says, "Why yes. I even started rowing while on Adriamycin!" (Notoriously an Awful chemo drug). She goes on to describe how well she's tolerated all treatments. That things are going well, she just has two more doses of her current med, and radiation is still an option.<br />
<br />
We make eye contact the entire visit. I am just blown away. In front of my face, I'm seeing that a stage 3, dire and life-changing cancer diagnosis, has actually brought someone to life. She completely transformed. Her aura and energy bright and light.<br />
<br />
"Doctor, thank you for calling me that day. Thank you for explaining to me that sometimes things in life are hard. Are too hard, in fact, to do them alone. That it's ok to find help, and that there are people out there who want to help. After this diagnosis, I realized how miserable the last 10 years of my life have been. How much I needed to change my job. I wrote down my regrets and realized I didn't want to keep them anymore. I am going to cancer support groups. I've made a friend. I'm sleeping better. I hope to one day help people in my same condition. Is it weird to say that this diagnosis helped awaken me to a better life?"<br />
<br />A normal person probably might have cried at that moment. I nearly did. Instead, I smiled, and said, that's not weird to say at all. Cancer provided you your silver lining...to life!<br />
<br />
I hugged her, said, keep up the good work. And we parted ways.<br />
<br />
I'll see her again.<br />
<br />
<br />ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-86848225548197234602021-11-18T10:02:00.008-06:002021-11-22T20:51:09.860-06:00Why?<p><br /> <span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">"And, there's nothing you wouldn't want to change on your body?" She asks incredulously. </span></p><p><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSwgz1tjOhraUBFUq0Ofckg4juTwk6oDSOvrGj4U4TFx8l1-sVxveXe_baR4-scL7skoz9qKz3p6iQJS7k116biMGi4aOlj1yRQ0g5dqPpw0QYIdJXdp9ot1RAnYaAdPTxB8VOwBkmMJB1/s2048/cayman.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSwgz1tjOhraUBFUq0Ofckg4juTwk6oDSOvrGj4U4TFx8l1-sVxveXe_baR4-scL7skoz9qKz3p6iQJS7k116biMGi4aOlj1yRQ0g5dqPpw0QYIdJXdp9ot1RAnYaAdPTxB8VOwBkmMJB1/s320/cayman.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">As if someone being perfectly comfortable with their physique is not a real thing. And by "She" I mean all of them. The collective she. Probably the "hes" too. Is anyone <i>truly</i> happy with their body and all the things that lie within? Where is the separation of physical - emotional - mental - spiritual? Is there a line?</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I'm always met with such skepticism. Disbelief. I am hiding something. I am in denial. I am not being authentic or truthful with either you or myself. So much so, that I often wonder if she isn't right? Am I unhappy with a body part? Am I ignoring some inside itch to be someone else? Have something else? Secretly hope to not have some glaring blemish - as generally perceived by the outside world? </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sometimes, I feel my thoughts are so different, and so against the grain, that I have to ask myself, "Am I crazy?" When all parts of me feel so whole. Right. Comfortable. ...and fluid...</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">There is no permanent part of me. Not even my life. Ever changing, evolving, experiencing, withering, growing. We are so, so, so fluid. Like the water I lived in. Love. Enjoy. </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Are there things I might change at this exact moment? Sure. Like anyone, I can come up with a few imperfections. Are they things that I believe I CAN change? On my own? With the right training, research, discipline? Absolutely. I've always known I can accomplish anything -yet achieve nothing. In completeness. </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">You do know, perfection doesn't exist, right? </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I've long since made peace with the proverbial mechanical hare. The moving target that I will never reach - and like our little Italian Greyhoud, Tater, who oft caught his prey then instantly panicked with a yelp: "wtf do I do now!?" - I think I would simply do the same. Where do I go from here?</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Unlike, what I've observed {from what seems the majority} of my fellow man, I don't have a lot of arbitrary desires. If I want to change something, it's for a specific goal. Ideally, a multifactorial gain. I regard time & energy in the highest esteem. Don't spend it unwisely. </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"To what end?" Is my genuine, nonjudgmental and deeply curious reply.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Such a terse reply. I'm almost not allowed to ask it. So often she reacts with defensiveness - We are <i>supposed</i> to be unhappy with ourselves! You are doing this wrong - She whispers to herself.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">If changing something about one's physique whether by diet, exercise, weights, surgery, injections, beauty products, supplements produces a result that fulfills a dream, a goal, a desire - please, don't ask permission. </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Don't seek acceptance for something so personal. Even if it's simple. Goals don't have to be lofty. Life altering. Goals are for you, and you alone. </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Don't misunderstand me, they can include others. You can want to be a better partner, mother, doctor. This will affect others, but it's still an individual change, desire, want.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It's all individual. To be the person you want to be is all up to you. It's inside of you. There's nothing initially external that will help you reach your goals. Improve your esteem. Get you a job. Nor a joyful relationship. And, the first stepping block isn't to change what you think society wants you to change. It's not to be like someone else. </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It's to be like YOU. </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">And to become and live the most genuine "you" is to continually, truthfully, honestly and repetitively ask yourself the scariest of all questions: "Why?" Over and over - until you get to the very core of your desires.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Why? Why do I want to change?</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Or don't I?</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div>ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-48487963921589009822021-09-24T14:22:00.002-05:002021-09-24T14:45:28.303-05:00The Hidden Art of the Lollygag.<p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">George comes up to me one morning in the midst of the school and work readying frenzie and says to me, "I just don't get it. Mitch is the first one ready everyday AND he gets to play video games for like 30 minutes every morning. It's like he just wakes up, gets dressed, eats his breakfast and then sits and plays video games until we leave for school."</span></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I say, "Right. That's exactly how it works. He gets up, does all the necessary things without dilly dallying or distraction, then gets more time to do what he wants while still getting out the door on time. What part do you not get, George?"</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">He sort of looks at me like I'm a crazy person as he fiddles with a cereal box, searching for a pen to do the maze on the back of it, with no shoes or socks on, and says, "I don't get it because I don't dilly dally!? I do the same thing as Mitch, but I don't have the time to play video games!"</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">And, I just laugh. "Bud, you are literally messing with a cereal box and telling me a whole, long, drawn out story about how you don't get how you don't have the same amount of time as Mitch, INSTEAD of actually just putting on your shoes and socks."</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">He laughs. "Ugh. Ok! I know! But there are so many more interesting things than just getting ready for school". He says using air quotes and deep change in inflection.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"So, you do get it then?"</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I honestly can't offer much advice, as I suffer from the same affliction as George. Lollygagger's Syndrome.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">In fact, I'm writing this "just real quick" before I go on a walk then eat lunch then continue planning our 20 year high school reunion then planning our weekend events - including Mitch's 8th birthday party - while also sending in all the meds and finishing all the charts from the morning and fielding texts from work, home, friends and family all during my 2 hour lunch break. (Before you get all amazed at my time management abilities - I WILL NOT accomplish even half of this. Especially, now that I'm typing.) </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Meanwhile, my lovely spouse, Matt is Mitch. I'll head up to bed 20 minutes before Matt with nothing to do but brush my teeth, change into pajamas and go to bed...yet, he ends up in bed with all these tasks completed before me, every time. Every time! I mean, the man simply finishes his routines, functions, projects, etc without distraction. So, I get it George. I really do. </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The thing of it is...I rarely regret my lollygagging. It sometimes {rarely} produces lovely, creative writing pieces. It most often results in plans for a fun weekend or evening. Or brightening someone's day {I hope} because of a silly photo or meme I've passed on to them via text. </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I run into kids, parents, teachers, family alike, and occasionally I'll get a "you won't believe what Mitch did" or a "I have a funny story to tell you about Mitch" or even a "love that kid" comment regarding Mitch. But I almost ALWAYS get these types of comments regarding George. </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Don't get me wrong. Mitch {and Matt} are awesome dudes. I love them more than anything. They offer many, many things that George {and I} do not. I truly could not select a preferred personality type. </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">All I know is...for entertainment and procrastination purposes, you want George and I on your side. If you would like to *actually* accomplish your desired goal...bring in the other guys.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">And thus, concludes, my somewhat pointless ramblings but chosen afternoon distraction activity for the day.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div>ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-41070136157416960902021-03-13T08:27:00.004-06:002021-03-13T08:27:36.040-06:00Sedona.<p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">TRAILS:</div></blockquote></div></blockquote><p><b>Devil's Bridge:</b> Very cool, if you want to walk out on (or get a picture standing on) the bridge, you want to do this on a low traffic ay (like middle of week) or slightly poor weather. Otherwise, you will be waiting a few hours for the pic. </p><p>Sunset we drove up to a spot that gave 280 degree views, very pretty, don't know the name.</p><p><b>Soldier's Pass:</b> This is an awesome hike, and you can make it as long as you want (lots of trail break offs). This is where you can climb inside a cave, and also see the 7 sacred pools. Possibly me favorite.</p><p><b>Fay Canyon Arch:</b> We did this in the afternoon when we were sort of exhausted, short and easy.</p><p><b>Church in the Rock:</b> So many people recommended it, I felt it was meh. Very populated, despite rain.</p><p><b>Cathedral Rock:</b> Most advanced climb that we did. A bit nerve wrecking in spots, but definitely worth it. Very cool views at the top! Also THE MOST busy location be far. So, again, middle of week or bad weather is best bet. </p><p><b>Birthing Cave:</b> Super short hike, but a really cool little spot. You could also rent a bike and do the SUPER long trail around it. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivTLRiuedOA6fOQ8LGUbXurmdZKDXsZSAhHoAwpQQY9aXoQMfX8RjlkMSP-HZrhOBXSBvzeItvNwYgM-11U2nhblPeyjdLl3BCZLCmm7QN8UQdW5vc4c1hOI8mDvfFrw-Xq9jhXwNKT9Z0/s2048/0D3B6606-B8B5-4F44-90C0-52AED30218F1.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivTLRiuedOA6fOQ8LGUbXurmdZKDXsZSAhHoAwpQQY9aXoQMfX8RjlkMSP-HZrhOBXSBvzeItvNwYgM-11U2nhblPeyjdLl3BCZLCmm7QN8UQdW5vc4c1hOI8mDvfFrw-Xq9jhXwNKT9Z0/s320/0D3B6606-B8B5-4F44-90C0-52AED30218F1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soldier's Pass</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDlG3lIRb7mnGunv2pc4bXthE7w0O88x4zLK8KCoxsZ2V0kTK2ORmH0PcQ16dXA6XvxIWDrsL1pdFp3sGZrYp2BfmzoN_dySSFnI-jhZmygR04U0fmxBZW831BB17pMhOMepamsfMUGtuJ/s2048/1B81C4A6-775C-4E06-BDEB-441CD391B8DA.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDlG3lIRb7mnGunv2pc4bXthE7w0O88x4zLK8KCoxsZ2V0kTK2ORmH0PcQ16dXA6XvxIWDrsL1pdFp3sGZrYp2BfmzoN_dySSFnI-jhZmygR04U0fmxBZW831BB17pMhOMepamsfMUGtuJ/s320/1B81C4A6-775C-4E06-BDEB-441CD391B8DA.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Devil's Bridge</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGY0F3vk3dhGrxFx3B7KEgyIp5Fk-Mj62TkBcxFT499O9LCc4nlhMj11f5WcPpibZg1MC6n9B1R_xY4VAt-qxDHVz61kkyG8FY0ogJLcO6RzCjJQdBojHdTt4YSvq-utG_2tcmMSt2hh6M/s2048/1BD559CA-9E33-404D-93A2-7437CEBB77FA.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGY0F3vk3dhGrxFx3B7KEgyIp5Fk-Mj62TkBcxFT499O9LCc4nlhMj11f5WcPpibZg1MC6n9B1R_xY4VAt-qxDHVz61kkyG8FY0ogJLcO6RzCjJQdBojHdTt4YSvq-utG_2tcmMSt2hh6M/s320/1BD559CA-9E33-404D-93A2-7437CEBB77FA.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fay Canyon</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJs0Bd2AH-b_5bb4F93-USLWuNKVaIbvJDuqjDYqSXZDxTImAiO1PP3ClHeqk8CCw5E6fP0ZgJgPQzKNQLXbtrdFG5_A5YkUm-kROGdQrBRpfktFoZnDick7hhVpx60oNLmvJa0WdtejA/s2048/3FC422B5-21E8-44C2-B38F-AA282D47BD3C.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJs0Bd2AH-b_5bb4F93-USLWuNKVaIbvJDuqjDYqSXZDxTImAiO1PP3ClHeqk8CCw5E6fP0ZgJgPQzKNQLXbtrdFG5_A5YkUm-kROGdQrBRpfktFoZnDick7hhVpx60oNLmvJa0WdtejA/s320/3FC422B5-21E8-44C2-B38F-AA282D47BD3C.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soldier's Pass</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNe3z4NnhsaIgHEXitA0ofmYZ_CTV9c0LrHH_nidAhSeZUPFLXIwrcSYOkX55ymo127OWd3xqIb3W1P18VyR0G80g4kGDFnHnOPR8Tgr6EzaIjfYRYoD9aQDq0Bn1Lx672mAAnrkM9Zibf/s2048/4EB90D70-E4D7-4A93-ACEC-F625396BFF71.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNe3z4NnhsaIgHEXitA0ofmYZ_CTV9c0LrHH_nidAhSeZUPFLXIwrcSYOkX55ymo127OWd3xqIb3W1P18VyR0G80g4kGDFnHnOPR8Tgr6EzaIjfYRYoD9aQDq0Bn1Lx672mAAnrkM9Zibf/s320/4EB90D70-E4D7-4A93-ACEC-F625396BFF71.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Devil's Bridge</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsj7CWaabtbfg-ldY2lJborHsCVFhTMLyYvkDQHdG6zF0M1IPJO3UjlahXLZLoXeuBT5wOZyIoeC1Eaw5Q3tNCQlMX69liFL5sHrdRd-9dE5IZ_IYur-16vDWv2-PTlNIMDysiQgWWmZl-/s2048/22FD6CFE-18E9-4ECC-8C5B-092F9CA701F0.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsj7CWaabtbfg-ldY2lJborHsCVFhTMLyYvkDQHdG6zF0M1IPJO3UjlahXLZLoXeuBT5wOZyIoeC1Eaw5Q3tNCQlMX69liFL5sHrdRd-9dE5IZ_IYur-16vDWv2-PTlNIMDysiQgWWmZl-/s320/22FD6CFE-18E9-4ECC-8C5B-092F9CA701F0.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Church in the Rock</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosqDgzSeDZ-Y_cl81AeZ0hvsyopCg121lZS45a2IGHQU8ptWefbNt1ocdKWcknFKRbHKP6qjbx-qFqyZzR2ufnInJvn_NYgqkWimUUCuULFl58komH4NJV18D-Vv9jv3skT91CN6410kt/s2048/35CF44C0-9C4B-409C-BDC8-2C4D1546B9A3.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjosqDgzSeDZ-Y_cl81AeZ0hvsyopCg121lZS45a2IGHQU8ptWefbNt1ocdKWcknFKRbHKP6qjbx-qFqyZzR2ufnInJvn_NYgqkWimUUCuULFl58komH4NJV18D-Vv9jv3skT91CN6410kt/s320/35CF44C0-9C4B-409C-BDC8-2C4D1546B9A3.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0PVY6GaBYHeHoZgzvnkE4S5qLQtnWg78ReqZbUh3-3ki8yO3ZZlTRit5r021QxhN7Zl1efMmhBMK1IkPiCVcMntLdwoYS2RhzQwvohebietCP-jw6NJfnjYcRfsLZ6KAN7UJK0Mb2JJxw/s2048/48FA9B12-655D-41C8-89B2-B3AD9E068918.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0PVY6GaBYHeHoZgzvnkE4S5qLQtnWg78ReqZbUh3-3ki8yO3ZZlTRit5r021QxhN7Zl1efMmhBMK1IkPiCVcMntLdwoYS2RhzQwvohebietCP-jw6NJfnjYcRfsLZ6KAN7UJK0Mb2JJxw/s320/48FA9B12-655D-41C8-89B2-B3AD9E068918.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cathedral Rock</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-9XIaKCN6C6BAVU4qWPX2KuiEWZ0_iiOzyAFVJXKVpcoPbUJYSW5tz282wC1SiD9tzeckNB45xu6hlCiJYdIvre8Y0pnHjtFKLqZb8DYygLO060HFdv47BZOjwx_G1e80zY_B9OineN1L/s2048/225F12D2-1A63-42F0-AFE7-480B816FDC9F.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-9XIaKCN6C6BAVU4qWPX2KuiEWZ0_iiOzyAFVJXKVpcoPbUJYSW5tz282wC1SiD9tzeckNB45xu6hlCiJYdIvre8Y0pnHjtFKLqZb8DYygLO060HFdv47BZOjwx_G1e80zY_B9OineN1L/s320/225F12D2-1A63-42F0-AFE7-480B816FDC9F.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birthing Cave</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4GfnCkb0GHsasTizeejD2obLwv3Ra2gI7Osuv0yHdNXdbrYn1Z644XtFSQZP9ZQwEMRlUS6UX3P6efwOuv3sCU1d-gIZk-9SgZSC91jqkU-vHAHEWbDPA77uX8qIQleppukDVbqbu2uQl/s2048/0714D670-531A-4C7A-BDAD-0D240681BD21.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4GfnCkb0GHsasTizeejD2obLwv3Ra2gI7Osuv0yHdNXdbrYn1Z644XtFSQZP9ZQwEMRlUS6UX3P6efwOuv3sCU1d-gIZk-9SgZSC91jqkU-vHAHEWbDPA77uX8qIQleppukDVbqbu2uQl/s320/0714D670-531A-4C7A-BDAD-0D240681BD21.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soldier's Pass</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIinIrjt9a8CsggVWCegnQbbcCf1J_762ofoNJ-YE4iRL87vFJTbz_qaaF7YXv5Ahr8qHzxPHfOonAJTFYIp_nxoI0UkA0MPGkocGQXt40AuUBzUPZ2kxfItymU6n2wu__5qMLNW-spNJ8/s2048/4383EF9E-2C85-45B7-B183-83FD49C8A46B.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIinIrjt9a8CsggVWCegnQbbcCf1J_762ofoNJ-YE4iRL87vFJTbz_qaaF7YXv5Ahr8qHzxPHfOonAJTFYIp_nxoI0UkA0MPGkocGQXt40AuUBzUPZ2kxfItymU6n2wu__5qMLNW-spNJ8/s320/4383EF9E-2C85-45B7-B183-83FD49C8A46B.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">7 Sacred Pools (Solder's Pass)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjolL0Cp0h0CUP2BmjmpXTtrTrMx-wxViWiMheFS6jm8xp7EgZXZAkVKn90vvVAKraeMcRqRMLMoeOKv4M7Qo5r1662R0PniR9PbqdmsgKgKUAswCIoX-UGpb-vV8YyB8UcaM6v74QRvkpy/s2048/5946E7D2-7238-4899-9434-7AA2A5823A34.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjolL0Cp0h0CUP2BmjmpXTtrTrMx-wxViWiMheFS6jm8xp7EgZXZAkVKn90vvVAKraeMcRqRMLMoeOKv4M7Qo5r1662R0PniR9PbqdmsgKgKUAswCIoX-UGpb-vV8YyB8UcaM6v74QRvkpy/s320/5946E7D2-7238-4899-9434-7AA2A5823A34.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birthing Cave</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23yrzYLAluvyzGrurF_m8O9ZY1XhEMyWOpGf37i-oiXBomZO3gu45rYLx9xPeFb_-slnqX7-EcVXwDY7kL-DYcMrmnHhxYTUGX5pZjbbhHiiHPrUxfkiNNmEYpX-Gct8ndQQR5MTqUTwK/s2048/A0ECEE1C-1FD3-42CA-A3CC-37265B085B4E.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23yrzYLAluvyzGrurF_m8O9ZY1XhEMyWOpGf37i-oiXBomZO3gu45rYLx9xPeFb_-slnqX7-EcVXwDY7kL-DYcMrmnHhxYTUGX5pZjbbhHiiHPrUxfkiNNmEYpX-Gct8ndQQR5MTqUTwK/s320/A0ECEE1C-1FD3-42CA-A3CC-37265B085B4E.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cathedral Rock</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRfXCK8OZANNWh2N2TSXWDc2tIr2XO7_Bz1dfCZiVpQ-ajCTjg1ngUsqLseptAZ0Ht3lLTTQ1bwe9qH5Q7T_ksVXqfCQcPJtLheQEArVoWrM0Gjw3QWGVIHEnLbq84HXoy0Ehc-U4Pxjkx/s2048/A078148E-7166-476B-874D-0F6B472DE1E3.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRfXCK8OZANNWh2N2TSXWDc2tIr2XO7_Bz1dfCZiVpQ-ajCTjg1ngUsqLseptAZ0Ht3lLTTQ1bwe9qH5Q7T_ksVXqfCQcPJtLheQEArVoWrM0Gjw3QWGVIHEnLbq84HXoy0Ehc-U4Pxjkx/s320/A078148E-7166-476B-874D-0F6B472DE1E3.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cathedral Rock</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfZ_6lYzwJxhiMyfcUIgCrCjJNhT6SOi_7WIqpMw-v8oBgvMEKnf_RbzT_gjNvkNpScJF3sUotl4gsUuRX1CjF2CqVebVFi-Pm15Q6ABVhqBYIOAzWUH0juzLnsqlRp0elyNMKch5Zejf/s2048/AF53D821-0296-4FB8-9C2D-61E875B5EA70.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfZ_6lYzwJxhiMyfcUIgCrCjJNhT6SOi_7WIqpMw-v8oBgvMEKnf_RbzT_gjNvkNpScJF3sUotl4gsUuRX1CjF2CqVebVFi-Pm15Q6ABVhqBYIOAzWUH0juzLnsqlRp0elyNMKch5Zejf/s320/AF53D821-0296-4FB8-9C2D-61E875B5EA70.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Solder's Pass</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDNp8Hih6lEBzbhzAigGc37O5M_7s-Is0S2547IVwWHqsxQ0IuJmRfMKV37RXjJjbX3NOw0zYyjsMs4L3VmaFX4Rdu-QaFU5bVdJ-Zksx8wP0JiFK-YwxHyEKj7GuP7HQSxLkwnnA9SeCC/s2048/C880234F-03D7-4D0A-A99B-D9FCD712ECF1.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDNp8Hih6lEBzbhzAigGc37O5M_7s-Is0S2547IVwWHqsxQ0IuJmRfMKV37RXjJjbX3NOw0zYyjsMs4L3VmaFX4Rdu-QaFU5bVdJ-Zksx8wP0JiFK-YwxHyEKj7GuP7HQSxLkwnnA9SeCC/s320/C880234F-03D7-4D0A-A99B-D9FCD712ECF1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fay Canyon Arch</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxkPirwaAiK2XoN8fSFnimIT8f1DPzcAah03VdjbfwAHY5ch3NZRWJXDjE8RHw4TuZFLHtH_fVpmXmv0bbHSmLLGgZiiYvdaKMzGovuzz-BF_t0VMcPlhpNhNDw0Fpjk-Y2pOWzwTcdpJ2/s2048/CF2A9CC9-E5B1-4FF7-AFA4-3EC0FE740D5E.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxkPirwaAiK2XoN8fSFnimIT8f1DPzcAah03VdjbfwAHY5ch3NZRWJXDjE8RHw4TuZFLHtH_fVpmXmv0bbHSmLLGgZiiYvdaKMzGovuzz-BF_t0VMcPlhpNhNDw0Fpjk-Y2pOWzwTcdpJ2/s320/CF2A9CC9-E5B1-4FF7-AFA4-3EC0FE740D5E.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soldier's Pass</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyvWLtwlE-OLLuF6C-iK9q4ACRElBiW0wKzqiAwsfkE2I_RkR-E3FVhcq_fhcVjhTpZVrB_Kz7ID68ip-ET79J4K0iSVn2EGva3eYGXBWiHDfDC3niJ5vZaW8_exyWXGI2tqmFxtcMJWk5/s2048/D8DB5344-355A-4A1E-AB9B-0CDFAE5943E2.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyvWLtwlE-OLLuF6C-iK9q4ACRElBiW0wKzqiAwsfkE2I_RkR-E3FVhcq_fhcVjhTpZVrB_Kz7ID68ip-ET79J4K0iSVn2EGva3eYGXBWiHDfDC3niJ5vZaW8_exyWXGI2tqmFxtcMJWk5/s320/D8DB5344-355A-4A1E-AB9B-0CDFAE5943E2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Devil's Bridge</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGdKOVAZnUE089Y0z0uNHzcUBHvNla7D_xH-050LPBjRBujL5MPbBPxMNkoz5a8N2kP6BhXuNcxdZi2RRQccfKN-xXpQJ10DfUyu4ohja6SOH6ZbEkTZf6E5zFa98L5wzxf0stOWfLLBOl/s2048/FCAA8A50-8564-4B90-987F-D4246F00FC08.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGdKOVAZnUE089Y0z0uNHzcUBHvNla7D_xH-050LPBjRBujL5MPbBPxMNkoz5a8N2kP6BhXuNcxdZi2RRQccfKN-xXpQJ10DfUyu4ohja6SOH6ZbEkTZf6E5zFa98L5wzxf0stOWfLLBOl/s320/FCAA8A50-8564-4B90-987F-D4246F00FC08.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Devil's Bridge</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> We ate at this awesome little Brewery, <u>Sedona Beer Company</u> - highly recommend!!<p></p><div><u>Gerardo's</u> for a nice dinner was fantastic. </div><div><br /></div><div><u>Secret Garden Cafe</u> had very fresh, yummy food. </div><div><br /></div><div><u>Creekside</u> was the best breakfast place we patroned. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dinner at <u>Hideaway</u>, had no complaints there either. </div><div><br /></div><div>We ate a few other spots, but they were definitely replaceable. </div><div><br /></div>ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-29789281599292388592021-02-14T15:10:00.003-06:002021-02-14T15:21:27.455-06:00Parachutes, not Oxygen.<p>Begin rant.</p><p>For the last year, I've tried so so so unbelievably hard to remain PC (if that's even a thing anymore). Supportive. Make lemonade out of lemons. Urge people along to follow "guidelines" (despite feeling these guidelines were poorly constructed, short-sighted and even inappropriate and devastating at times). </p><p>I'm losing patience.</p><p>After a year of consoling patient after patient, slowly crumbling from the anxieties of this pandemic, I can't help but get increasingly bitter. </p><p>This vaccine roll out, has really put me over the edge. And, probably not in the way you think. </p><p>I'm not bothered by the lack of organization, the inherent chaos, the bottle-necking, the wasting of vaccines and the inability to get this vaccine out to our most vulnerable. I KNEW this would be the case. If you are shocked, at all, by how the distribution of this vaccine has gone, then you are truly lying to yourself daily about our country, this government and the world really (because, I guarantee you, no country has gotten anything "perfect")...which is what brings me to my true beef: humans. </p><p>I 100% agree with this tiered system. The absolute first people to get this vaccine should be every FRONTLINE health care worker and any human employed at, caretaking for or living in a long term care facility. I capitalize FRONTLINE, because I do not view anyone in controlled outpatient settings, the subspecialties, the chiropractors, the physical therapists, etc as "frontline". They're close, very close, and should be top of next tier (along with teachers), but they are not the ones directly treating known positives, they are not the ones potentially getting it nor spreading it at the rate of those working inpatient in the hospital. </p><p>This vaccine, and the subsequent recommendations on distribution rolled out, and suddenly everyone is clambering for it. Do I qualify? Can I get it? How do I skirt the system? The most oft cited slogan I've heard to justify this behavior has been the "You put your oxygen mask on first, then you help those that may not know how." And for some, I believe that to be true. I'm on forums full of selfless, bleeding heart primary care physicians who all begged to give their dose to one of their patient's that they knew needed it much more than they. </p><p>You see, despite the rhetoric out there, that this "virus doesn't discriminate". "Healthy people get it too." It does discriminate. It still very much does. There are clear groups of people that are more devastated by this pandemic than other groups. And it doesn't take much research or even much more than simple observation to figure out who these groups are. But, in case you struggle on this front, I'll list some groups for you: minorities, wage workers, unemployed, morbidly obese, those over 65, the uninsured, the homeless.</p><p>I'm going to let you in on something that should be obvious, but I'm no longer sure it is: I am not one of those groups - and I'm willing to bet, if you are reading this, neither are you. </p><p>I'm 38. I'm in (what I consider to be) excellent health. I have top of the line health care benefits, as do my children and husband. I recently had Covid, and as we statistically expected I would, I had a mild case and full recovery. I work in an outpatient environment, surrounded by healthy, fully insured co-workers, and mostly "healthy", insured patients. My patients are "healthy" because, they ARE SEEING A DOCTOR. They have healthcare. They may have diabetes, high blood pressure, autoimmune disorders, so on and so forth, but we are MANAGING THEM!!! </p><p>For me to have taken a vaccine in the past 2 months would not be putting my oxygen mask on first. For me to take a vaccine would be more likened to grabbing a parachute and jumping out of the plane before I even asked if there were enough for everyone on the flight. </p><p>In more plain, and potentially triggering terms. It would be selfish. </p><p>That's my beef. The answer for so many, is simply to get this vaccine. To finally get a pacifier to stop all the crying about the virus. How scary it is. How it's interrupted life. Made you stay home, and not travel, or see friends or family or loved ones. How it's increased anxiety and depression and suicides to an all time high. How devastating it is in every sector. How horrible other people are because they have flown on a plane. Or eaten indoors. Or hung out with friends. That we are infringing on rights by requiring reasonable protocols (such as masking, distancing, etc) How horrible our government is, and how they botched EVERYTHING. Give me, give me, give me, give me. Take. Take. Take. Take. </p><p>Where is the accountability? I'm not talking big scale accountability. I'm talk small. Really small. I'm talking about YOUR accountability? Are you getting a full 8 hours of sleep? Are you eating well? Drinking well? Exercising? Caring for your mental and physical health? Putting yourself in the best position possible to beat this enemy? THIS is putting on your oxygen mask first. Or are you sitting around and asking someone else to do this for you? Biding your time, holed up in your home, waiting for someone to give you a handout so you can grab that parachute and hop right out of this godforsaken airplane of a pandemic?</p><p>Besides the islands (which are playing a whole different game) the <a href="https://www.endcoronavirus.org/countries#winning">most successful countries</a> at combatting this virus also happen to have the lowest BMI average. They have universal healthcare (I'm not getting into a debate here either, I don't mind some healthy competition/capitalism, I'm just pointing out some commonalities). And more intrusive governments. </p><p>The opportunities for you, personally, to reduce the devastation of this pandemic have been at your fingertips this entire time. And you either chose to use those fingertips to point at others. Or you made the best of it, did your part, assessed your own risk levels as well as risk tolerance, followed appropriate guidelines, supported who and whatever you could and continue to patiently wait until your turn for a parachute comes up. </p><p><span style="background-color: white;">I know, I know, I can hear the counter argument now. 'What else were we supposed to do? We could get or spread the virus.' 'Some people don't believe the virus exists'. And, yes, in many ways these are valid concerns, thoughts, statements. Everyone could not go parading on as if there were no virus, but some of us HAD to and HAVE to still. And those of us who have the age, health and means on our side should have done this, as we are the lowest risk group. We would likely survive an exposure (from those behaving as if no pandemic), and we potentially have the knowledge to identify highest vs lowest risk of exposures and navigate this smartly. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Were there and will there be casualties along the way? Absolutely, it's a pandemic! In the time of hunting and gathering, the </span><b style="background-color: white;">strongest</b><span style="background-color: white;"> always went out and faced the dangers of the elements - the weather, the predators, the terrain. Did we send out our strongest? Or did we sacrifice the "little guy"?? Had we sent only our strongest, would our numbers be as stark and devastating?</span></p><p>I want to clarify, I don't think I've done it all "right". I've made missteps along the way. To err is human. But I happily went to work everyday, trudging through the unknowns, to care for people. Though I probably interacted with more people than some feel "safe", I limited my encounters with others by the thousands. (Easiest example I will use is last year, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I hosted or attended 17. SEVENTEEN holiday parties with more than 20+ people in a small indoor space, sharing food. I saw part of a few of the sides of my family this year). I wear a mask everywhere, with zero complaint. I did not fly anywhere until I felt I was in the safest place possible in regards to immunity. All of my decisions were fully informed, with intention and also with the knowledge that I have testing available as well as deeper knowledge about disease and it's spread than the general population.</p><p>I have no doubt, we are finally on the right path. That things will truly look up from here in many, many ways. I am so thankful for this. But, I fear that we might have gone through this whole entire pandemic, slaves to media and propaganda, and never really learning anything for ourselves. Or looking inside and asking yourself, really, really asking in a very deep and complicated way, am I part of the problem? Or part of the solution? </p><p>To me, there were no simple solutions. No simple decisions. No one human, family, household that is alike. We all have and had very different roles in society, in this pandemic. Embracing our role, performing it to the best of our ability and <u>supporting</u> those from all walks of life is never the wrong decision. And as we see our herd immunity ever expanding, we need to be more understanding than ever, that all are not equal. </p><p>End rant.</p><p>Epilogue: In 30 days, I do have a decision to make about this vaccine. And because of my line of work, it is considered an oxygen mask type scenario. I don't want to be spreading virus - though, that's the biggest bugger of them all - supposedly, this vaccine ONLY protects me anyway. And doesn't actually decreased my ability to spread it...??? Soooo that's like a whole other rant in and of itself!!! Heaven forbid we get vaccinated and go to a restaurant or retail store, you know, to start supporting our local hurting economy - and by economy, I mean other humans trying to make a living. All of this makes me want to give my dose away to someone who really needs it EVEN MORE!! Argh!</p><p><br /></p>ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-75735847107421551972021-01-26T21:07:00.003-06:002022-08-30T19:03:34.553-05:00It’s Not You.<p> When I ruptured my Achilles’ tendon, I had about the smoothest medical experience one can have. I ruptured it on a Sunday. I had an appointment Monday first thing. I had surgery on Friday. Everything went as well as it could, no complications. I woke up from surgery and voila! I was on my way to recovery. </p><p>A perk of being a native Kansas Citian, in the medical field, I {sort of} knew the anesthesiologist. The surgeon came highly recommended by his partner, who happened to also be my friend. I laughed in the pre-op area with the nurse, because she went to my high school and we knew each other, plus many mutual friends. My comfort level in my care could not have been higher. But, I’ll tell you what. Even with the best case scenario for every single step of my path to recovery...the whole thing SUCKED. Do not recommend. </p><p>I cried briefly in the Pre-op room. It’s lonely, and isolating. They don’t allow your loved one back, and I had to strip down and sanitize my body. Waking up from anesthesia is the worst (for me anyway). My blood pressure is all over the place, as is my consciousness, and man! Did my ankle HURT. If you follow me at all on social media, you know I whined for weeks. Weeks and weeks and weeks. Months really. If you know me in real life, you got more whining, in the form of texts. Emails. Conversation. It was miserable. I was miserable. My husband was miserable. Again, do not recommend. </p><p>In all this whining, I don’t think it ever once occurred to the surgeon that my agonizing. My displeasure in my current life and situation. My new and awful personal hardships...had ANYTHING to do with him and his surgery performance. Why would it? How could it? He didn’t force me to play pickle ball in shitty tennis shoes the day after a holiday spent standing in wedges. He didn’t have anything to do with me being fat and out of shape. Nor is he old enough to have anything to do with my genetic make up, that might have precluded me to such a fate. He’s just the guy with the skills who is trying to help me make it through this patch. </p><p>So, why, I ask, are teachers taking anything parents say about how difficult, awful and life-altering virtual or hybrid learning is, personally? Did they create this virus? Did they shut down the schools? Are they the reason we parents are stuck home trying to suffer through our careers while herding our children? </p><p>Because, as far as I can tell, they are the surgeons. Trying to make the best of this horrendous and impossible situation. They are the ones altering their plans to try and educate our children. They are on call, working around the clock, constantly having to maneuver through this. Some of them are parents themselves! Muddling through both sides. They are the trained professionals in which we entrust a huge part of our children’s’ future. And though, not unlike my surgery, the process is painful and long and unforgiving through this disaster of a year, we know it must be done. And frankly, because I complain about everything, I’m going to complain about the most difficult moments. The quarantining, the electronics failures, the emails. Oh my. ALL THE EMAILS. </p><p>Parents and teachers are a team. We must be. We always should have been. We actually have the exact same goal. And the administration has the toughest job of all...trying to keep everyone safe. Educated. Maybe even happy (content might be a better word). We all have a common enemy, and it’s a pandemic. Literally every member of this team is on edge. Has been since March. Nearly a year. </p><p>So, I implore everyone, parents and teachers alike, to take a step back. And a deep breath. And realize, we are in this together. Like it or not. And it sucks. </p>ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-79847633272838853322020-08-02T14:11:00.001-05:002020-08-02T14:19:58.905-05:00But, what if someone dies?Tonight, my husband told me I was "stressing him out." I asked for clarification, as I've actually felt the most at peace I've been since March! So, this came as a bit of a shock. He told me it was because of my "defeatist attitude about the start of school".<br />
<br />
You see, like most parents (and I'm assuming teachers) felt, I am straight up terrified of a repeat March and April. It was a DISASTER. There was the underlying stress of the panic due to the pandemic with the expectation to carry on, at home, with some kind of continued education of our grade school age children. In my case, a 5th, a 3rd, a 2nd, a K and a Pre-Ker. I am NOT exaggerating when I say that we accomplished nothing. Nada. Zero. If my kids managed to turn in even 50% of their assignments, I guarantee you they were neither complete nor correct. The level of home discord we achieved on a daily basis was enough to send even the most sane human to the funny farm. My children could mostly be found on the floor crying if not on an electronic device.<div><br /></div><div>Let me be clear, I'm not criticizing schools or teachers. They were tasked with the impossible, and I applaud their effort. I applaud their continued efforts. I just cannot go through it again and besides abandoning my patients during their time of heightened need (because, turns out long-standing stress, panic and fear wreaks havoc on more than just the mental - which I also treat - but the physical begins to deteriorate) I can't stop working either. I say this, because if someone tries to argue that the true fault is that of the American work structure, I'm calling BS in my particular situation, as well as many others. </div><div><br /></div><div>I need to see patients. Period. There's no getting around it...and for a lot of jobs...there is NO getting around it!! (Well, unless we mass produce robots to stock the grocery shelves and bag up groceries and deliver them to your door. Or robots to take vitals and manage meds on inpatients, flip them, help them to the commode, you know, all the things. Or robots to take over my job even...hold on, I think I'm on to something!!)<br />
<br />
Because of this experience, as well as my area of expertise (Family Physician, with a side of super stats/data nerd) I decided, with some encouragement of some other school members, I needed to be part of the school's re-opening process and task force. It shouldn't be that difficult, since somewhere around the last week in February, I've been incessantly studying (from afar) the Coronavirus. These motives were not purely selfish. My privileged, white children will be fine without a year or two of education and socialization. I could not, however, get over the idea that if I struggled this much to stay mentally healthy, physically healthy, electronically savvy, organized enough to do anything, then how on earth are those in far worse conditions faring??!!!<br />
<br />
We {the task force} spent hours. Days. Pouring over and coming up with good strategies. Strategies influenced by the top pediatricians, Harvard, the CDC, and multiple incredibly reputable resources. I'd been trying my best to come at it from a place of reason and logic.<br />
<br />
Weighing the benefits and risks of everything we do as individuals as well as everything we do as a society. Like peeling an onion, we went through layers and layers of situations. What ifs. Weighing both the now and the future.<br />
<br />
I obsessed and poured over the data.<br /><br />
I wanted so badly to be able to come up with good solutions. Good options. Something that might work for everyone involved. Words of comfort and wisdom for my colleagues, administrators, patients, friends, family.</div><div><br /></div><div>But, no matter the solution, there were always critics to shut down every option. No answer pleased everyone. <br />
<br />
Turns out, there simply is no reasoning when the only barometer against which we are measuring what we do, which next steps to take, how we should go about living and moving forward is, "But, what if someone dies?"<br />
<br />
I've treated this no different than any illness I encounter as a physician.<br />
<br />
But. That's where I went wrong. That's the piece of the puzzle I could never solve, nor overcome.<br />
<br />
There is no other illness as publicized and polarized than this. It defies all logic and reason from every dimension.<br />
<br />
Did you know, there are currently estimated to be 2.1 BILLION mentions of Coronavirus in the media, whilst tuberculosis - THE NUMBER ONE WORLDWIDE CAUSE OF DEATH BY AN INFECTIOUS DISEASE - has less than 3 million mentions. TUBERCULOSIS!! This has both a vaccine and a CURE. *mind blown emoji* And since children always seem to be such a gut-wrenching figure - there were 205,000 TB deaths under the age of 18 last year. By comparison, (reports worldwide range with 0-0.8% of all COVID deaths are children - definition varies, so for argument sake, I'm going with the highest percentage) there have been approx 5,486 deaths of children, worldwide in 5 months. That would end up with around 13,167 deaths in a year, IF nothing gets better.<br /><br /></div><div>
Try, now, to convince me that we care about lives...</div><div><br /></div><div>...ALL lives that is. Black lives. American Lives. European lives. 3rd world country lives. Poor lives. </div><div><br /></div><div>Because, I can't help but see it that we let thousands upon thousands upon thousands of people die. EVERY year. From a treatable disease...simply because it doesn't really affect us directly. It's not really here. In America. Amongst the rich. The white. The healthy. The successful.</div><div><br /></div><div>But now. NOW. All of a sudden there's a virus that affects US ALL. "No one is safe" (though, clearly there are demographics who are...) so let's drastically change all of society!?? To the potential demise of our entire country for one reason or another. I know, I'm getting off topic, but my brain goes down this perplexing rabbit hole. Every. Time. </div><div>
<br />
...ok, back here again, waiting to hear about how much we care about our lives...<br /><br />
If the barometer I used was simply, "but, what if someone dies". I would never, ever, EVER prescribe another medication again. EVER.<br />
<br />
I ask all physicians, how often do you refrain from prescribing a recommended and vital medication because compliance might not be 100%? How often do you prescribe a new medication and tell the patient it is 100% safe? That there is no chance of adverse reaction? Ranging from a simple rash to kidney damage to death? If you are, then please, tell me!! What are and where are these meds!!!?? <br />
<br />
Ok, ok. You're not going to tell me...because they don't exist.<br />
<br />
So, returning to reality and good old-fashioned medicine, we have to deal within the constraints of what we've got...and that's simply, WEIGHING THE BENEFITS VS THE RISKS.<br />
<br />
I do not recommend the same medication for the same disease to every person. I take into account many things, age, presentation, other medications, vitals, previous treatments, compliance, cost, labwork, etc.<br />
<br />
Just like, I don't think there is one solution that works for every single family or teacher. This is a novel virus with bizarre and wide-ranging presentations. From asymptomatic to deadly. The spread isn't fully understood yet (but in my vast researching, my personal hypothesis is that a person is highly infectious for only a very short period - possibly less than 24 hours - but during that time they can get to a lot of people. It's really the only thing that makes sense...but I digress). You are absolutely allowed to be scared, nervous, and make the decisions you deem right for you and your family.<br />
<br />I'm tempted here, to go into a long drawn out explanation of the numbers. The stats. The facts. The COVID numbers vs flu, vs car accidents, vs suicides, vs all of it!! But in the ever so wise words of my husband, "facts don't change minds". And, my goal here (if I have one...I think that ship sailed about 17 paragraphs {ramblings} ago) is not to change anyone's mind, but more to urge you to use it. Use your own brain. Please, stop being convinced by one-sided, dramatic, click-bait media. Take a deep breath and look at what you really think/want/believe for your own family. </div><div><br /></div><div>We all have some really hard choices to make.<br />
<br />
At some point, people need to be accountable and responsible for themselves. I have not seen my own father for 6 months. He is physically distancing and taking all the precautions. Benefits vs Risks. He weighed his own. He's retirement age at nearly 70 with a history of cancer, among other health issues. He misses us and we him. We usually spend time at the farm and lake together. He knows he has done his best to stay safe and healthy, and that's about all we can hope for...the rest is up to fate. </div><div>
<br />
If you need your kids home to feel safe. Keep them there. If you have the opportunity to teach remotely or take the year off the job, then do it. (This is a personal decision, we all had to make. Anyone in the public, essential, front line has had to make this difficult decision, keep my same income? Or find an alternative? What's the benefit of keeping this job vs the risks?) These options exist!! But steadily, the other option, that is so needed for so many, of sending your young children somewhere for care and education is slipping away. These people don't even get a choice. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sigh.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now to quote my even more wise 11 year old: I hate COVID 19.</div>ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-58384407935817235882020-05-14T14:54:00.000-05:002020-05-14T15:06:47.334-05:00Is it ok to always be "Wonder Woman"?<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I've been barreling down this hill of life, never looking back...always steamrolling forward toward some goal or destination. </span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My hill of life seems to have no steep peaks or valleys...it's straight down . </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And, the material I wear acts as a lint roller...just picking up more and more items as I go. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">None of them slowing me down. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yet.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Then, when I hit these tiny bumps, such as boulders or trees in my path (I get sick or pregnant or injured), I get this little glimpse of what life would be like if I suddenly couldn't carry these items anymore. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Some of the items fall off, and need to be gathered back up quickly before they roll away. And as much as it pains me to the core, it's not a job for just one person. I need help...or to simply let go.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As these items scurry away, I see it's way too much for another person to add all that I can no longer carry to their own load. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I don't care how much this person loves me, or my items. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">How selfish of me to think it's ok to carry all of this. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I think: I owe apologies to my loved ones. But, hopefully, they all support me, because they see where I am going?</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yet...try as I might to let them roll away, I still want these items. And more. I still want it all. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So, I pop back up, sometimes stronger and more determined than before. I gather it all back.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I feel so unsettled and unsatisfied, all the time. But just within myself. There's just some gnawing little fire, whispering...keep going...you're not there yet...there's more...</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My fire to live every moment to the fullest and BEST reignites, and my engine starts pushing me back down that hill. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And here. Barreling forward, is where I feel at peace. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And I wonder. Does everyone feel this way?</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Does everyone feel that they have some unspoken message within them? Some unexplored, dormant or inactive potential? </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Or do people exist that are simply complacent? They are exactly where they want to be? Could I be like that? Will I know when it's too much. When to let go?</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I wouldn't change a single thing that led me to here. I LOVE here. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But, not enough to stay put.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So, I will continue to travel, hastily down this hill, and I'll continue to pick things up. And I just hope, in the end, I'll have made a only a positive difference. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I think that's what makes it all worth the trip?</span></div>
ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-65332062919002883162020-04-15T12:26:00.002-05:002020-04-15T12:27:52.422-05:00The Problem with Panic. Hysteria. And Chaos.<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Like most people, I typically keep my keys in one of three places: my purse, the key hooks or the counter by the door (or more recently, on top of the microwave). On occasion, I might leave them in my coat pocket, or a sweatshirt pocket. On even rarer occasion, that sweatshirt makes it all the way up to my closet. I might even empty the contents of my pockets and set it on the mantle in our bedroom. And, much to my husband's chagrin, I will also occasionally leave them in the car. </span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When not in a rush, I very succinctly go through these procedures to find my keys, and invariably; I am successful. I've never actually lost my keys (*knock on wood*). </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When in a rush, this process becomes a bit more sporadic. Instead of starting from most likely spot to least, I sort of bumble around. And, eventually, after location after location proves unfruitful, I start to feel the <span class="il">panic</span>. I start to actually question what I know to be true! The simple procedures that I once knew to work without fail, that seemed almost reflexive...seem to have vanished.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When did I last have them? Where could they be? I rush to make sure the car is still in the driveway and hasn't been stolen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because I was already in a rush, and now I've been bumbling around for 10 minutes that I didn't have to spare to begin with, I'm now in full on <span class="il">panic</span> mode. Hysterics really. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I can feel how clouded my brain is. I can feel my heart rate rising. I can feel agitation. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So many unnecessary thoughts flood my brain. I can't stop for coffee now. Patients will be waiting for me. Is my kid is sitting alone feeling scared or sad no parent is there to pick them up? Do I keep looking for keys or do I take the time to stop and call to give a heads up that I'm late...further delaying my departure? Could they be in my husband's car and he's gone?</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Question, after question, after question comes wafting in like tsunami. Questions I can no longer prioritize. Questions for which there used to be clear and simple answers.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If someone's home, I've looped them into the search. I'm insisting my husband help. He's calm, because he's thinking the obvious: "Where's the last place you saw them?"</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But, in my current panicked state, that information, which is normally VERY retrievable, is simply gone.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's vanished. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am almost paralyzed.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At this point, I fear I might never find them. I feel defeated. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If no one is home, I'm considering who I can call to get me to work. Or who can bring my kid home? I've looped so many unnecessary people into this procedure. I've interrupted their lives and routines. I'm frustrated, mad at myself, mad at things that don't have anything to do with the current situation, like "if our house wasn't such a disaster in the first place, then this wouldn't happen." "Why do I even need a purse!? Clothing should have more pockets." "How dare Matt leave this house before he's sure I have and know where my keys are." (Everything's his fault...am I right?)</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've done all the texting. I've got arrangements made, and take a deep breath. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I calm down and start again.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Not on the key hooks. Not on the counter.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I go look in my purse...</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">...and there they are. Buried under some coupons that I always keep and never use. (Why!!!???)</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And that, my friends and colleagues, is why I choose to not panic. Why I refuse to watch and listen to this hysteria. Why I will read educational articles from non-political sources and simply...</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">...remain calm, follow procedure and continue to use the knowledge I know to be true</span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">.</span></div>
</div>
ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-35007022126572242352020-02-14T20:29:00.000-06:002020-02-14T20:39:40.051-06:00George turns 8.As Matt and I sat, listening to George's teacher discuss his progress, we glanced throughout the room, noticing all the 2nd grade classroom art and various decor. Directly behind the teacher was a large billboard of adorable pink pigs, relatively uniform in their construction. Clearly, the children were given pre-cut pieces for each of the body parts, and potentially shown an example of how one should/could assemble them (which was the pig with it's head situated on the right, facing you, attached to a standing profile of the body.) Though each pig had its own little flair of uniqueness, they were all relatively identical.<br />
<br />
With the exception of one pig.<br />
<br />
This pig was sitting on it's rump, it was squarely facing you, it's body behind it, and it's tail behind that. This pig seemed happy, and content, and really not anything like a rebel. Just, simply different from the others.<br />
<br />
Maybe this pig didn't listen to the instructions?<br />
Maybe this pig did, and just didn't feel like facing the right, today.<br />
Maybe this pig heard everything, actually wanted to follow instructions, really tried, but for some reason, signals just get crossed. What goes in, does not necessarily come back out as we all expected.<br />
<br />
As if, maybe, instructions go through some sort of jumbler.<br />
<br />
I'll give you zero guesses on who's pig was sitting, staring us directly in the face.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPeCquQx-I8jGOEudIEyWCJsMrp39mpCK9-j-jFdV7QnUiPcWWfmHijtrzRp5w8svSTjX4ogEDgGvMF18nERK58lOCmETnaDAb-QajwNOozhbVMmmwUVRBcYupAnf6-nbPro8ffP73LXCz/s1600/IMG_8054.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPeCquQx-I8jGOEudIEyWCJsMrp39mpCK9-j-jFdV7QnUiPcWWfmHijtrzRp5w8svSTjX4ogEDgGvMF18nERK58lOCmETnaDAb-QajwNOozhbVMmmwUVRBcYupAnf6-nbPro8ffP73LXCz/s320/IMG_8054.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
Since his birth, George has done things *not quite* right. (Literally. He actually came out "sunny side up" - aka upside down.) Though we always attributed this to his goofy nature...we've actually never been quite sure if his antics are purposeful or a happy mistake. I'm not sure he knows either.<br />
<br />
His faces. The way he talks. The words he uses. The way he holds a pencil. The way he dresses. His accessories. His ideas. His stories.<br />
<br />
{I think people take psychedelic drugs to bend and warp the world around them to see what George sees naturally.}<br />
<br />
Of all my children, he is the one I've worried most about sending to Catholic school. Or, pretty much any school. He's as square a peg as I've ever seen...and we are trying to send him through a round hole.<br />
<br />
He's smart. He's kind. He's funny. He has friends. He's compassionate (so much so, he's won this virtue twice.) His teachers love and appreciate him.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhztfuo5Vkpr7SNgK25W_Usq-dyRofGoClDH8y92J8iZ3D6gW-lCkoSYHTqycwuCs5qdGxTKY8y8-gT1ftIjZA2NaqpC4o5kjGmp3FclcYK4tsVUk1BSX_X5gon_SdfhGcjK86EPvKyAReo/s1600/IMG_2781.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhztfuo5Vkpr7SNgK25W_Usq-dyRofGoClDH8y92J8iZ3D6gW-lCkoSYHTqycwuCs5qdGxTKY8y8-gT1ftIjZA2NaqpC4o5kjGmp3FclcYK4tsVUk1BSX_X5gon_SdfhGcjK86EPvKyAReo/s320/IMG_2781.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6d8Wo4Yii0RFvqcTPpbh0-RkVSfit5NqCJPFqGGvEZ9eJ7FHgmxAQeYlI3tbNQpFNPhnQ6_nALXJ4VZcVxEZzAuv3amhGU_1Hi3Tb1vM5DRAK-ZUYjon9fOYDa-JwWfBCnrdLuwOQyjA/s1600/IMG_3830.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6d8Wo4Yii0RFvqcTPpbh0-RkVSfit5NqCJPFqGGvEZ9eJ7FHgmxAQeYlI3tbNQpFNPhnQ6_nALXJ4VZcVxEZzAuv3amhGU_1Hi3Tb1vM5DRAK-ZUYjon9fOYDa-JwWfBCnrdLuwOQyjA/s320/IMG_3830.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
He's CREATIVE. So incredibly, naturally, accidentally creative. It's as if every experience involves all 5 senses for him. You will never see George simply eat a meal with a spoon or fork. His fingers get involved somehow, his face, his clothes...a slotted spoon, a straw...you just never really know.<br />
<br />
I don't worry about his success, or making his way in this world.<br />
<br />
I do worry about crushing his spirit. Seems that's the only way to get a square peg through a round hole - you know - to crush it a bit.<br />
<br />
George turns 8 this week. I want nothing more than for him to continue to enjoy this life to the fullest! I don't want him to see it as a bunch of difficult, stringent hurdles he's being forced to jump. I also want him to find a way to fit in, just enough, to get through those round holes without losing his shape.<br />
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Gosh, I just love that kid and his incredibly distinctive peculiarities.<br />
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I mean, and maybe I'm just partial to the misfits, but long before I knew the fat, front facing, sitting pig was his, I knew it was my favorite.ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-76093305083663863132020-01-17T19:25:00.001-06:002020-01-21T08:43:02.025-06:00Physician as a Career?<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">On a rare Sunday morning, I woke and had the time to make breakfast for my kids and their cousin who'd stayed the night. My nephew said, "Thanks Aunt Erin, I feel like I never see you." To which my oldest (10) stated very matter-of-factly, with no ill-intent, "That's because she's never home."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Being a full time, private practice physician and mom to 5 kids, with a healthy social life, it's extremely common to get a variation of the question, "Will you support/suggest your kids become a doctor?" More specifically, I've gotten, "Would you want your daughter to go into medicine?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">You can't help but take this to mean, "Are you happy with your decision to go into medicine?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Despite the ever-changing climate, and somewhat significant downsides (insurance requirements/EMR/ commitment in both time and emotional energy), medicine still remains a stable career. If you become a board certified physician there is (are) a (million) job(s) for you. This job will not be low income. This job is something you can always be proud of (if practiced correctly) and full of satisfaction, knowing you are helping and treating your fellow man. This job typically comes with an element of automatic "respect" in society. This job allows you to use your knowledge daily, as well as expand your knowledge daily. It's good for the curious, it's good for the creative, it's good for the caring. This job has no specific personality type.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">As a mother, probably my single greatest goal is to raise 5 happy, self sufficient, contributory members of society. That's it. Do I think having a career in medicine can accomplish this? Absolutely.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Will I caution them? Yes. Will I sugar-coat the state of medicine? No.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I think as a mother, we can see, from an extremely early age, our children's strengths. Their weakness. Their struggles. What motivates them. What frustrates them. So, I'd like to think I would counsel them appropriately if they came to me, interested in the medical profession. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'd tell them that becoming a physician requires patience, determination, dedication, confidence, sacrifice. So, so, so much sacrifice. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'd tell them, no matter what you go into, inpatient, outpatient, surgery, specialties, primary care, you will work more hours than you want to, and some days will be hard. So very hard. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Some days will be hard and without reward. The outcome won't be great. The patient you spent so many hours treating, worrying about, caring for might not get better. You might be giving the hardest news any human ever has to hear. They might die. They might not appreciate your services. They get mad at you. Give you poor reviews. Abuse you, for lack of better term, all because you did what was best for them to the best of your knowledge and training (which will be extensive, grueling and perhaps the hardest trial of your life.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Some days will be hard, yet wonderful. You might deliver a baby, bring life into this world. You might be the one to tell someone their cancer is gone. You get to help someone through a rough patch. You are trusted by your patients in their most vulnerable of times. You'll get to hug someone who comes in with a smile on their face to thank you for saving their life. You save lives. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">You save people from acute infections, from ruptured appendixes, from traumas, from cancer, from mental illness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">YOU SAVE LIVES! You change lives. You improve lives. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">But to do this, you risk destroying life. You bear the heaviest of burden. Practicing medicine is such an honorable profession that comes with the deepest responsibilities. And the scariest outcomes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">You have to KNOW the answer. And if you don't know the answer, you need to KNOW that you don't know. You must first be humble...and then you better figure out the answer, or where to get it. There is no giving up in medicine. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">And, because there's no giving up, some days you will miss Holidays. Your family. Your friends. Your spouse. Your kids. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The hardest part, as a parent, will be missing your children's sporting events, school programs, recitals, birthdays, bedtimes, bath times, and yes, even Sunday morning breakfasts. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">You hope they all understand. You hope they know you'd be there if you could. You hope they know you're not picking a stranger's well-being over theirs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">You hope they know that you've been bestowed an incredible gift, and that, for some reason, you've been called to share it. Really, one of the truest forms of altruism. You hope that maybe they even love and respect you for it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">In fact, maybe, just maybe, they will love and respect you soooo much for it...they want to be it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So, when you ask, will I support my child going into medicine? The short answer? Absolutely, and with caution.</span></div>
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ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-22973290992842911962019-08-25T12:33:00.000-05:002019-08-25T12:33:25.756-05:00Death by ChartingIt's 10pm.<br />
<br />
Seven days before Christmas.<br />
<br />
I'm sitting at work "finishing" up some charts.<br />
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I am suddenly overcome with anger.<br />
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WHAT am I doing here right now?? At this minute? I am helping NO ONE.<br />
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This work I'm typing away at, trying so hard not to just scream, it's hoops. Fucking hoops. For insurance companies. So I can BEG them to pay me. Pay me peons for the hard, good. compassionate, humanitarian work I'm out here trying to do, but can't, because of this.<br />
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This death trap of notes.<br />
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I put quotations around "finished" because, at this moment, I know, no matter how diligently I try. No matter how much time I spend here. Typing. Instead of completing my shopping list for my 5 children. Instead of seeing my husband AT ALL today. Instead of eating a complete meal. Instead of enjoying the rest of the evening, after finishing clinic at 8pm, to provide walk-in hours for my sick patients. I will quite literally, NEVER BE FINISHED.<br />
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I am typing away.<br />
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Clicking box after box after box after box after box after box after box.<br />
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Reading reminders on each patient. Have they gotten their mammogram? Their pap? Their flu shot? Their colonoscopy? Have you checked their labs? Their HgA1c at least twice this year? Have you talked to them about their "health care goals"?<br />
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Did you order an Xray within 30 days of their acute back pain? You did? Ok...ding...you're no longer a "quality" physician. So...we're going to actually pay you less.<br />
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As quickly as I resolve them, new results come in. New documents. From specialists. Labs. Physical therapists. Insurance.<br />
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F.U.C.K.I.N.G insurance.<br />
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Under the guise that they "care". That they are courteously reminding me of all the "missing" items for the "quality" care of my patients.<br />
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Do you know what quality care is!??<br />
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I do. It's my passion. I love speaking to people. Meeting them. Getting to know who they are. What makes them tick. What makes them enjoy life. Are they enjoying life? Are they not? What's stopping them? Is it mental? Is it physical? Is it chemical? Is it biological? I have these answers. All of them...if I just had the time to dig a little bit. The time to help them trust me. To understand their communication style. The time to really, REALLY understand their healthcare goals.<br />
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If I were allowed to do it my way, I could help all of my patients.<br />
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But, instead, I am in front of this horrid, white, glowing, screen...typing away.<br />
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As I type, I'm neglecting something.<br />
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My patients can't stand it. They confuse lack of time, with lack of compassion.<br />
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We don't care about them. We don't return their calls. We don't get their forms in on time. We don't give their lab results until 2 weeks after their drawn. Their referral wasn't sent. Their refill wasn't sent.<br />
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I hate it more than they do.<br />
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I am a problem solver. I like solutions. I like to help.<br />
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Sitting here. Typing. At now 10:24pm, is the last thing on EARTH I ever wanted to be doing.<br />
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Yet, here I am.<br />
<br />
Drowning.<br />
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In this, slow death by charting.<br />
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<br />ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-6060001950823876752019-01-07T00:15:00.001-06:002019-01-07T00:21:28.643-06:00Hello 2019, Farewell 2018.I ran into one of our favorite former neighbors tonight at swim lessons tonight. She so genuinely asked, "how are you!? How have things been?" I replied, just as genuinely, "Great, actually. I mean, really, really good. Things are as crazy as ever, and we never have a chance to sit down, but I don't think I'd want it any other way." Her kid was done with his lesson, and we parted ways, but the thought lingered, have I been great? Am I one of those people that misleads everyone into thinking an actually VERY difficult life, is one that is beautiful, fun and "perfect"?<br />
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When I think of the negatives from 2018, they're pretty significant. The most recent being, the loss of Matt's uncle Martin. Just days before Christmas. The others began in March, with the rupture of my achilles tendon. An injury that resulted in, not only significant pain, large medical bills, some existential crises, a brief depression, a strained husband, and early retirement from the sport of Pickleball, but a HUGE loss in income. Like, 6 weeks worth gone...even though I didn't take more than 4 full days off, despite surgery, a cast, and no weight-bearing for weeks. Then one month, nearly to the day, when both Matt and I probably couldn't have felt any lower or more strained, his job went through a HUGE round of lay offs...including him. In the span of 4 weeks, we went from potentially planning an addition on the house, or a big, family European vacation to just trying to open our eyes in the morning and not simply give up. A bruised ankle. A bruised ego. And our savings vanishing. The Spring of 2018 has only one stint in the life of Erin & Matt that could potentially match it in lows...Spring of 2011, when I both failed a board exam and didn't match into my residency of choice...oh, and Matt got let go then as well. Can the employers suddenly sense his strain from my failures!!??<br />
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He went the whole Summer, without a job, but home with the kids! I view this as a very positive experience. If he ever wants the job of SAHD, I am ALL IN!! It was heavenly. To know your kids are taken care of by their father. Not having to coordinate anything. I would gladly work 60+ hour weeks if I knew he was home with the kids.<br />
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The kids did swim team for the first time. Curtis narrowly missing level II's on only his 3rd 25 backstroke, ever! Such a fantastic experience, we all loved it. We had true Pool rats this Summer.<br />
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We went to Bunkerhill with my family. To the lake with my dad. To the farm. Twice.<br />
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We hosted the 4th of July for the 3rd or 4th year in a row. Neighbors joined. Family joined. It was a blast.<br />
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School started. Brock plays an instrument he loves. Matt and I went on a lovely vacation to Cancun, just the 2 of us. Though, our pet bird Slushie passed away, it allowed us to welcome Ducky. A much younger, friendlier and more trainable parakeet.<br />
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And, I launched right into my injury, skipping our wonderful early Spring. We went to San Antonio. The kids' first flights! The whole trip, I have only fond memories. The kids are steamrolling into fun ages. We truly are in the sweet spot with the kids. No diapers. No naps. No hormonal teens. Just sweet, innocent, inquisitive, beautiful kids.<br />
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The 4 youngest played Soccer. Curtis making huge strides. George the high scorer. Mitch met future classmates. Diana stole the show.<br />
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Diana started dance. Formally. Who are we kidding? She's always been in "dance".<br />
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Brock, begrudgingly played tackle football. Loved seeing those adorable boys in their pads and helmets.<br />
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I went to Vegas, via PJ, with my longest and bestest friend, as well as our mothers.<br />
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All three of my boys were awarded "virtues" in school at some point this year, which makes me feel we are doing something right. But, there I go again, forgetting that we also had many a meeting about George, and even Brock. Struggling with schoolwork and participation at times.<br />
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Brock rocked it with him trombone in the Christmas program. After stressing to the point of it affecting his schoolwork for the 10 days leading up to it.<br />
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Matt did finally, get a job. He's now at KuMed. EXACTLY what he wanted. Honestly, he had started searching before getting let go...the job loss timing just couldn't have been worse.<br />
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Curtis, Brock and I snuck away to St. Louis for a little mom-son birthday trip.<br />
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We celebrated Thanksgiving in our home, with 40+ family members.<br />
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We all remained healthy for Christmas, and spent it with our closest loved ones. Santa even visited and spoiled those children rotten.<br />
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We attended endless social events, game nights, weddings, showers, celebrations with our friends and family, new and old!<br />
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Ending the year with a nice dinner party, including a handful of our closest friends. Eating great food, and playing fun games. Brock, Curtis and George actually staying up to ring in the New Year for the first time.<br />
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I list all of these, and it's what I remember. I smile. I loved it all. But, I'm truly leaving out the part about how much money all these events cost. How much time and energy I put into hosting Thanksgiving, school parties, etc in addition to working 45 hours a week. I do have moments where I am insanely stressed. Where, perhaps, I'm even bitter. Moments where I'm not sure it's worth it. Weeks where I feel overwhelmed because I haven't been home enough to do one single load of laundry, nor make a meal, nor read my child a book. I know I this happens, but, it's not the highlight in my head.<br />
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My memories of 2018 are filled with joy. With the beauty of childhood. With a true appreciation for health. Family. Friends. Jobs. And, perhaps, more than anything, my husband. During this insane rollercoaster that was 2018, we became even closer. Respect one another just that much more. And our love and partnership has never been stronger nor more in sync.<br />
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So, you all can call me delusional. Crazy. Misleading. A liar. But, I mean it when I say, "I'm good. And things are really great."<br />
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And, let me close with these wise words: Whatever doesn't kill you, makes you stronger.<br />
<br />ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-20207187422647125962018-11-02T13:49:00.001-05:002018-11-02T20:24:29.698-05:00All out WARdrobe.I'd secretly been planning it for months. Heck, maybe it's even been a year. Scheming. I'd been dropping some hints. Sending some emails. I'm pretty sure the hubs knew it was coming, eventually...but never really when. I had started collecting a small pile. An assortment of colors. But, what began in one season, finally came to fruition in a completely opposite time of year.<br />
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Spring. No, Summer. Ok, definitely Fall. Nothing was going to stop me now. Then, it started raining. Raining for days. Not that silly saying, like after Halloween when we say: we have candy for days. Literal DAYS it was raining for...weeks really! Every single weekend was ruined by rain and sports games and even the occasional adult social event.<br />
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Then, suddenly, the rain stopped. The kids had a 4 day break. The temperatures approached the 70's at times. The sun shone. The trees!! Those breath-taking, Kansas City fall trees almost seemed to glow in the sunlight. We had mountains of laundry to do, Halloween costumes to assemble, groceries to buy for the impending school and work week. The list of To-Do's just seems to accumulate and never diminish, doesn't it? But, I couldn't handle it anymore. The kids needed showers real bad anyway. (I'm not admitting how long it had been since their last bathing.) That's it! We are getting outside to perhaps the most the beautiful park in the city, just blocks away from us. The children are going to wear those clothes I had been assembling FOR. EVER. And we are simply getting an updated photo of each individual child, as well as the five of them together.<br />
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One. One photo of each child. One. One photo of the group. ONE!!!!!!!!!!!!<br />
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So. I took a deep breath. I briefly, and with no choices presented, prepared the husband for what I was about to do...and then...I did it!<br />
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I interrupted the video games. The movies. The fort building. I called all the little ones to attention. And I said, "Guys, we are all taking a shower real quick, then getting dressed to go to Loose Park to take one picture."<br />
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KABOOM!!!!! Went the bomb.<br />
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They scattered. The oldest in tears, all but actually ran away. The 2 youngest boys rolled on the floor as if they had actually been hit with shrapnel. The second child just shriveled up to die a lonely, sad, pathetic death; it must have been some sort of chemical nuclear warhead for him. And, the girl? Well, bombs apparently don't work on her, because she hopped up and raised her hand saying, "Me!!! Me! Can I shower first!?" (Perhaps, the military should have been full of women?)<br />
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After much, non-negotiations. Threats of no Trunk or Treat. No Halloween. No birthdays. No candy ever again. Then the option to stay home, alone. Oh and by the way, no more screens EVER again. Then begging. Explanation over and over about how simple this could be. That if they would just comply we could have this whole process done in under and hour and have time to actually PLAY in the park on this most beautiful day of Fall. Each of them slowly gave in. Showers were had and clothing...well...the clothing nearly killed a few of them.<br />
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Three kids would be easier to wrangle and photograph anyway.<br />
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I was already writing two of the boys' combined obituary in my head:<br />
<i>October 28th, 2018 just weeks before his tenth birthday, the oldest son, succumbed to death by wool sweater and leather shoes with no socks. The texture and itchy sensation, as well as the flexibility of the material, making it momentarily difficult to free his hand from the sleeve, were just too much for his feeble mind and body to tolerate. Though attempts were made to allow for socks briefly, or an alternative pair of shoes until the actual photograph was to take place, it was too late.</i><br />
<i> In a similar fate, his five year old brother overheated and collapsed due to an additional sweater vest atop his already much too restrictive, collared, button down dress shirt. Shortly, before his untimely death, insult to injury was added when his mother attempted to put on some ill-fitting TOMS...</i><br />
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Addendum to previous release:<br />
<i>...then, in a surprising turn of events, the two boys were begrudgingly resuscitated as the thought of no more screens for eternity acted as a defibrillator and they returned to the awful, torturous life of a child about to be photographed. In nice clothing. On a nice day. In a beautiful park. </i><br />
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So, on we went. With more crying. More threats. More bribes. Car seat arrangement arguments. And finally, arrival to the park. Where, suddenly, the open air. The freshness. The release from captivity. Whatever the reason, it elated everyone's mood. The children began to venture out and scout for their special "photo spot". They forgot about the clothing on their backs and shoes upon their feet. The worries and cares about holding still for a measly, life-altering, FORTY FIVE SECONDS vanished.<br />
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We found a reasonable spot. A nice stone wall, the shade, and maybe a bit of tree and leaves. I arranged the children in what seemed a cute set up. The oldest insisting on choking his two brothers. The girl constantly moving. The oldest then doing some bizarre and incredibly awkward squat-type pose. The 5 year old trying to simply wander off. I frantically jumped up and down, pointed at the lense saying "Look here. Look RIGHT here. Guys, right here. At the camera. Please, look at the camera. Ewwwww! Daddy tooted, P.U. Hey!! The Camera. Right here. Ok, giving daddy bunny ears. Ignore the leaves. Ignore your brother. This could be over if you all would look here RIGHT NOW."<br />
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Pedestrians in the park watched the spectacle and smiled. I mean, I'm always willing to entertain, but if I'm so funny, WHY AREN'T THE KIDS {expletive} LOOKING AND SMILING!??<br />
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Voila. {At the very least} an hour later, we have our lovely {much left to be desired} photo. Peace has been restored. And we sprint home...<br />
<br />
...for another all out WARdrobe change...into costumes.ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-76505073087376685022018-09-28T13:29:00.000-05:002018-09-28T18:02:20.748-05:00ADHDI've been thinking about ADHD a lot lately (can we say hyper-focus).<br />
<br />
It's funny, I've always viewed mine as a distinct advantage over those that are "neurotypical" aka "boring" *winky face*. And, when I say mine, I mean, my suspected ADHD. Or alleged. Never formally diagnosed nor treated, because, why?<br />
<br />
Long ago, I developed systems that work for me. I struggle(d) to sit still, so I took restroom breaks. In high school, I remember being asked, more than once, if I ever actually went to class (then in college, I simply didn't.) I read my books upside down in an attempt to make them more challenging and keep my attention. I "hid" doing word searches during class inside my desk (the teachers HAD to know I was doing this, but I'm sure they were like, "shhhh, don't poke the bear, she is still and silent, FINALLY.")<br />
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I live(d) off of To-Do lists and planners. I love to organize. I've developed some OCD out of need for functionality. I studied in loud places, because that was the only way I could tell if I was actually retaining information...I didn't hear a sound.<br />
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I always thought I was a skeptic. And that this skepticism is why I never took words at face value, nor completed tasks in the same way as my peers. Then I realized, it's because my brain does not see things in the same way. Simple questions on normal paperwork stump me. (i.e. Relationship: ummm, my relationship to them or their relationship to me!? Agh, umm, I don't know. They are my son and I'm their mother. So...do I write Mother? Or Son? Or Mother-Son?) Yet, complicated, strange, intense and difficult logic puzzles seem like common sense. For better for worse, I am ALWAYS "reading between the lines".<br />
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Clothes have never fit me correctly. In my logical brain, it doesn't make sense that I have THE MOST UNIQUE body-type to have ever existed that not one single piece of clothing fits properly. But that's what I believed, forever. Until it dawned on me. It's not the clothes...<br />
<br />
In fact, this constant wondering and seemingly obvious reinforcement that I was in fact, THE MOST UNIQUE person around, did nothing but bolster my confidence. I misread all of my bizarre little ADHD tics and strange neuro-connections as traits!! Like super top quality traits that could be interpreted as creative, original, innovative, imaginative, ingenious, resourceful. These words are sought after, things you want people to say about you.<br />
<br />
I live my life in ADD wonderland. People ask me how I manage to have more hours in the day? When your mind bounces from 30 different topics, and you're able to harness any of them, it appears you're being super productive. I can come up with a reasonable (and often super efficient, because ADHDers hate to waste time as it seems to just slip away) solution, for any problem. In fact, I can come up with endless solutions. I'm the "idea man" (but don't count on me to follow through.) As a result, I can find the positive in nearly all situations.<br />
<br />
And the energy. Oh, the energy ADHD gifts you is invaluable. Envious even. How do you think I could swim 6 hours a day and still "go" to school and excel? None. Stop. Energy.<br />
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In my experience, I would wish ADHD as a gift for everyone. It's fairly well-known that most of history's greatest inventors and scientists were blessed with this affliction. The first to come to mind is Albert Einstein...<br />
<br />
...wait a minute. Here it is. The flaw in my theories above. Einstein. Perhaps the most famous part of Einstein's story, is how much he struggled. How he forgot and lost things. Was distracted in class. Did not actually do all that well academically. His crazy hair, and unique personality. He simply, did not fit in, anywhere.<br />
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I think about this, and I think about my own children. I see my Brock, and mostly, my George. Oh how fascinating, funny and unique they are. I embrace all of their tics. Again, all those positive words come to mind. But then I see the struggle. How simple homework takes 2 hours, when it should take 2 minutes. How overwhelmed they get because all of those 30 topics swirling up there in their brain are too hard to harness. They can't seem to pull them down and line them up and see how much they can accomplish. Instead, they see hurdle after hurdle. They hear "be quiet, sit still, stop stretching your shirt, where are your shoes, where is your backpack, why can you not listen!?" I realize, not everyone with ADHD enjoys it. Not everyone gets mostly perks without a lot of consequences.<br />
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I smile, when I go to pick up my children from aftercare and see that every single back pack is lined along the wall, except for 2. Hanging from the hand rail, on the curve. George is right, it looks like the perfect hook for a backpack. I'm sure the instructions were to place your bag along the wall, but that curiosity, that eye, that impulsivity, it sets you apart. But it can set you back.<br />
<br />
I've been thinking about ADHD a lot lately. When do you get the diagnosis. Do you really want a formal diagnosis. When do you treat? Do you treat? Will the creativity disappear? Will your generous, sweet, wonderful child get negatively labeled? Is it worth it to keep that untouchable uniqueness yet struggle, day in and day out to stay afloat? For some with the condition, like me, the answer is easy. The hurdles just were lower, fewer and further between. For others, those hurdles are there before you even get to the bottom of the stairs in the morning.<br />
<br />
For some reason, my personality matched with ADHD was a great fit. Though, in hindsight, I remember my swim coaches saying "you could see it, the instant you walked on the deck, which Erin showed up. The one that could not and would not lose, or the one that would give up." In med school, once material got so intense and massive, I struggled at times. I was at the will of my hyper-focus times and if those didn't fall in good timing with exams...well, my performance yo-yo'd all over the place. Unlike Michael Phelps, I was never really able to figure out what made me tick. I still struggle, to this day. My mom was probably right, I should have done yoga or meditated - but to my over-active mind, that sounds like torture.<br />
<br />
I am not sure it's within my capabilities to be on time. Whether it's due to distraction, always searching for my phone, purse, keys, avoidance of being early and bored or straight up procrastination...I am always late. Despite all this, I feel I've nothing but flourished.<br />
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Such a fascinating, and necessary condition, ADHD. Our world would never advance without these out of the box thinkers. Without the rule benders. The boundary testers. The intense, hyper-focus that allows you to create a light bulb after thousands of failures. How boring would entertainment be without the new dance moves you create, the news sounds you connect, the jokes you make...the child's emporium of imagination! Disney!! Yes, he had ADHD too.<br />
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I guess, like pretty much everything for me, I'll continue to think about ADHD. A lot.<br />
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<br />ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-73146064329210601422018-05-08T20:20:00.000-05:002018-05-08T20:31:53.981-05:00Natural BeautyI don't know the exact age one suddenly becomes aware of their external appearance, but I feel like for me it landed somewhere in that super awkward 5th grade, age 11-12. I remember really wanting a pair of Gap overalls. Not just any overalls. Gap.<br />
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I think my best friend at the time kept pushing me to shave my legs and get a "training bra". Something I would have never wanted to do on my own. When I came to my mother about these things, she all but scoffed.<br />
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"Why would you want to shave your legs!? Then you have to just keep shaving them. It's such a pain. Put it off as long as you can."<br />
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"A bra!? Sweetie, you don't need that yet."<br />
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Don't even get me started on her opinion of make up before the age of 30!!<br />
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Even through my high school and college years, with my "athletic build" (aka lucky to even call them A cups, AKA pecs) my mother continued to be surprised that I would opt to wear a bra. As if it were an option!!?? We call this a societal norm, mother. *eye roll*<br />
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In hindsight, I realize that hair growing, Birkenstock wearing, bra-avoiding woman is and always was a hippie. Nevertheless, her "natural beauty" tendencies rubbed off on me. I couldn't help but agree, shaving is a pain (maybe that's why I swam, so I had an excuse not to), bras uncomfortable and make-up cumbersome. Add to this my impatience, inability to sit still and the tooth sensitivity of a 97 year old, we have the perfect storm of NO DESIRE to maintain hair nor face. Especially, in the spa type setting.<br />
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Part of my wants to believe my mother. That natural beauty is best. That I got her wonderful Lebanese skin, not my father's Irish genes. That I don't need to have a morning and night routine for my face. That it's ok to go 6-10 months between hairs cuts and 4-8 months between coloring. That maybe it's ok to just go grey. That even though I simply shower and put lotion on my face every 1-4 days, I will avoid that bastart named time. Sucking the life away from my once beautiful, youthful, strong, tight skin and body.<br />
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Yet, the logical side of my knows this isn't possible. I am not special. Then there's the perfectionist side of me (which I attempt to suppress on an hourly basis) can't just "let myself go".<br />
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I am finally getting to that point in life, where I look at pictures of myself and think, "Oh god. Delete that!!! I can't possibly, actually, in real life, look like that...f%#*" Delete. Delete. Delete. Please god, that was bad lighting or a f%#*ed up lens. Right!?<br />
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Based on the increasing frequency of this occurrence as well as the ever-evolving improvement of the phone camera...I think I might actually look like that.<br />
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I am 35, and, with this recent Achilles tendon rupture during a fun game of pickleball, feeling every bit of that age.<br />
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My hair is greying. My wrinkles becoming more evident. (Do I continue to lose weight and allow the wrinkles to multiply, or just keep the pounds which support my baby face?! Descisions, decisions.) My rosie red cheeks (also known as the skin condition Rosacea) is no longer "cute". Nor are the freckles (AKA sun spots, AKA pre-cancer) that fill my face, shoulders, arms and quite possibly back (I mean, I can't see back there.)<br />
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Basically, what I am trying to say, is that I have moments where I've decided, I'm too far gone. Time has done it again. Never will my skin, hair, body, ever look youthful again without some MAJOR help. The effort of which I don't think I'll ever be ready to give.<br />
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Then, I have a busy Saturday of running around, taking my children to sporting events, prepping for a birthday party scheduled for the next day. I'm Gimping about in my boot, feeling old and decrepit and questioning why I committed to going to a wedding tonight as well. Before I know it, the sitter will be arriving in 25 minutes, and I haven't even showered! Nor has Matt.<br />
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I sprint {hobble} to the shower, I dry my hair, I lather on some tinted face moisturizer and a bit of bronzer, eye shadow/liner/mascara and blush (because the Rosacea isn't red enough) as the straightener warms up...run it through my hair a few times, and we're off to the show.<br />
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I insist on a few selfies, because, well, we are somewhat put together for the first time in a few months...and low and behold!!!!!???<br />
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I can see a glimpse of the once youthful, Erin. She's there. All is not lost, nor too far gone. Well, I'll be damned. Maybe my lens really IS broken this time?? Though, my roots are SUPER evident, so, no denying that whole thing...<br />
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...but without a single filter, I choose to see the natural beauty. (And Matt looks nice too.)<br />
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<br />ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-790615687277065222018-04-01T19:25:00.001-05:002018-04-01T19:25:29.769-05:00One measely step.On March 18th, I was playing pickleball with some other moms from the kids' school. One of my favorite activities. I had also signed up for an adult soccer league to start in a couple weeks. I had been slowly and lightly been reintroducing regular exercise into my life, as I wanted to avoid a soccer injury. Funny. For the first time in my life, I was being cognizant of the fact that I'm now 35, overweight, out of shape and too competitive for my own good (well, I've always known that part) as opposed to feeling invincible and 20. In the last year, I'd cut out drinking other than for social events, and I'd minimally reduced my caffeine and caloric intake. I had been, albeit at a snails pace, feeling healthier and healthier. I wouldn't say my efforts were overly impressive nor commendable by any stretch of the imagination, but the trend was in the right direction.<br />
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Yes, the, day before was not my best day (health conscious-wise...fun-wise = different story), because it was March 17th. St. Patrick's day. A Saturday as well. I spent the whole day standing in wedges and drinking beverages. I have no doubt I aggravated my feet and ankles in those shoes and left my body dehydrated and tight. In hindsight, I do remember waking up and having difficulty walking due to foot pain, but I easily ignored the discomfort. When I got dressed for pickleball, I selected a super-old pair of tennis shoes, because I felt they were still my most supportive for a court sport. As I continued to get ready for my ride to arrive, I helped Matt scurry the kids out the door for dinner at his parents. The whole time, I felt tempted to call the ride off. To tell them that instead I am spending the evening with my family. As Matt started the car, I went so far as to run up to the door and have him roll down the window. I asked, "Should I just come with you guys and skip pickleball? I kind of want to be with you all." He shrugged and said, "No, just go have fun." For the first time, ever, I just wasn't so sure it would be fun. I couldn't explain the feeling then, but I wonder now if it was dread?<br />
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Did I know my body wasn't ready for this kind of beating? Did I ignore signs of exhaustion and inflammation all day? Then again, I've been in waaaayyy worse condition before. I say I drank all day, but it really was not in excess. As I walked on the courts, I said something about being cold, and one of my closest friends says, "What? You are never cold". It's true. I did heed some of these feelings, and decided I wasn't going to go gang-busters. I wasn't going to drink. I was simply going to play and enjoy myself as well as the company and relax while it wasn't my turn on the court.<br />
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Then, when I was on the court, waiting to return a serve, during my 3rd game of the night. The ball came at me, slightly to my right and I had taken what I would describe as a longish lunge/leap type step in that direction. Except, the most bizarre and traumatizing event then took place. All in less than a split second. It seemed as though my left heel was not following my step, and that a large, heavy metal weight had fallen from the ceiling and landed directly onto the back of my ankle creating a very audible crashing sound and the pain you'd expect from getting a crowbar into your achilles, or a gunshot. As I swung my head around to look behind me, trying to find the source of this sensation, I scanned the room. Why was everyone going on as if nothing happened? Did no one else hear the thunderous crash? Such brief confusion; the ceiling intact, players all playing, nothing awry. But, also as my head was turning back, I was completing my step off and my left foot was about to land in front of me...and that was when the entire situation came to a flooding realization...<br />
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"FUUUCCCCKKKK!" I screamed, as my left foot stepped down, and I quickly lifted it back up, hopping on my right. Now, the other players stopped play looked my direction. Guess, they heard that. "I just snapped my achilles tendon. Oh my god, I just snapped my achilles tendon. It's gone. Fuck. It's gone." I am muttering aloud as I'm hopping to a pole. What I'm not saying aloud, but is flashing through my head is, "I don't have time for this. This is a real injury. This requires surgery and no weight bearing and time off work and physical therapy and a long time away from sports and being active and not playing in the TOPS (parent) tournament at school and pain and so much work for my husband. Oh my gosh, so much work for Matt. I have 5 kids."<br />
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As I get out of my head, I look up to see I'm surrounded by the friends I came with, and their somewhat stunned expressions. I instantly become nauseous, and my ears are ringing and I'm getting tunnel vision. All signs of pre-syncope (almost fainting) for me. I tell them, "I have to lay down, I'm going to throw up." I try to figure out the best way down and opt to go to my knees first and roll over. Everyone wants to help, but no one really knows what to do...and it dawns on me. I'm the doctor. Normally, I'd take charge and tell everyone what to do in this situation. So, I start barking orders. "I need ice and a wrap, do they have an ace bandage? And bring me that Advil I saw on the table. Oh man, I'm going to throw up. Also, my phone is on the table. I want to text Matt." I'm still on the edge of consciousness as all this is happening. In my memory, it felt like I was watching through a looking glass and someone else was asking for these things. I lay there and just let Whitney, an RN and Katie, a PT, ice and wrap my foot.<br />
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Next, I hobble to the car leaning heavily on 2 people. After lots of back and forth as to the best course of action, I opt for my mother's. She has a boot and crutches and no small children running around and bothering me. On the drive I text my ER and Ortho friends. We decide I can make it through the night and just get in to see the Ankle guy in the morning. I hang with my mom for a bit, she eventually gets me home, well after the kid's bedtime. I arrange for the nanny to arrive early and my mom to get the boys to school so we can get to the 7:45 appointment. I am horrible at crutches. Getting up to bed was simply miserable. Getting anywhere was miserable. Matt helps me get into pajamas, helps me ice and elevate my foot in bed. I can tell, he knows as well as I do that this is our future for the next few weeks. That is when I finally cry. Not from pain or discomfort. But from anger and pity and perhaps, even, a little guilt.<br />
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I know it might shock everyone to hear this, but I enjoy being busy. I don't typically sit down, except during the very specific hours of after 8:30pm and periodic short moments through the day. When trying to describe my energy, one of the diagnostic criteria for ADHD comes to mind, "Often on the move, as it propelled by a motor." I've guessed my "motor" to actually be a mixture of OCD, competitiveness and anxiety...but maybe I simply have ADHD. Who knows. Whatever the stem, it's who I am and how I've always been. Our house, our relationship, our (my) way of life depends on this motor. This puts undo stress on our families, our friends, our nanny and, of course, Matt most of all.<br />
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Matt and I have determined my current level of functioning to be that of a 3 to 4 year old. I'm able to eat my own food if a plate is made for me, dress myself if clothing is brought to me, and wipe my own a$$. That's pretty much the extent of it. I know this is ever so temporary. Just a few weeks of absolutely no weight-bearing. A few more weeks after that continuing to use crutches and a scooter. And then months of a boot and physical therapy. Our previous life will slowly come back, week after week, month after month, and in a year, I'll be playing pickleball again like a champ. Regaining my post as Number 1. But for now, it still hits me pretty hard, every so often, at how truly worthless I am at the moment...and how exhausting Matt's life currently is. One measly step.ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-10690400708294405272018-02-21T12:04:00.000-06:002018-02-21T12:31:58.783-06:00You're not alone, George. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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George turned 6 this weekend. He had a joint pool party with his BFF, Nate. To be clear, this is officially his 2nd BFF, his original BFF was Hen(d)ry Bush. The only reason this pool party happened is because the 2 of them planned it. No, really. Nate and George come home with convincing stories about one another and their lives, every night. Us parents frequently exchange notes. Rarely, are their stories fully true or accurate, but guaranteed, they are hilarious. Every time. The pool party was no exception. They seemed so sure this "pool party" had been planned, who were we to disagree? The teachers, and even classmates, admit that the two of them tend to just excitedly speak and giggle about things of which, nobody actually knows what they're talking about. It seems the two of them live in their own little world.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF7EVGYyfiLRgwkXcIS5sCa_uO0Y7DxfuE9uhGLQRP6A3D75cBMPTAc99C7_DEK2_U_ovJt-GIMGhQ6AC3FeKJQmY9WD9AAD1qgXLpxRKvXFR49vh0OUCSwxhb5_djjLzNMbTQLuyCUjx0/s1600/IMG_5175.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF7EVGYyfiLRgwkXcIS5sCa_uO0Y7DxfuE9uhGLQRP6A3D75cBMPTAc99C7_DEK2_U_ovJt-GIMGhQ6AC3FeKJQmY9WD9AAD1qgXLpxRKvXFR49vh0OUCSwxhb5_djjLzNMbTQLuyCUjx0/s200/IMG_5175.JPG" width="200" /></a>When I first learned of this friendship, it absolutely over-flowed my heart with joy. Not just because I enjoy Nate's parents, but because, I'd worried no one would "get" George. You see, of all my children, I have always found George to be the hardest for me to understand, connect with, jive. He and his father bonded so easily. I, on the other hand, just frequently feel frustration when trying to parent him. He tends to have these stubborn moments, where he simply shuts down. Being born with an extremely low supply of patience, this dynamic doesn't work well. George has some of the highest highs, he makes us laugh more than any of the other kids (though Diana has quite the master to learn from and is advancing quickly), but he also brings out that anger {I typically try to deny even exists with in me} and I just have to walk away. I say all this with complete love for my child, each one has their own, very individual list of peaks and lows. Today, in church, I truly couldn't decide what I was observing in George. A peak? Or a low?<br />
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There was a pew plus about five seats spaces between George and I this morning at the weekly Wednesday all-school mass so I had a great view of him. On this particular day, the kids were coming off a 4.5 day break turned 5.5 days due to weather, which also means Cabin Fever. I could see Curtis a bit further from me, then Brock one more row from there. Curtis yawned, stretched, picked his nose bit, but otherwise seemed content to just sit. Brock gazed all throughout the church, bobbing back ever so slightly the ENTIRE mass, and at one point I was sincerely concerned that he might have literal ants in his pants. No one seemed to notice or mind. Then we get to George. You could see that George wanted to be still. He loves to please people. His favorite thing in the world is to help others and see their appreciation and satisfaction. His second favorite thing is probably hugs. He doesn't want to be a disturbance or disobedient, yet, he could. Not. Sit. Still.<br />
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He could not sit upright. The kid next to him was coughing, so he needed to cover his ears. The music was too loud. His shoe felt funny. He needed to blow his nose. I'm sure the hard wooden pew was too firm on his bottom. His shirt probably had shifted and he could feel the tag of his pants. For all I know, the light was too bright, the piano too loud, the temp too hot. He was being assaulted by so many uncomfortable, bothersome things, and when he tried to fix them, he was being asked to hold still. To be quiet. I could feel his exasperation. I could sense how conflicted he feels in his little heart. Wanting so much to please his teachers, parents, loved ones, friends...yet his body is sending him totally different signals. I could see him bring his hands up to his face and rub it in frustration - something identical to my coping with irritating/frustrating situations.<br />
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In this moment, I suddenly knew. There I am. There is my genetic contribution to my little Matt-clone, daddy's boy. I used to dread mass. The hard pew, the kneeling, the sitting still, the quiet, the holding hands - some dry, some sweaty, some dirty. The hot. The cold. The sounds. I dreaded assemblies. I watched me classmates sit stone still, cross legged, on the gym floor, and would give myself pep talks: "Look, they seem comfortable. Courtney Jianas hasn't moved in 45 minutes. Everyone else can do this, so can I." I'd repeat this over and over as my legs burned on fire from holding still, and finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I'd extend my legs. Stretch out my back. Whisper something to a friend. Go to the bathroom. ANYTHING to not be trapped like this for one moment longer.<br />
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There were times I was accused of being a teacher's pet, and now, seeing George, and how much he loves to help. How it could mutually help him get out of the restrictive classroom rules, while not being a disturbance and actually being productive, I see why I did it. Why teachers allowed it. Instead of being punished for moving and talking, I was being useful. Busy is such an over-used word these days, but that's what we are. Me, Brock, George. We are busy.<br />
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I could see George frustrating those around him, but, in my heart, I smiled. He's in Kindergarten, he will hopefully continue to learn coping skills, as I did. As Brock has. I could see Brock staring at the ceiling, probably in a completely different world, distracting himself from the mass discomforts. Though, now I find the church to be a place of peace, and quiet, I still struggle to hold still. Constantly switching which leg is crossed, giving myself pep talks not to lean my butt against the pew while kneeling, convincing myself I don't need to go to the restroom. In high school, teachers frequently found me in the hall "on my way to or from the restroom"; it became a running joke from a lot of them where they'd ask if I actually attended any classes. In college, I simply didn't attend lecture. In med school, I had to have the outside, back row seat due to my frequent position switches, moving, getting up and down. I would subconsciously hike my scrub pants up past my knees because somehow that is more comfortable.<br />
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So, this part of me is so frustrated for kids like George. And Brock. They are good kids. They just sort of beat to their own drum. The structure and rules of school will always be a struggle because it simply isn't their "style". So far, we have been incredibly lucky to have amazing teachers that seem to "get it". There is no snuffing of their personalities or creativity while also trying to help guide them to behave a bit more conventionally while in school. We, as parents, don't accept any sort of disrespect or defiance and expect them to do as they're asked. We are flexible and willing to work with these boys in whatever way they need to grow up to be intelligent, functioning, happy, loving and respectful individuals. The school seems to be totally in line with these principles as well.<br />
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George will not have an easy road. I wonder if he will make it through 8th grade in this more rigid-type educational structure, perhaps he will eventually require an alternative school. Perhaps not. All I know, is that I love this kid. For all his struggles, he has the biggest heart a little boy could ever possess. He uses hilarious facial expressions, bizarre hand movements, funny stories and comedy all around to protect that sensitive infrastructure. It's irresistibly endearing. If nothing else, he will always have people that love him, and coming from experience...that is more than enough. You're not alone, George. {You have Nate.}ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-3831511468323940242017-12-30T23:24:00.003-06:002019-01-06T23:16:35.647-06:00Don't Get Your Hopes Up<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;"><i>December 13th.</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;">Finally! Matt walks in the back door to find me hunched over the laptop at the dining room table. Kids running a muck. A few of them crying. Partly because they're hungry, but mostly because their mother's been neglecting them all day in order to slave over a very non-essential, time-consuming, extraneous Christmas gift that has brought out the very worst in her OCD. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;">"Thank goodness you're home, can you take the kids away? I have been working on this for 5 hours and they need to be ordered by end of day today to get here in time for Christmas." I say as Matt walks over to view what exactly has been hoarding ALL of my attention today. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;">I excitedly show him my work. 20 custom photo mugs for all of my family. Some even outfitted with a meaningful, or funny quote...which took me an hour, easy, to figure out how to compose. But! We aren't talking just your standard, run of the mill, 10 ounce ceramic mug. These are Magic Mugs. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;">These mugs start out black and only when holding a scalding substance do they magically reveal the image. Groupon gold I tell you. The instant I saw these items for only $4 each, I snatched them up. Game over. My brain had already fast-forwarded to Christmas day. Everyone opening their mug. Seeing an ugly, simple, black mug and thinking "wow, thanks Erin." Then, setting it under the Keurig and seeing a very thoughtful and significant image slowly appear from the bottom up. Suddenly, everyone would LOVE their mug. They'd be clawing and fighting their way over to the Keurig. Others might start heating water on the stove. Maybe even microwaving it. All smiles and excitement. There would be laughter. There would be tears. People not expecting gifts would get one. I would be the Christmas day HERO!! Magic is quite the understatement. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;">He sees some of my work, grins at a few of them, and says, "Erin. Don't get your hopes up."</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;">Pshhh. Who me? No. Never. I'm fully aware that these are a $4 Groupon, so the odds of things not going smoothly are very high. Likely the correct photo won't even end up on the mug. I have braced myself. I AM a reasonable human, thank you very much. But...it's going to be sooooo awesome when they do show up and they are perfect. And I am the Christmas day hero.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;">"I know, Matt. I haven't. I just need to get them ordered now." </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;">He eyes me skeptically. "Ok. But don't get your hopes up." He proceeds to call all the kids out of the kitchen and settles onto the couch in the family room.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;"><i>December 20th</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;">I received notification that my Mugs have left the warehouse! I am ecstatic. I instantly click the tracking number. The FedEx information loads quickly...and THAT my friends...is the instant Christmas was ruined. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;">Expected Delivery Date: December 28th, 2017.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;">Location: Prairie Village, KS</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;">Wait. What!? Prairie Village!? A double whammy, not only is it being delivered no less than THREE DAYS TOO LATE, it's going to my OLD ADDRESS. I had been fighting with the damn "auto-population" during check out the whole time, and obviously, the Mac won. I was at work when I saw this, and, even though I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've cried {during pregnancy doesn't count} in my life, I found myself choking back tears. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;">I had gotten my hopes up. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;">I felt so defeated. I wasted precious hours on these. And though, by themselves, they are a cool gift, it just wouldn't be the same to not experience the wonderful chaos that would ensue upon opening these gifts Christmas day. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">I tried to pull myself together. I tried for the next 3 days to not look at the tracker. I tried to re-ignite the spark of excitement for Christmas. I couldn't let it go though. I called FedEx. I called the Mug company. I asked Matt to call FedEx. I had my old neighbor walk down and give the owners of our old house my phone number in case they miraculously showed up before Christmas. Now. In my defense, my melancholy probably intensified due to 1-3 children puking and pooping and with fevers at any given moment starting on the 15th. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">At this point, I am just praying for nothing short of a Christmas miracle to get me out of this funk.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>December 23rd</i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">The illnesses continued. In both my house and throughout the community. I had to make another REALLY difficult and Christmas-ruining decision to cancel our 12th Annual O'Laughlin Ugly Christmas Sweater Party. It didn't seem right to invite people in to my stomach flu-ridden home. Also, I feared the bug could hit me at any minute. So, to add insult to injury, instead of prepping my glorious Winter-wonderland of a home, I popped into work to get some charting done. And, because I am a glutton for punishment, I checked in on the package tracker, one more time. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Estimated Delivery: Out for delivery.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Wait. What!? Is this a prank? What exactly does this mean? This time, I am taking Matt's advice. Absolutely, not getting my hopes up...but...I think we are getting the mugs!!! OMG OMG OMG OMG.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">An hour later...</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Estimated Delivery: Delivered. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">They made it. The neighbor texted me. Matt picked them up from the old house. I opened each one. Poured hot water in them and watched the magic. Each one worked. It had the right image. It was perfect. I wrapped them in the special bags I had purchased specifically for the mugs. I sighed such a sigh of relief. I think I was glowing. For a moment, the sick feeling about cancelling the party had gone. Things were right in the world. I could not wait for Christmas morning. Could. Not. Wait.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Everyone was going to be so surprised. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>Christmas Day</i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">We awoke in the wee, wee, like 1 to 2am morning hours to Curtis puking. Then Diana puking. Then Mitch pooping. Then everyone crying because they wanted to go downstairs and see if Santa had delivered. Then going to wake up Dee only to find her crusted in vomit. A lot more crying ensued as we showered her and delayed gifts even longer. I felt off - probably from the less than 4 hours of non-continuous sleep, and was, again trying to hold back tears. Honestly, I'm not real sure I did sleep. What a disaster. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Our whole schedule got pushed hours back. We texted family members, should we still even attend Christmas brunch and dinner? The kids, though ill, would have been devastated if we stayed home. We were rushed everywhere we went! As the hours wore on, I could hardly muster the energy to sit and smile. I'm not sure I'd been that tired, ever. Not with any one of my newborns. Not with swimming 10,000 yards a day up at 4am. Getting the mugs to everyone felt like such work. There was nothing magical about it. I took no pictures. I just sat, in one place. And frankly, I didn't get to see much...</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">...as it turns out, all my energy was drained, not because of lack of sleep...but because I'd finally contracted that dreaded stomach bug that had been plaguing my family for nearly 15 days. As my sibling just began to marvel at their mugs, I excused myself. Drove home. And proceeded to spend the rest of Christmas alone. In my bathroom.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">No Christmas Hero here. Unless you count surviving the day. But, even after ALL of that...</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">...I will probably still get my hopes up. </span></span></span>ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-69480284693492224622017-12-10T12:06:00.002-06:002017-12-10T12:35:35.726-06:00A Magnetizing Story.The morning of November 20th started like any other Monday. Absolutely miserable. And chaotic. As per the usual, I believe I awoke to Mitch standing at my bedside asking, "Who is watching us?"<br />
<br />
Leah.<br />
<br />
"Whyyyyyyyyeeee!?? Ugh."<br />
<br />
Mitch, it doesn't matter, you have school all day, you will hardly see her. (It doesn't matter who I name here, he always whines. Unless I say it's me or his father. Even then he whines, because I'm not sure he can speak in any other tone.)<br />
<br />
"Do I get my lunchbox?"<br />
<br />
Yep, just like EVERY Monday.<br />
<br />
No reply, he sulks off. Because, that's also what Mitch does...sulks. He's simply a peach.<br />
<br />
I then got up, maybe I showered, definitely I gathered uniforms, then I proceeded to try to round up the 3 grade school boys, quietly, as Diana frequently sleeps in until 8 or so. Or, at least pretends to, then sings to herself for a bit. Lately, she has been doing recaps of her day in song to the tune of Let It Go, "We went to Science City, it was Science city, and the guy!!!! He fell down. And we played at Science City. And *jibberish, jibberish, jibberish, jibberish* Science City..."<br />
<br />
After reminding Brock at least 7 times to get his shoes and socks on, he finally does it, but only after bribing him with breakfast. Or threatening not to give him breakfast if he doesn't get them on...does that qualify as a bribe? Maybe it's extortion. I don't know, there's a fine line there, am I right?<br />
<br />
On this particular Monday, I'm pretty sure we were privvy to "uncooperative George". You know, as opposed to "screw waiting on these adults to help me, I can do everything myself, in fact, I'm looking for my own apartment George". Though the latter gets him into some pretty age inappropriate situations (I'm just waiting for him to attempt to drive himself to school), it's great because I will wake up to him 100% dressed, and potentially even self fed. Where as, "uncooperative George" has the most incredibly severe, frustrating, yet almost admirable stubborness one has ever encountered. Things that he can do in seconds become "too hard" or "take too long" or "my arms don't work" or "I'm too tired" or "I hate sk-cool" or "Why is *insert whoever the sitter is for the day* watching us!?" So, that's fun.<br />
<br />
I haven't mentioned Curtis, because unlike ALL of his siblings, he kind of simply just does what he is supposed to...routine doesn't seem to bother him a bit. I think he might even enjoy it. Routine means he gets to mindlessly go about his day. In stark contrast to his older brother, who I feel has not less than 772 thoughts reeling through his mind at any given moment, I think Curtis might have 1, or 2...on a really hyper day. Bizarrely (but maybe the right adverb is: unfortunately) Curtis is our "Black sheep", yet I feel also the most "normal".<br />
<br />
In other words, my other kids are all #$%*ing weird.<br />
<br />
Which, perhaps, is a great way to get to the moment where this EXTREMELY typical Monday got a bit off track. I know, I know, I'm with you, at what point exactly was it "on track"?? All of us made it to our appointed locations, on time, and relatively cleanly dressed, so, yup, those are pretty much my standards these days.<br />
<br />
I was traversing through the insanity that is Monday morning in a doctor's office. Seeing patients, returning calls and emails, checking labs...when my phone began to ring, and I could clearly see it wasn't the school, but the actual Kindergarten teacher herself calling. I didn't get to it in time...but that sick feeling was there. This was a first. A call during school hours from the teacher! That means the kid didn't even get to the school nurse, or it was so bad the nurse couldn't call because she was performing CPR or whatever they do for a child that has a tragic accident at school.<br />
<br />
I try calling back. It's busy. I text "Sorry I missed your call, do you need to talk?" I then get this reply:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkCu7kMPFbN5DSni-YALHFWolGjW6TqBy8vVcxNck-mFYrSq5Chh09TkAp2Cm5IlbQoroa3kTF9irwLLZ7DkYpZmM-HWB25gcQB_wKWfPJKYN8gT3BOvtvX4mzODHReYrcGnM-vEocCVRj/s1600/magnet.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="790" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkCu7kMPFbN5DSni-YALHFWolGjW6TqBy8vVcxNck-mFYrSq5Chh09TkAp2Cm5IlbQoroa3kTF9irwLLZ7DkYpZmM-HWB25gcQB_wKWfPJKYN8gT3BOvtvX4mzODHReYrcGnM-vEocCVRj/s320/magnet.jpeg" width="303" /></a></div>
Oh thank God! One magnet, not a problem. And, it's uncooperative George day, so not much would surprise me. Then, I get to thinking, wait. But has he swallowed any other metal recently? Why do I even have to ask this? He's 5 and a half. Aren't we past the whole 'worried your child might swallow something phase'? Crap. Will we EVER be beyond that phase with this child? Ugh.<br />
<br />
"It's fine unless he has swallowed any other metal! Please ask him if he has swallowed anything else."<br />
<br />
A bit later, from 2 different sources: He says he has an entire piggy bank in his belly. But insists it's from when he was 3.<br />
<br />
"Does he seem to be laughing about all of this? Can we trust his answers?" This is a real legit concern. George tends to do things simply to get a laugh. So, I really needed to know if he was making light of the situation.<br />
<br />
Teacher's reply, "No, he was definitely a bit panicked after it happened. It wasn't on purpose."<br />
<br />
After texting a few of my medical comrades, we deem everything to be ok, and that we will just become concerned if he develops some abdominal pain or stops pooping. Which doesn't happen. We aren't real diligently watching his poop either. Honestly, Brock is more stressed about the situation than any of us. Eventually, we all kind of forget about it. Except Brock.<br />
<br />
Flash forward to the early, early morning of December 1st. George is writhing in pain on and off for hours through the night. So many families have had that stomach bug, I don't really think anything of it, except, please don't throw up anywhere except the toilet. Pleeeasse. But the kid just can't get comfortable. I push around on his belly, which doesn't seem to illicit any kind of pain, and it feels nice and soft and normal. I go back to sleep. Then, I hear him groaning, I wake up, and BOOM. It hits me. The magnet!!!! I punch Matt awake. "The magnet! We don't know if that has ever passed. Crap. Should we just wait until morning, and I'll X-ray him?" A groggy and confused Matt contributes very little to the discussion and I go check his belly again. All seems fine. It's now 2:30am and George has gotten up again, crying now. Matt very sternly asks him if it really hurts and if we need to take him to the hospital. George says, "I think so". (PS. In the meantime, Diana has awoken with a 102.4 fever and is miserable. No sleep for all!)<br />
<br />
There it is folks, after a collective 28 years worth of children existing in our home, we took one to the ER. We all knew it would be George. I then get this text:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmlP9OHykHV6u9TDvoM97lc7xBhryxPlOruEZN3UC88rKWfWoixenPwYaEZPm1WM7E3uyjIrNpapmezO7kynWcx1te6IuSBSpZjzlJ4JawPwxC-ffwwhaHvRhFFL4P5-c-nbTPZ3UwcVrp/s1600/xraymagnet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="319" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmlP9OHykHV6u9TDvoM97lc7xBhryxPlOruEZN3UC88rKWfWoixenPwYaEZPm1WM7E3uyjIrNpapmezO7kynWcx1te6IuSBSpZjzlJ4JawPwxC-ffwwhaHvRhFFL4P5-c-nbTPZ3UwcVrp/s320/xraymagnet.jpg" width="286" /></a></div>
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Two hours later, an exhausted 5 year old, and relieved 34 year old return home, and crawl back into bed. Matt mutters, they said if he keeps pooping it's fine, and give him some Mira-lax. George sleeps soundly for the next 3 hours. In the reasonable hours of the morning, I called some concerned grandparents to reassure them about the situation, but Brock overhears me saying the magnet is still in there. I get off the phone to see a pacing, bug-eyed and very worried Brock. "The magnet is still in his stomach!?" After a ridiculous amount of reassurance, we get all the boys off to school, George included. Reminding George that he cannot poop without telling us! And to quit flushing before an adult gets a chance to look at it. Brock becomes agitated and yells at George, "Stop flushing the toilet, George!!!" At this point, the whole house is in hysterics about George not taking this situation serious enough. Lucky for George, he has 4 siblings, more than happy to announce when he is pooping.<br />
<br />
According to a few different accounts, George proceeded to proudly point at this right-lower quadrant, exclaiming, "the magnet it right here". I am sure the kindergartners were just soaking up the drama of it all, and George provided all the proper theatrics.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I'm over-thinking things. Is it stuck in the ileo-cecal valve? If it is, what kind of procedure could get all the way to the small intestine? How long can we let this magnet hang out in his gut? I'm trying to get through my work day, to rush home and prepare my home for 30 women, after almost no sleep and a house full of tired and ill children, with no nanny, because she called in sick as well. December 1st will absolutely go down in history as one of THE most chaotic, difficult and fun days in the O Family Circus history.<br />
<br />
Fast forward again to December 6th. A Wednesday. I am off other than a short meeting, so I scheduled George to see GI, because no one has witnessed a magnet in the toilet. If I'm being honest here, we didn't search real hard, Matt and I were far less concerned than Brock with seeing the poop. After impressing all of the Children's Mercy staff with his ability to loudly snap his fingers, George gets examined. They say just more Mira-lax and a repeat Xray. Also reassuring us, this could take up to 6 weeks to pass.<br />
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On December 8th, after many uneventful (thankfully) nights, we get a chance to x-ray his little belly again. The children entertained my entire office as we awaited the results. NO MAGNET!! It was gone. I'm not sure I've ever seen Brock more relieved. I'm not sure Curtis was ever truly aware of what was going on, anyway. Mitch seemed bored. Diana, I'm sure is working on a beautiful sonnet about the whole experience, and George? After I exclaimed, it's gone! Says, "Oh". That's it. After all of this excitement, chaos, stress...a simple shrug and an "Oh".<br />
<br />
I know you were all hoping this story would have a really exciting and dramatic ending. But it, well, there ya have it.<br />
<br />
Addendum: Upon texting the teacher to let her know of the good news, she was thrilled, and also informed me that if we had recovered the magnet that it belongs back in the Science center at school...uhhhhh...ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2874818784530017952.post-91955658016325773812017-11-24T18:01:00.000-06:002017-12-10T12:36:36.083-06:00*Not Actual Responses*<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">If all of your friends were to jump off a bridge, would you do it to??</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Brock: *pacing* How tall is the bridge? Have I ever seen this bridge? Does everyone live, and what kind of injuries have previously been sustained? How long have they been my friends? How does one define "friend"? How long do I have before I have to make my final decision? Is there a statistical advantage to me or my loved ones if I do jump off this bridge? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Curtis: </span><span style="font-size: 16px;">*punches right fist into left hand* </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Fuck yes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">George: ................. *tapping his chin* .................. Internal thoughts: Hmmmm. Is it going to a.) make anyone laugh or b.) piss anyone off? And if so, how significant are the consequnces? Does potential death actually outweigh being funny and/or defiant? Hmmmm.....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Mitch: </span></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12pt;">*said with complete </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 16px;">exasperation* Uggghhhh. *walks away*</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16px;">Diana: *while talking on a plastic phone with fake purse slung over her arm* I too busy.</span></div>
ErinOhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14501233454425774376noreply@blogger.com0