The Drafty Downstairs

The windows in the downstairs of my lovely little house are rather drafty. What I would find somewhat quaint or comically situational in a book is a daily nuisance to me. I don't mind being cold. If you don't already know this about me, you should know that my body temperature is about 45 degrees higher than it should be. I'm generally warm, hot, stifling, or barely comfortable. Exceptions to this fact are generally found when I am met by a blustery wind while walking beside a body of water (very, very rarely and even then usually tolerated because I am happy to be doing something quaint and romantically situational). The drafty downstairs doesn't bother me. I like being able to don a sweatshirt and have another hot cuppa. However, circumstances being what they are...

I have three young children. The eldest child is always cold. The middle child wouldn't tell me how she felt unless bribed with candy. The youngest is a 7 pound space heater, but being only 7 pounds she has to be wrapped in layers and layers of blankets as she is prone to lose all her body heat in a matter of minutes. The drafty downstairs is now a problem. Sure, I could replace the windows to a happy tune of I don't remember how much because it was such a high sum, but where's the fun in that? The sense of adventure in life is lost if all our problems are solved because we can remember to call the Window Man to fix the drafty downstairs.

Tonight I'm writing without aim. I don't often do that, as it feels like I'm 16 again, writing in my journal. Sentimental as that picture may be, I really don't know you well enough to be telling you all my 27 year old fears, and certainly not my dreams. But I needed you tonight, oh reader (how many of you are there? 3? 7?) because the drafty downstairs feels foreign.

I took a lovely hot bath with a lovely peppermint candle and a lovely small glass of Bailey's. I have stolen away to the drafty downstairs to quickly write something, something, anything that will make me feel like today wasn't lost to diaper rash cream and the Christmas stockings that stress me out because they are still hung by the chimney with care.

You are wonderful and kind and will no doubt be tilting your head to the side and having a small chuckle and thinking that poor Beatrice is having her I-just-had-a-baby-insanity that comes with the first three months (years) of having another child. I know, I know. Things get better and I need to not write down every sad thought that flits through my head until I can get through one whole day without crying and wondering when in the name of all that is right will I get to go to college for longer than one blasted semester. And I'm not! I'm not....I promise. But if you notice, I haven't written since November. I didn't want you to think that I was getting on so famously with life in general that I didn't have time to sarcastically inform you that yes I did spend the holidays with family and yes I did have to steal away to the pantry and yes I did, I sure enough did lock myself inside it until the family members went away (at least in my mind).

I'm very, very tired here in the drafty downstairs. The Christmas tree is looking at me, asking when I'll feel like retiring its ornament laden branches to the garage. One year my family left it up until almost Valentine's Day. Putting the tree away is like packing after a really good trip. It is sad, and you know it needs to happen. But you also learn how to skirt the suitcase/tree in the middle of the night while you are stumbling around looking for the baby's favorite pacifier because the kid can actually tell one from the other, much to your chagrin.

We have a space heater, purchased our first month of living in this house because the kids were complaining that they couldn't feel their feet. I thought that it was because they had small, insignificant little feet but it might also have been because they were cold. The heater isn't like the one in your grandmother's bathroom that will roast an errant foot or nosy pet. It is all plastic and shuts off at a certain temperature so you don't have to watch your kids at all times lest they go through life with grillmarks on their cheek (thank you, modern appliance makers for helping me be a better parent). But the space heater plug is Way Over There behind a large bucket of baby clothes, a booster seat, an Elmo car, a stack of Latin books that reaches to my knee, a rogue ipod charger/cd thing that I bought Austin a few years ago that needs to be thrown away but manages to hide itself when it feels in danger of losing its post of Worthless Electronic Device.

So instead, I'm just enjoying a cool breeze as I sit here on my couch. The wall hanging behind me is actually fluttering as the arctic blast of icy air forces its way through my poorly installed windows, and I...well, I'm so tired that I'm writing about the drafty downstairs.

I daresay its time to go to bed now. I'll just turn off the computer, switch off the lights, and slowly make my way to the normal temperature of my bedroom upstairs. But don't worry, I'll be just fine. I know how to skirt the tree, the Elmo car, and the stack of Latin books. I'll sleep very well knowing that today was more than just diaper rash cream. It was also about the drafty downstairs. Tomorrow may be more exciting yet.

And if not...well...look for my next exciting work, The Stack of Latin Books.

O Little Town of Hope

It is the time of year for all things sentimental and traditional. We feel the winds changing sometime in the autumn, and suddenly the frosty winds are here before we noticed how much we were in need of a cool breeze.

No doubt you are playing Christmas music already, even if you are sneaking it in your car. There are few of us who can completely strong arm the flood of Christmas until Thanksgiving leftovers have been deposited into our trashcans or thighs.

If you are a Seasonal Purist, you might be rolling your eyes at my bald audacity to talk about Christmas when *gasp* we haven't celebrated Thanksgiving yet. I'm sorry. I've been waiting to write about the following ideas for a good two months now. Be grateful I made it this long.

I admit that I have a harder and harder time each year. I sneak Christmas music like a closet glue sniffer. Something about the secrecy might even make it that much more exciting. The weird thing is, I am made sad by the arrival of Christmas cards in Target when Halloween costumes are still on display. I'm not about to celebrate this holiday year round, and yet I want to breathe just the slightest breath of its magic as I see it drawing ever closer.

Well, I'm already a bit ahead of myself. If you haven't picked up on my mention of Christmas music, you now know what you are about to read. I want to talk about the carols, with one particular carol in mind. Even if you are among those who detest and bemoan the commercialization of the Christmas holiday, you will feel at home in this blog. I don't intend to besmirch your Thanksgiving week by talk of Santa or Rudolph, and I won't tell you to drink eggnog (which is a frightfully bad tradition anyways, unless doctored by the good beverage folks from Kentucky). Try to be as Tiny Tim as possible, and if you do feel Grinchy, just keep it to yourself, as I have no need of those kinds of comments.

The Church will celebrate the season of Advent in just a few days, and in that vein, I write:

I've always loved Christmas carols. I've always been moved by them in a way that is special and unique as the songs themselves. There is a very good chance that this is simply because they are only sung during a specific time frame. For example, I feel somewhat nostalgic and warmhearted towards the truly hideous crochet/felt/yarn tree decoration with drooping red balls (I know, but that is what they are) that my mother puts on the coffee table/bookshelf/anywhere my dad won't find it and throw it away. The tree is old and frayed and in no way able to maintain any sense of decorating decorum. But...it is familiar, it is quaint, and it marks the passing of time in a distinct and definite way. I'm quite tempted to compare the yarn tree with family members I can only tolerate during the holidays. But that would be very rude, and I fear the chastisement of my Maw Maw, who never talks bad about anybody.

As a lover of books and clever turn of phrase, I feel that the Christmas carols are a goldmine, a treasure trove, a multi-layered cake of delectable dynamic thought. I've recently been struck by a small portion of the carol, O Little Town of Bethlehem. I usually get mentally caught in the beauty of the words: "Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by". It reminds me somewhat of a Van Gogh painting, the idea of swirling and milky diffused light keeping a soft vigil over the city. But if we go forward just a few words, we arrive here: My Point.

How amazing is this statement? "The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight"

Wow. There just isn't much to say at first if you really get the strength of such a claim. But then again, I always find a way to say something.

At first I was amazed as I thought of all the hopes and fears that occur just within my own being, let alone those of 'all the years'. How could all of this be met, and how in one evening with the work of a moment?

What I know is that it is pretty easy for us who believe in the Incarnate God to look backwards and say how wonderful it was for the babe to be born that night. Hindsight, as it is said, is perfect. But what about those who came long before that event? How could their hopes be met if they were no longer around to feel the change?

There were, we know, those who looked for and longed for the promised Messiah of old. There were old men with no teeth who stared into the sky, and leaned against a tree and shook their white heads. There were old women who poured water into clay pots and wondered. They hoped, and they hoped, and then...they hoped. If we look further back into the centuries, we would find those who hoped and weren't even aware in what this hope was placed.

The soul has a distinct and yet mysterious awareness of Something Else. We love, we feel, we weep. We yearn, and strive, and struggle. And even in the rarest of cases when all our hopes and dreams and loves and needs are met at a physical and emotional level...we know there is more. How flippant and easy for me in 2009 to say that the soul needs God. How different would my answer be if made in the year 9?! For what was the soul hoping and fearing all those years before the promise of the Christ?

God made the soul to yearn. The soul is inseparable from the idea of hope and expectancy. The soul indicates that physical life, in all its beauty and splendor, is not enough. What our soul knows is that even emotional satisfaction is not a substitute for...for....Something Else, Something More, Something!

I'm going to do something that makes Austin cringe. I'm going to quote Scripture out of context. If you aren't familiar with the Bible or Christian faith, this comes from the book of Job. In short, Job was a good guy who followed God and ended up getting totally and royally screwed by life, the universe, and anything else that came his way. Everybody he loved died, all his stuff got taken, and his own body started falling apart. If that had been me, the book probably would have been very different (aside from the obvious name change). I don't know that I would have had enough hope left in me to keep breathing. Job, in his self-titled book (ha!) says "What strength do I have, that I should still hope?" (Job 6:11 NIV)

And yet...he does! He somehow coerced that deep ache that masquerades as despair to show itself for what it was: hope.

I say that despair is a masquerade for hope, and I think that it actually might be true and not just something I say to make myself feel better. Hope is a positive thing. But when hope goes without deliverance, without relief, without its natural culmination into joy, it can become tainted.

Hope for a child turns dark when the child never comes, and the empty arms of a would-be mother are filled with despair.

Hope for healing turns dark when the body of a loved one breathes one final time, and the fervent expectancy finds solace in grief.

Hope for deliverance from oppression and tyranny and abuse just gets old, and I haven't got the slightest clue how those who suffered through slavery could keep on singing.

Austin asked me what I was going to say about 'the hopes and fears', because what does that mean in this context? How can both hopes and fears be met together? I think it is two sides of the same coin. Even the stoutest of heart, those with seemingly unwavering abilities to hope in the face of adversity, have fears. Hope without fear doesn't actually work, I don't think. If I knew without question that my soul would live when my body dies, there would be no place at all for hope. My natural fears tell me that the worst might happen, and yet I still hope. And I place my life, and my dreams, and even my fears in the hope that hope itself will come through.

The hopes and fears of the years before, and all the years yet to come, were met in the little town of Bethlehem. This is because there is really only one thing that the soul can hope and fear for at the same time. It was the only thing that could have saved the soul from its fears and given it back its hope. The old man leaning on a tree, the old woman pouring water, and this often pessimistic blogger have only one hope. I'm fortunate to know in what and whom I hope, though I often fail miserably at describing it.

Thank heaven, and all her swirling stars, that others are better with words than I:

"How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given! So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His heaven. No ear may hear his coming, but in this world of sin, where meek souls will receive him still, the dear Christ enters in."

O Little Town of Bethlehem: lyrics by Phillips Brooks, 1867

Halloween Turkey Cookies

I've been horrible about pictures this year. I don't take them. If I manage to take the pictures, then I forgot to upload them. If I upload, I don't download (or maybe I have that backwards?) and then I just don't share them.

My family in places exotic and far think that I'm not giving them pictures because I don't like them. This is a horrible representation of my feelings for my family. I am happy to share pictures of my super cute kids no matter how much I don't like you. Just ask _____. Ahem.

Well, so here's a few things that have happened in our world in the last few weeks:

HALLOWEEN!

Somehow I got off super easy this year with the costume department. Moira wanted to be....prepare yourself for ingenuity....a black cat. I know! So she dressed in black clothes (that's my baby) and I found (ok, Kristi Tiller found) a tail/ears combo at Target for $7! Add the face crayons for a dollar and I seriously paid $8 for her costume. Now, it wasn't anything impressive. But last year's costume is sitting in the dress-up chest, collecting dust and reminding me that I could have bought a few movies or cups of coffee or bottles of Philosophy's finest with that chunk o'change. Anyways, she loved it and was totally excited.

Sabra Rain was really REALLY excited about choosing her costume. She picked (this is not a joke) a cupcake, a shark, a hamburger, a ghost, a pink cat, a witch, a ball, a puppy, a table, a pirate, and a bunch of grapes. These are the things she mentioned MORE THAN THREE TIMES. So instead I told her she could choose anything from the dress-up chest...whatever made her happiest the day of October 31st. She chose Tinkerbell, which is just so fitting for her anyways. She wanted some facepaint, thus the oddly clownlike ring around her mouth.

On the day of Halloween, I felt slightly better than warm gelatinous poo. Sorry for the ugly words, but I really felt like a hollowed out log full of fungus. I had spent the evening wondering why my spirit didn't recognize that my body had stopped functioning. It was in this happy manner that I reminded Austin we had signed up to be a 'trunk' for our church Trunk Or Treat. Yippe! At least I could stay in my car, right? Well, weather being as lovely as it is this time o'year, we had a torrential downpour expected and thus the Trunks became Tables. (No rain fell this night, incidentally)

We had to come up with a theme to decorate our Trunk turned Table. I wanted to use all the lovely Harry Potter signs and such that we used for our party this summer. Austin felt not so comfortable doing so, because churches are filled with people who cannot disagree without damning your soul to the pit of everlasting torment. So, we opted for Noah's Ark (because all the church naysayers would TOTALLY have supported Noah back in the day when he played with gopher wood). We put the unexplainable amount of stuffed animals the kids own into the car, added a Noah's Ark blanket for clarification purposes, and decided that the Trunk turned Table would be just fine, thank you very much, we were SO not looking to win a prize.

Austin then decided he should dress with the theme. He planned on dressing all in brown and going as a dog. The idea was fine, except that dressing all in brown would only make him look like a large chunk of...well. I told him he needed to be something we could actually pull together at the last minute. And for some reason, in my sleep-deprived state, I suggested ladybug. I was thinking of the manbug ladybug from A Bug's Life. To my surprise, Aus thought it was funny and...well...

I'm not saying that it was a fantastic costume. You can't see the spots we had pasted on...they are on the back...BUT....is this costume that hard to figure out? With antennae and all?! I cannot even begin to tell you how many people seriously asked if he was the devil. I don't remember the devil wearing floppy silver balls and black spots. Although, maybe that is why he is so angry.

So here's our Trunk turned Table. Yes, I know...it wasn't A for effort. But we showed up, and that was more than most of you can say. (Feel guilt?)

Next issue of the night: despite that ALL the tables were decorated with things like pumpkins or footballs or fairies or what have you....EVERYONE thought we were giving away stuffed animals. Nobody else had this problem with their table! It was understood that the tables were thematic except for our blasted table, which must have had a large giant silver claw suspended o'er top, saying 'PLAY ME! PUT A QUARTER IN AND GET A PRIZE!'

Whatever. I promised to come dressed as a cranky pregnant lady. I really was. That isn't a smile. It was me telling Austin to take the blasted picture before anyone saw me and thought I was being vain or worse....cutesy pregnant mother. I promised several friends across the country that I would take at least one picture of my hideous puffed self before Isla gets evicted. Here it is, don't say I didn't follow through on my promise. Well! After the kids went trick-or-treating with Godparents and Company and we continued to yell at children for trying to take our stuffed animals, it was time to go home. So we got in the car, the kids chose a piece of candy, and off we went in the direction of Home Sweet Smyrna. And then Moira screamed hysterically.

She had happily been enjoying a popcorn ball (which I didn't know they made after 1953) when her mouth filled with blood and her tooth drooped dramatically in a direction it had heretofore been unfamiliar with. Her first loose tooth was now her first barely-hanging-by-a-thread tooth. She was not amused and brought all the drama to the situation that I could have expected of my lovely firstborn child. We took a detour and stopped here:

Daniel and Codi Noga...love them. They were dressed up, handing out candy to their neighborhood, had lovely bowls of chocolate pretzels and a large steaming silver kettle of spiced cider. Codi lives in Pottery Barn Land. I'm pretty sure she has those laundry baskets that have embroidered things like 'Delicates' 'Whites' 'Darks' and such. Anyways, what kid could keep crying about a tooth when Mr. Daniel was dressed like a giant fart balloon?

And of COURSE, Codi was dressed like a sweet/sexy little black kitty. Because every pregnant girl wants to show up and have to sit next to Codi. Awesome. But Moira thought it was super cool, and told Codi without shame that her tail was far superior to Codi's.Sabra, meanwhile, ate every chocolate covered pretzel in the house. And then she really could fly. (Note red spots in background...they now make my teeth mushy and look as though they belong in that fungus filled log)

Moira, makeup askew due to tooth-induced tears, getting back into the spirit of things.

So that was about it for Halloween! Moira let Austin take the tooth out the next day, and...I don't have pictures on my camera. I took it on my phone. I know, what a terrible thing to do. But with all the technological advances, I'm pretty sure I can 'create' a picture of her first lost tooth should the need arise in the future. I'll just add that to the things that need to go in the baby book. #1 is find the baby book.

Next up on our tour of Things I Do To Make Myself Feel Like A Better Mom: Cookies!

I'm not a crafty-ish person. I recently (very painfully and literally) superglued my own fingers together while helping Moira with a turkey project. And then, while trying to remedy the situation, superglued a plastic daisy to my other hand. I don't have a picture.

But I do attempt to do things with the kids on the weekends so that when they visit their therapist later in life I can have this information as rebuttal. We DO make Christmas ornaments. We DO make Halloween pumpkin crafts that hang on our door. And, as of this year, we DO make Thanksgiving themed cookies.

I burn about 65% of all cookies. It really is true. I have found out that my oven is horribly off, by about 100 degrees, so that has helped my self-esteem just a wee bit. This was one of those days that if the cookies were less than perfection, I was going to drive myself to the asylum and lock my own arms in a large white jacket.

Luckily, the stars aligned:

Yes, I'm still shocked. Turkeys, leaves, acorns...NOT BURNED! And look at my happy little decorating table! I was wicked proud of myself and asked Austin to praise me for a good three days afterwards. There are still sprinkles in the dark little corners of the room...but they had a good time.

Austin even made one! He chose an acorn...painted it orange and brown, no sprinkles. We couldn't be more opposite. But he is pretty to look at, so here you go:

Sabra is not capable of taking a picture right now if she isn't smiling like this. And she really, really does smile like this even if there isn't a camera in her face. She's wearing a Minnie Mouse costume, because...why not?And here's one of the lovely finished products. I probably ate it. Because good moms make cheap Halloween costumes, perfect cookies, and never hurt their kids' feelings by turning down something they made special 'just for you'.

America, the Beyootifull

A few weeks ago, it was Missions Conference Week at my church.

When I was a kid, I loved each and every conference that made its way through our building. Mostly this was because I was pulled from school during the week so that my parents wouldn't forget to pick me up. I got to roam the buildings with my friends (fellow church rats) and nick things like cheese cubes, watermelon stars, and anything else that changed its normal shape in order to appear more fancy for the conference visitors.

The conferences of American megachurch circa late 80's and early 90's were like military drills. I've never actually experienced a military drill, and I'm quite sure they don't hand out little packets of dried creamer. But...the idea of getting up very, very early and staying very, very late until you were willing to sob and give your dignity for a quiet corner in which to lay your weary head seems kind of the same.

I let my kids stay out of school most of the week because I anticipated many early mornings and late nights resulting in an inability to pack lunches, clean uniforms, make last minute side dishes that Austin forget to mention, attend various functions, and also remember to bathe and apply eye makeup. I guess I made the right decision, though I fear someone will take away my Parenting License. Knowing my child, I can't imagine Moira staying out until 10, waking up at 6, and not breaking into fits of insanity when asked to remember the answers to Catechism queries. Sabra's school, which contributes to my brain's daily bathing in angry thoughts, is another issue for another day when I am quite sure that I can change the names to protect the decidedly NOT innocent.

It feels weird to be on the adult side of the conference equation. I still get excited when I think that it is almost time for summer camp, and then remember that if I want to go I would have to help. I haven't been in awhile. So here I am, attending (can I call it that if all I'm doing is shepherding kids?) a conference with some of the same people that were in charge when I stole cheese cubes. And I still feel a bit out of the loop, so to speak.

All of this is mostly my boring, rather pathetic way of masking my desire to address some truly odd comments I've heard floating around the information booths.

I was raised with a more global view of humanity than many of my childhood friends. When my friends' moms made Beanie Weenies, I was embarrassed that my mom made dolmades. When I attended birthday parties, there was pizza and popcorn, pin the tail on the donkey, and My Little Pony goodie bags filled with candy necklaces and Lisa Frank stickers. At my birthday parties, (author is frozen during failed attempt to remember childhood birthday parties)....well, I would imagine that there was lentils and rice and lots of encouragement to 'go outside, it is a beautiful day and you don't need plastic crap to entertain yourself because God gave you imagination for a reason go use it while I get the fig and apricot chutney ready for the sugarless frozen yogurt'.

Anyways...we were kind of a different family, and I know that a major contributing factor was and is the fact that my family became involved in missionary work waaaaaaaay loooooong ago during a magical time called the 1960's. My grandparents moved the family to South America, and there they stayed for quite some time.

Fast forward to a recent family gathering, and you'll notice that we speak more than one language (well, ok THEY do but I get by and know when they are talking about me) and have various skin colors. It is a mixed family, and one I'm quite fond of. But it really isn't the norm to have grandparents that jet off to Africa and then Scotland and happen to catch your spouse while on the plane to Haiti and talk to your cousin who happens to be in Germany. I realize this.

My parents, like my grandparents, decided to raise my sister and I somewhere besides the good old U.S.of A. It didn't end up lasting long after we were born (much to my current chagrin, as I would love to have a fabulous accent) but somehow I guess the ideals were still in place.

Long story short, I was one of the few kids in Anthropology 101 who didn't completely come apart at the seams when the professor introduced the idea of ethnocentrism, or the idea that one's race/group is somehow actually definably superior to others and therefore more important. While other college students were having a paradigm shift, I was staring at the wall and remembering all those odd moments in elementary school when I tried to tell them about ethnocentrism. I felt a little bit vindicated, though I still sat alone at lunch that day.

The equality of other peoples, cultures, languages, and such was not a new concept. I knew that some people foraged for food, walked about as naked as the day they were born, and worshipped the cycle of the moon. Secretly, I think people like that are pretty cool, although I personally would worship other things if I had to walk around totally exposed. Like blindness.

While I don't believe in the equality of all ideas, I do very strongly believe in our collective ability and freedom to choose what customs and practices will express our ideas and beliefs. (That was kind of a mouthful but as it is early and I have had no caffeine, you will please excuse me.)

Well. Back to the conference.

Apparently, not all of the lovely people that attended the conference had been raised by Interesting Parents. And they most certainly had not been present the day their Anthropology prof talked about ethnocentrism. It was most awkward.

Between tables lined with pictures of the world's citizens, global crafts and candies, miniature flags...there were Americans. I'm just waiting for the flack that is to come....but here I go anyways. I'm an American citizen. It took nothing short of an act of Congress, but I am legal. (Since when has Canada been a threat to anybody?!) You, reader, are most likely an American citizen. You no doubt have pride in your country, which is a good thing regardless of where you live. I can have pride in my country as I also bemoan the directions she is choosing to meander. But even in my pride, I am tethered to (what I feel is )reality.

I don't think that this is the best country in the world. I don't think that God in Infinite Wisdom laid the stones of the White House and typed out the Declaration of Independence. I just don't see how my faith requests me to be patriotic. My faith does ask me to obey the laws of the land insofar as they do not directly contradict the laws of God. I'm asked to be an honest, caring, morally aware person, which in my mind equals many of the things it takes to be a good citizen of life in general. I'm also asked to show deference to those leaders in charge, and at least remember them through prayer. But I have never, ever found the Bible to ask me to mix the ideas of America and the Creeds of Christianity. This idea is mind-boggling and somewhat foreign (no pun intended) to me.

I celebrate the 4th of July, and honor those families who have sent and sacrificed their very blood to the ground in defense of our ideas for a country that would do things just a little bit differently. I don't mock these personal sacrifices EVER, even when I don't agree with the big picture. I cried on September 11th, pray for the country and her safety, and I would really like to see the Lincoln Memorial.

But I also don't think that I have to be heard telling the visiting missionaries that they are ever so lucky to be visiting The New Israel (I really wish I was stretching the truth here). I'm solidly against informing others that God loves the U.S. first, and ____ next. (Fill in blank of country of origin or adoption.) I do not think these ideas are compatible with the Bible. I don't think these ideas are compatible even with common sense. Oddly enough, these ideas aren't compatible with the ideals of our county as set down by the founding members.

Maybe everyone needs a quick gander at some our most prized documents to remember that we are supposed to be upholding equality of choice when equality of practice isn't possible. I'm free to believe that taxes are stupid and an imposition on my personal life, and I'm even free to say that in a newspaper or on the radio. I still have to pay them, of course, or I'll go to jail. But the President himself would allow me the freedom to believe where I will and practice what I can.

There are many countries to which I would not want to belong, and indeed some that wouldn't want me! But there are also many countries to which I would be proud to reside in, learn about, fall in love with. I'm pretty sure that if I moved back to Canada or pledged my allegiance to Germany, I would still find that the God I talk to would be the same. He probably even speaks a little German.

The country I live in is not the most morally superior, financially sound, wisely led, or naturally better. It may be some of these things for a time. But then someone else gets a chance, and then somewhere else, and so on. We try, but we aren't always on top. In fact, we are often far from the top in many ways that determine how long a country will survive. (Education-HELLO!) We just aren't better, regardless of how many flags you wave or documents you sign proclaiming our awesomeness.

You can think and feel that this is the best place for you and your family, and even be proud of your choice! But in the end, you aren't any better than the naked moon tribes. When it comes down to it, you really can't argue with that statement. To the naked moonies, you are the prude food worshipping tribe, and they think you are weird. But hopefully they won't tell you that you are not as cool as they are because you wear underpants.

I was surprised to hear some of the decidedly ethnocentric comments coming from the mouths of my fellow Americans. And then I was embarrassed. And then, to cover my shock, I put all kinds of foreign candy in my mouth.

I prefer cheese cubes, but they were all gone. Stupid nicking kids.

iTuneOut

I love iTunes. I really do. I love that you can search through all kinds of lists, get recommendations based on a computer 'genius' that is often, oddly dead-on, and even stroll down memory lane by looking at the various hit lists of past calendar years.

But.

I'm also noticing something that I don't like about myself and my relationship with iTunes.

What started as a helpful tool that enabled me to purchase a song or two has turned into an ugly musical crutch that gives hideous wooden armpit splinters.

Do you remember anxiously awaiting the release of an album? Do you remember not knowing which songs you would love, and wondering if the lyrics would be as meaningful or as superficial as you needed them to be?

Despite appreciating the ability to purchase just one song from New Kids On The Block to remember way-back-when and tickle my fancy, I am sad at the Secret Service that I have unknowingly subscribed to through iTunes. I no longer have the new album excitement.

I don't know the last time I had to pull off that red tab at the top of a compact disc, and fight my way through that stupid tape label that sticks to the case like old ladies to a buffet table. I don't know the last time I put an unscratched, lovely, shiny c.d. into the player and awaited new melodies to invade my senses. I don't know when it was, but it has been far too long.

I know, I know...iTunes allows you to purchase the whole album. There isn't any reason why I shouldn't buy the whole set of songs instead of just the fun, catchy one that is on the radio. But I've been snared into this trap and just now realized it. It isn't their fault, just as it isn't Starbucks fault that it now makes instant coffee. But it is really, really sad if I choose to drink it.

I'm not old enough to know what it was like to wait for an 8 track to come out. I'm going to make some of you cringe and admit that I have no idea what an 8 track even looks like. But I did grow up with records in giant sleeves, the soothing crackle and pop when the needle touched the record's grooves. I remember cursing at the tape player when it rewound too far or tried to be smart and rewound whole songs or sides while I waited in agony to hear a particular favorite. I remember when my dad brought home his first c.d. player, and thinking secretly that it would never work (me, not him...he is all for technological highflyers).

I grew up on the cusp of the 'get it now' generation. I certainly partake in it at the moment, but I also remember when it was new and basically useless except in the exiting theory that One Day...we might have cell phones smaller than a breadbox. I see both sides of the coin, and understand the pros and cons of the same. It is a bit of a current trend to scoff at convenience, but only when we have the time to do so. Microwaves are for slobs who don't know how to have a family meal...except when it is time to be out the door and the kids want hot breakfast and so I'll use it just this once but really I don't want to just need to because of this pressing situation. How very hypocritical of us!

My jumbled thoughts equal this:

I remember having to wrestle with an album. When I heard something on the radio that I had to have, I bought the album and listened to the singles first. And then, over time, came to find that the non-released stuff was often my favorite. I didn't know the lyrics, had to listen to them time and again to understand what the emo singer was trying to tell me. I sang along, often getting the melody wrong, until the song was part of me and then became personal history.

I wouldn't have chosen many of my all-time favorites if I had just heard them playing from the radio. I wouldn't have purchased them, learned them, chewed on them, hummed them while staring out the window.

I'm sad now that I realize I've been so very selfish with many albums and artists. I've saved money on impulse purchases, no doubt. But I also don't have secret unknown songs that I can share with friends. I haven't discovered if an artist has lovely lyrics about pre-Victorian poetry or slow angry thoughts about the fall of Communism. I've missed out, and the artists have missed in passing along something other than what the radio lets them release.

I hope to buck this trend of mine the next time I click in iTunes. I hope to just find an artist I like, and go for it...hoping they won't disappoint, hoping to find a gem hidden in the folds of the carefully crafted sounds of generic radio.

Maybe they'll sing about love. Maybe it will be about life. Maybe it will be about 8 tracks. Regardless, I can tune in and listen for a bit, and remember the 'good ol' days' when I had to listen to it all to hear it all.

Doctor, Doctor: Here's The Story

Yesterday I explained why I'm writing about doctors and/or medical professionals. If you haven't done so already, you can read it here: http://http//beatriceblount.blogspot.com/2009/11/doctor-doctor-give-me-news.html

Well, today I want to just jot down a few of my favorite doctor stories. I know you probably have some of your own, and no doubt some of them top mine. But these are encounters that I have personally lived through, and so are meaningful to me.

Dr. Crook (haha, yes I know) has been part of the Nashville medical community for a number of years. He was an ears/nose/throat doctor, and I'm pretty sure he had to look up the nostrils of 85% of the Middle Tennessee population during the years of his practice. (Does anyone actually remember the correct title of such a doctor? I never do without looking, so I won't cheat by googling it.) Dr. Crook and his family were part of our church community when I was a child, and so it was a no-brainer that I would go to him for help with my throat's love affair with strep. After spending all their hard earned money on amoxicillin and other lovelies, my parents decided that perhaps I should have my entire throat removed to save us all the grief of my recurrent illness. The good doctor decided that I should have my tonsils out, and that this would help the issue.

At the age of eleven, I was nervous about undergoing anesthesia and the idea that I would be completely and totally unaware of my body and mind for a few hours. Most parents would calm such fears. My dad, who is often given to very strange parental practices, thought it would be funny to talk about Dr. Kevorkian. In fact, his last words to me as I rolled away on a squeaky gurney were to "run if you see the death doctor!". Despite his best attempt to give me a nervous breakdown, the surgery went well, and after eight gallons of apple juice, fourteen boxes of Popsicles, and and endless supply of Campbell's, I was ready to go back to school and life as normal.

Two weeks later, as my family prepared for Wednesday's evening church services, I tasted blood in my mouth. My throat was still a little sore, and I assumed that I had just eaten something too scratchy. I went to the bathroom, and stared at my eleven year old throat in the mirror. I didn't see anything, so went on with arguing with my sister as to why she should let me borrow her shirt with big bellsleeves (shudder). I soon had to return to the sink, however, and this time spat out a mouth full of blood. Still, there was nothing to be seen amiss in my mouth. Within an hour, my mom and I were the only ones at home, having decided that spewing blood from one's mouth is not the best way to spread holiday cheer. And within another hour, I couldn't move from the sink. The blood was pouring from my mouth like a fountain.

My mom got the car ready, supplied me with a large blue plastic cup, and helped me to the car. We drove through the mid-December air towards Southern Hills Hospital, where I had my surgery just two weeks prior. I was terrified, and had to open the station wagon's door at every stoplight to empty the blue cup. I have never, ever been so delighted to see a giant golden star as I was that night. For those of you who don't live in this area, Southern Hills has always placed a big star on their roof during the Christmas season. It was my beacon of hope that night, because I knew some type of help was near. I'm not a terribly 'open' person when it comes to talking about my real fears. If possible, I was even worse as a child. Somehow I managed, though it embarrassed me to no end, to ask my mom to pray for me. I was, very much, terrified.

We parked near the Emergency Room entrance, and I again spilled the contents of my cup on the ground. I've never thought til now that someone found those contents and probably spend the next week in fear that I had spread all manner of illness upon the streets of Nashville. At the time, I didn't care. I don't remember the lady that checked us in, but I do remember my mother's mutterings of frustration that as her daughter continuously poured blood from her insides, she had to sit and fill out her address and place of employment.

Suddenly, as you almost always do, I knew that I was going to be ill. I ran down the hall and found a large silver sink. I filled it with yet more blood and a number of blood clots. I then remember my mother running down the hallway yelling at the top of her lungs for a doctor, check-in lady be damned. And then, truly as mystical and smoke filled as on a movie, a lady wearing a horribly ornate Christmas sweater took me by the arm and led me to a room. She had a sweet face, lovely reassuring hands, and the timber of her voice was like an instant sedative. It could have been the blood loss, but I think she was one of those nurses that gives the profession such a good name.

The next thing I knew was that Dr. Crook showed up. As far as I know, he wasn't an E.R. doctor. But somehow he had found out that I was in the hospital, and he left the Christmas party he was attending to come and attend to me instead. A familiar face in a time of fear is indescribable. Between lovely Dr. Crook and the lovely nurse, I was given some numbing spray, a weird little spit sucker, and then asked to lie very still while they put an enormous metal instrument in my mouth, into my throat, and towards the blood clots that had yet to make their appearance in a large silver sink.

I don't know how long I was there, but I remember not wanting to leave. I wanted to stay and have the red sweater nurse to cluck her tongue and smooth my hair all night until I could disappear into the oblivion of sleep. But with instructions I don't remember, we were sent home.

Well, I've always held Dr. Crook and the unnamed nurse in high sentiment for their loving care of me that night, at age eleven, when I was pretty sure I was going to die. And their services would have been enough. But one day, just a few years ago, I was at Vanderbilt. I had some nodules on my thyroid, and though it is common enough, you still have to have them tested for cancerous cells. I was not amused. Needles in your neck are only slightly better than needles in your eye, and with the even remotest chance of cancer hanging on the microscope, there just really isn't a way to approach such a test with anything but dread. Austin and I were waiting on the cracked plastic chairs, he talking about our upcoming trip to Phoenix and trying to keep me from going totally insane and running from the hall while stripping off my clothes and pretending to be a rooster. Stress can get to you.

And then, a familiar voice came into the small room. Dr. Crook, now a friend of my spouse (life is odd, isn't it?) had heard that I would have this test. He came to sit with us, and to wait. He was calm, which should have calmed me. Instead it made me feel more stressed for feeling stressed. But he crossed his leg at the knee, smiled mildly at us, and talked until my name was called. He assured us it he would be there when we came out, and that it probably wouldn't take very long. I won't embarrass myself by telling you what happened in the next room. The doctor suggested that if I ever have to have such a test in the future, I should ask to be completely and totally knocked unconscious. But it was over, and Austin led his puffy-eyed wife back to the antiseptic covered waiting room. Dr. Crook, still calm and waiting, said nothing about my obviously red face. Instead he gave us a hug, said he was glad it was over, and gave us some reassuring statistics about thyroid nodules.

I was no longer his patient, he no longer my doctor. But he is always a doctor, and I think that might be what I so love about the friends I have that are doctors and nurses. Even when off the clock, they are never off duty. They have knowledge and experience, and they have the ability to bring peace to a troubled mind. Even when they can't bring peace, they bring their presence.

And now you love Dr. Crook as much as my family does.

Here's a nurse story for you:

My mom had a wickedly wretched and life-threatening brain aneurysm that ruptured in June of 2004. It should have killed her, and it was through a series of amazing people, from the brain surgeons to the cleaning lady, that brought her through the ordeal. Still, however, there were weeks and weeks of recovery, and it was during this time that our story begins.

My dad was almost always with my mom during visiting hours. Every once in a while he had to be somewhere, and would ask Austin and I to make sure that Mom's routine and medicines and favorite slippers were all seen to. Austin, Moira and I had dinner with Mom and watched her do some walking exercises. We helped her get into her pajamas, put on her favorite music, and attempted to make her brush her teeth (to no avail).

Before leaving, I changed Moira's diaper. And then I remembered that Mom wasn't yet capable of getting to the restroom by herself. She was walking, but still not unassisted and not at a normal pace. I asked my mom if she wanted me to help her to the restroom before she got in bed. She agreed it was probably a good idea, and so I helped her in and then shut the door. Moira and I played a puzzle, Austin watched the news, and a half hour passed. I called in to ask if she needed anything, to which my mother happily responded that she was just fine. Fifteen more minutes passed. I asked again and again if anything was wrong, and she laughed at me for being concerned. I didn't want to intrude on a grown woman's privacy, especially when there were very few things she could do without assistance. But after another fifteen minutes, I knew I had to do something. I laid on the floor and looked under the small dusty gap to where my mother sat. She was happily chattering something and swinging her legs back and forth with gusto. She was just sitting there, not wanting to get up and go to bed, and I had no idea what to do.

I called for a nurse, and hung my head while I told her that I couldn't get my mother out of the bathroom and that I didn't want to embarrass her. This woman, my mother, had through the years wiped my bottom and told me to stop the nonsense and get into bed before something bad happened....I had no intentions of doing the same with her. But I also needed her to get to bed and rest, because she wasn't well enough for me to leave without seeing her safely to her room. The nurse walked right in as I internally cringed and waited for my mom to throw a fit and then come out and yell at me. However, Amazing Magic Nurse came in and laughed with the patient about how she had successfully avoided her bedtime by a good hour, and wasn't she clever? The nurse somehow managed to help my mom with this very intimate act of BATHROOM GOING and yet did so with humor and respect that flowed through to the patient and the patient's discouraged daughter. They washed her hands, let her choose a lotion, and walked to the room.

Mom was smiling VERY cheekily, and even in her mental fog, I'm quite sure she was enjoying the stress she put me through. Moira, one year old and quite past her own bedtime, tucked her grandmother in to a bed with big silver rails. They smiled at each other, and I mentally clung to the nurse and her expert ways. I don't know that I have been able to describe how relieved I was that my mom would have such respectful care. It might be hard to imagine if you haven't been in a similar situation. But even when death is at the door, and all you care about is keeping life's breath inside a loved one's body, you still want their dignity to be maintained. You want their humanity addressed, but you want their spirit addressed as well. It is hard to do such a thing when you are changing the soiled linens of a parent, or convincing a grandparent that they aren't able to continue driving a vehicle. I'm not well-schooled in how to do it all with grace, and even humor. But the nurse that night was, and I am grateful that I got to see such a gift in action.

You knew it would show up, and I won't disappoint. A receptionist story!

There is an AWESOME clinic in Nashville called Siloam. They have top notch doctors and personnel, and they don't work from health insurance. They are supported by a number of incredible monetary saints, and work on a sliding scale to give you medical care that you can actually, seriously, afford. I've been when insurance sucks (often) and I have to get tests done that would rob my family of 6 months salary. It is a really, really nice office not only in feeling, but in its physical layout. This isn't a crappy nasty office where they don't clean the bathroom. It is one of the very nicest health offices I have ever been to, and many people are paying twenty dollars to be seen. It is AMAZING and if you ever have need of it, GO! Or, if you have resources, GIVE!

Anyways, there was a time when a lady who appeared to be homeless walked in the waiting room. I'm not saying she was shabby or didn't have a bath that day. It was obvious that she had been sleeping outside for some time, and wore all she owned on her back. Her hands were swollen and chapped, her nails yellow and caked with dirt. She walked to the front desk, received a genuinely kind greeting from the office worker, and put a very wilted dollar on the table. You might wonder what was to be done. I mean, of course you know somewhere in your brain that homeless women need a doctor as much as you do. But public protocol is awkward and often doesn't come out right, and the silent get silenced further. Amazingly, wonderfully, without any awkwardness or whispered questions, the woman was taken back to see a doctor. A dollar for her care, for her needs, for her dignity. The front office worker was the hero of the day in my little world. Sometimes we overlook those that help us get to the doctor, but they are important too. They make decisions that affect us, and we should speak up when they do something amazing. They don't have the degrees or the salary or the importance, and let's just say I know from experience that they often go home feeling like a pile of unimportant poo. So tell them they aren't. Even if they smile and wave it away, they will most likely hug themselves that night, remembering that somebody noticed.

So! Tired yet? Sorry...I can be wordy. One more? Ok then. Feel free to go grab a cuppa for the next one. I'll leave you to decide what goes in the cup.

My father-in-law, Dennis Cagle, fought a very short, fierce battle with pancreatic cancer just over two years ago. He lived in Phoenix, and we in Nashville. I didn't visit his doctors or nurses through the very brief treatment. They may have been wonderful. They may have been terrible. Other family members can answer those questions. I only know what happened at the end. One day, by the absolute and total grace of God (and I don't say that lightly) Austin and I felt very impressed that we should get to Phoenix the very next day. We had tickets for the following week, but suddenly were filled with itching urgency to make it happen sooner. Through extra cash given by friends, and airline points by the same, we did in fact land in the Valley of the Sun late the next morning.

When we landed, Austin switched on his phone to tell his sister that we had arrived safely. Instead, he had a number of messages from his family saying that his dad had taken that notorious turn that we dreaded. Chelsea was now waiting at the airport to whisk Austin to the hospital, no time to waste on collecting bags. Luckily, Dennis held on throughout the rest of that day. After settling my kids with friends, I was able to join those who loved Dennis at the hospital and spend a few hours smiling at the sweet things he said. He wasn't himself as I had known him, yet still himself in that way that just doesn't make sense unless you've been in that situation. And then, the very hard part. He was to be moved to hospice that night. The family broke for an hour to collect dinner, clean clothes, various papers, a few strong lattes and a big breath.

The hospice, it sounds weird to say, was amazing. I'd never had a family member in hospice before, and it is surreal and eerie and calm and unnerving. Dennis kept giving big smiles to whomever walked in the room, and the rest of us stared and talked and sat and stood and picked our fingernails. A nurse came in to ask Dennis if he wanted anything. He replied that he wanted some juice, but he knew he wasn't allowed to have any because of the sugar. The nurse conspiratorially informed this dying man that he could have all the juice he wanted. Dennis was so happy, and the nurse kept that orange juice coming! He (the nurse, I don't know his name) held the wide, foil capped cup up to Dennis' mouth and talked to him as if he wasn't lying literally in a death bed. And yet...the nurse wasn't ignoring the non-ignorable facts surrounding Dennis and his condition.

I don't know how doctors and surgeons and nurses do what they do. But I really, really don't understand how hospice workers do what they do. As a doctor, I can imagine that even on a really bad day you can try to focus on those you saved, those patients who would be able to see the next morning because you intervened. You feel sorry for those that didn't make it, but it is par for the course and a sad reality of life that death is the end...or maybe something like that. But hospice workers know that they are ushering bodies through their last hours, and even their last minutes of life. They know that nothing can be done to save the hurting families, nothing can keep the pain from entering the body and the room. So they give cups of concentrated orange juice, their time, and their sincerity. This is a respect that is startling, a type of love that is almost unbearable. These workers give what the family might not have left in them, or at least give the family time to walk into the hall, clench their fists so hard the nails make crescents on their palms, and then walk back in for another round of Life Sucks.

I was really, really honored that someone who didn't know him would treat my husband's father in this way. It didn't make the pain less, but it made it get stuck less in my throat on the way down.

So there's a few of my stories. As always, I don't know that I conveyed what I wanted. The stories are mine, so they are important inside my head and heart, and maybe they didn't make the full travel to the page with all their emotion and truth intact.

But for what it might be worth, I'm saying a big thank you for all those workers who do a job I could not do. It really is a gift, and even for those who don't believe in God, a spiritual gift at that. In my opinion, we overhonor those gifts that seem magical and mysterious. We are amazed at those who see angels (or we are scared of them, kind of depends on the person) and those who can correctly prophecy tomorrow's contents. I'm going to say something uninformed and not researched, something totally from my weepy little heart. Gifts of practicality and perhaps even obviousness are magical. Without prophecy, we have to wait and see what happens. Without educated medical knowledge and applied study, we can die. Without angel stories, we may not think as much about angels...without the gift of hospitality, we live life alone and separated from those who can help us know ourselves and our God.

If you still have a cuppa something in your hand, I toast with you to practical gifts. Gifts of mind, of applied thought, of nights spent wrestling with the names of all the bones of the body. I personally didn't receive such a gift from the Gift Giver, but I am a happy recipient of its contents all the same.

Doctor, Doctor: Give Me The News

You might assume by the title that I am going to spew another long collection of paragraphs about how I freak out when I see a doctor. And as interesting as that might be for a second, third, or thirteenth time around, it is not the case for today.

My dad is the pastor of a church that many of you attend, have attended, and/or vow to/never to attend in the future. You might already know that next week's service is out of the ordinary. Senator Bill Frist will be speaking, and I'm actually pretty excited about that. I'm not a political junkie, and I'm certainly not a Republican junkie (though if I was I'm sure I would hide the fact behind very expensive ties and discrimination towards lower-income families).

No, I'm not looking forward to this speaking engagement because he is a big shot D.C. guy with all kinds of political history and influence. I'm looking forward to hearing what he has to say because he is doing something important to help people. Of course, public service on either the red or blue side of the coin does something important to help people. I'm still nice enough to believe that politicians start their career because they want to make a tangible difference in the lives of those around them. Regardless of what school of thought they adhere to, I think that many of those in political service do want to have a positive influence in our communities.

Senator Frist has been involved the last few years in a group called Hope Through Healing Hands. I went to their website: http://www.hopethroughhealinghands.org/ to get this info (which is not copied by permission, just in case anybody asks).

Hope Through Healing Hands is a nonprofit 501(c)3 whose mission is to promote improved quality of life for citizens and communities around the world using health as a currency for peace.

Through the prism of health diplomacy, we envision a world where all individuals and families can obtain access to a skilled, motivated, and supported health worker, within a robust health system-domestic and abroad. Specifically, we support partnership in service and training for sustainability.

Under the umbrella of health diplomacy, we include child survival/maternal health, clean water, extreme poverty, and global disease such as HIV/AIDS, TB, and Malaria. Strategically, we promote Global Partnership by working hand-in-hand with leading organizations who best address these issues in developing nations.

Pretty cool, right? And whatever his views on how such a plan would be carried out in our country, I think it is really, really great that he (and many other nameless people, such as their receptionist) is involved in an effort to help people with their practical needs.

So...what is this about? Well, in addition to having Mr. Dr. Senator Frist speak, our church is taking the opportunity to thank the medical professionals that attend our church. My dad also urged people to write their own caregivers just to say thank you, to let them know that you appreciate their work and service. He reminded us that it is really hard right now for medical personnel. They went to school using exorbitant loans, and spent many late nights eating Cup O' Soup and not having any normal relationships while they learned about the intricacies of catheter insertion disasters. Sure, they might currently drive a car that costs more than my house, but they also have to jump through all kinds of hoops in order to not be sued by people that don't know enough to not drink antibacterial hand cleanser. Their please-don't-sue-me-insurance fees are astronomical and they still often don't have any normal relationships because they have to attend weekend seminars entitled Doctors: Stop Smoking or Remember To Remove The Sponge After Surgery. Despite the very high importance our society places on medical professionals, and specifically doctors, they really don’t lead a life of wealthy leisure.

The idea of writing your doctor can sound sort of cheesy. Show Your Random Whatever How Much You Care Day isn't normally the kind of thing I jump on board with. When Pastor Appreciation month rolls around, I roll my eyes around. And that isn't very nice of me. But there it is. I do Mother’s Day and Father’s Day and Female Appreciation Day (a lonely party, please join me next year) and call it done. But I’m going to do what my dad asked this time. He is just as shocked as you are.

I can get super frustrated with the current healthcare situation. It once contributed to my homelessness, and also contributes about twenty points to my blood pressure number. I'm still not sure if it is the top or bottom number, but either way...not something that eating oatmeal four times a day for thirty days is going to solve.

But then I thought about my doctor. And I thought about all of the other doctors and nurses and surgeons and psychiatrists that through their combined efforts have brought me to this day. And I was, in fact, grateful.

I haven't had cancer or a heart transplant. I haven't been hospitalized for anything more serious than having a baby. So why would I feel such sentiment towards my healthcare providers?

The human body is a fascinating and scary thing. After all the years of research and questioning and hypothesis, there is still so much that we cannot understand and unlock about the skin-covered shell in which we live. Amazing, isn't it? And yet, still scary because at times we know there is nothing…nothing to be done for a body that is ravaged with an invading tumor.

I am by nature a nervous worrier. I’m quite sure that it comes from my grandmother, although it might just be that grandmothers are, by their very nature, a worried lot. I (and the grandmothers of the world, apparently) rely on a nurse to tell us at four o’clock of the morning that our infant isn’t dying of a rare tropical disease brought on by smelling some fancy coconut candle at the mall. When my daughter went to Vanderbilt Children’s E.R., I could have wept when the doctor took charge and helped my blue-tinged toddler to breathe again. And let’s not forget my favorite job of all: the lowly receptionist. Poor things, they are the first line of defense for or against you. I’ve personally been guilty of asking the front office workers to please diagnose my child over the phone and could they please DO SOMETHING!?

In all of these situations, I know that it is highly possible that the nurse, the doctor, the receptionist, or whomever is helping me, will leave my crazy presence to return to a break room full of mealy cantaloupe cubes and burned coffee. And in that break room, various medical workers will chuckle and roll their eyes at my stupidity and fear. They will wonder why, with no symptoms or problems, I brought myself to their office to hear that everything is “A OK Mrs. Cagle…here’s your paper go check out at the front desk see you at your next visit remember to sneeze into the crook of your arm.”

What I’m getting at, slowly yet hopefully surely, is this: regardless of their feelings towards my excessive use of WebMD’s symptom checker tool, they treat me. They hear my fears, answer my questions, and tell me what I can expect for a given query. It seems obvious and simple, but the reassurance and knowledge they give is invaluable to me.

Some doctors just suck. I know this, you know this, and they probably even know it. But we aren’t talking about them. If you don’t have a doctor that you like…find a new one! Or complain and call until they are forced to give you the attention you need in order to keep yourself healthy and sane. (Note: Beatrice Blount does NOT condone excessive shows of frustration and/or stupidity, such as blowing up a doctor’s office or kidnapping a nurse.)

The best doctors give you knowledge paired with a great gift: dignity. Asking a nurse why you pee in rainbow colors is really, really embarrassing. And I’m sure it is really, really hard for said nurse to answer without his or her mouth twitching. But if they are still held by the ideals that once captured their young hearts, they will be able to answer you while remembering that you have feelings that need to be handled with care.

I could just copy and paste each of my doctor’s names into a pre-written letter that says something like this:

Dear Dr.__________,
Thank you so much for your continued efforts to make me not afraid of touching doorknobs during flu season. I realize that you might have to have an extra cup of coffee or smoke break before I come to your office. I just want you to know that the kindness is noticed, and I’m grateful that you haven’t told me the lie that you are closing your practice to patients who cannot meet certain criteria. Thank you for answering my frantic calls about heart murmurs and tapeworms. Just so you know, my husband has blocked all medical websites from our computer, and this should cut down on my learning about new diseases and conditions that probably will never affect me.

Yours sincerely,
Beatrice Blount

I’ve been lucky to personally receive amazing, dignified care on numerous occasions. I’ve also been fortunate in hearing other’s stories about health care workers that treat disease, fear, and uncertainty with the greatest of compassion. I don’t want this blog to get too long, so I’m going to put those stories in a separate post this afternoon. Also, my 3 year old is demanding computer time and won't be put off a second longer.

For now, let’s just say I appreciate my doctor, and my nurses, and the lovely pharmacist who didn’t chastise me when Sabra yelled an inappropriate word. You keep this nervous lady from being institutionalized, and I love you for it. Except for the one doctor who threatened to send me to the crazy house. I don’t love you and I gave you bad ratings on the Rate Your Doctor website.