Jane Austen

I think this means I'm officially a grown up. Not only am I reading Jane Austen, thanks to Mrs. Nixon who told me to remember that it's a social satire, but it's in LARGE PRINT. Thank goodness. 

Now, let me go get my spectacles.

Bleeding to Death as a Mechanism of Standing for What You Believe.

Tonight on my desk there is a folder: Clinical Strategies To Avoid Blood Transfusion. Provided to our trauma office by a Jehovah's Witness minister in Salt Lake City, whose card is in the cover.

A few years ago I had my first experience caring for a Jehovah's witness patient who was bleeding. In nursing school this had come up, in discussions of childbirth, of ethics, of cultural awareness and sensitivity. Of the way that Jehovah's Witness patients do not believe in accepting blood transfusions. Of my friend who cared for a woman who was bleeding to death and chose to accept blood, and then felt that she had lost her eternal soul.

But this was my first real life encounter. The man was bleeding internally. Bleeding excessively. I walked with my surgeon into a room full of the man's family and listened to my boss explain to the family that he was going to bleed to death. That we could surgically stop the bleeding, but that without a transfusion, the man would die. The surgeon had discussed this with the man and the man looked him straight in the face: that would be okay with me. The family, without hesitation agreed. And the man promptly and quietly bled to death.

I sobbed. I sobbed so much that I had to leave work early that day. I wanted so badly to tell his family how blessed I felt by having been able to encounter someone who acted with such conviction. But I was sobbing. So I did what I often did in such situations, I called James, who has always been a great supporter of my sobbing, among other things. I had to tell someone that a man just died for what he believed, and that he had done it stoically, unwavering and unflinching.

During Nap Time

Great news! Nap time is officially play with paints without adult supervision time!

So there's that.

Chamomile Tea, or In Other Words, Insomnia

If I had a dollar for every time I've gotten up in the middle of a sleepless night and made myself a cup of chamomile tea, I'd have a handful of dollars. The thing is, I literally never, ever drink the tea. It's the idea of drinking something that smells so terrible that holds me back. So I usually make a box of macaroni and cheese and eat more or less the entire thing because,  I'm sure there are multiple studies showing that mac and cheese is as effective in curing insomnia as any herbal remedy. I'm sure of it. 

Happy St Patrick's Day

Green nails, green drink, green snack, and earrings reminiscent of my 2004 style (read: ostentatious and ridiculous). 

St Patrick's Day for the win. 

Homemade Birthday Gifts

You haven't really lived until you let a six year old choose what he wants to give Dad for Dad's birthday. Basically paraphrased as, "A folder where we could cut out a cheetah with rectangle legs and body and a circle head and rectangle tail, and a bunch of other stuff dad likes."

Also a paper airplane because, who doesn't like a nice, fast paper airplane? Name one person, I dare you. 

Dad also likes stories authored and illustrated by little man. You'll notice that when our six year old writes stories, he numbers the pages. Every single time. 

Needless to say, Dad was thrilled, and I nearly died of adorableness overload when little man sent Dad on a "treasure hunt" to find his present. 

Birthday Shenanigans

All the hip young things wear black to their husbands' birthday parties. In other news, the Mr. is getting up there in years.

Lent

I deleted Facebook from my phone for Lent. And that turned out to be awesome. Granted it's like not even the middle of Lent yet, but hey, so far, so good. Although I did have to approve the posting of this picture through Instagram yesterday because, really, how could you not? 

And also, no phone Facebook means more actual time to enjoy moments like this. ❤

OCD (Part 2)

Sometimes I think I don't have OCD.
Sometimes I catch myself walking down the hall counting my steps.
Sometimes in this moment of realization, I have unconsciously made it to the 80's.

Hypothetically.

See also: here and here.

Yoga

Today I went to my first yoga class since hip surgery last May. It was a bit of a wake up call, to be honest. The way my hips struggled to move into warrior one, the way that chair pose was difficult, and even moving from down dog to standing. The thing I have learned from years of yoga practice is to approach my practice from a place of self acceptance. As I wound down the practice, I lay in savasanah, and as I often do, repeated in my mind, "I have only ever know and love and peace and happiness," and "I love and approve of myself." At the end of my practice, I bowed to say Namaste, and gave gratitude to my body for the things it does for me. 

Like so many things in life, it was not perfect, but it was a start, and it was good.

#RockingBody

I Go Down To The Shore

Please allow me, if you don't mind, to post some brilliance by Ms. Mary Oliver, the poet I have recently been spending some time with.