Little m Long a

Stimulating dinner conversation.  I suppose it beats, “So, how was your day?”

Dad, you shouldn’t say stupid.  It’s not a nice word.

I haven’t said anything in the last ten minutes.  I’m eating.  In fact, I don’t use that word.  (Not out loud, at least.)

I know.  I’m just saying, you shouldn’t say stupid.

(Zane steps in)  Zia, you just said it two times.

No, I didn’t.

Yes, you did.

No, I told Dad not to say stupid but I didn’t say stupid.

You just did it again.

No, I didn’t.

Anyone else have problems reasoning with a three year old?

I began my nursing career believing I had been fully prepared to handle anything that could be tossed in my direction.  Oh sure, there were departmental and hospital specific procedures and idiosyncrasies that are naturally a part of the learning curve.  But I had just graduated from one of the best nursing schools in the state and very highly ranked nationally.  I had been prepped, taught by the best.  I was ready.  Or so I thought.

You see, in nursing school they teach you how to treat injuries, how to heal wounds and infections, how to administer medicines and administer care that helps people get better.  What they didn’t tell me my was that sometimes, often times, the patients don’t get better, that despite my best efforts and most earnest attempts people sometimes die.  I wasn’t ready for this.  No one is ever ready for this.  They didn’t teach me about this.  Over time you develop ways and means to deal with the harsh realities but nothing ever seems sufficient.  A part of your very soul is left with every patient that leaves you.  It hurts.  The hurt lingers.  In some ways, it never leaves.  Countless nights I have come home from a difficult shift and hugged Zoë until she said quit.  Then I hugged her more.

I’m not sure if it is because I have been there, witness to the shock in a parent’s eyes when confronted with horrific news, or if because I am parent myself five times over, but I was moved recently by a post from Dan over at All That Comes With It.  You see, Dan has helped to organize a charity walk to take place this summer, 78 miles in six days.  It’s called the Dales Walk and will cover the length of the Dales Way in Yorkshire, England.  Proceeds from the walk are to benefit The Joseph Salmon Trust, a charity set up by Dan’s good friends Neil and Rachel in memory of their son, Joseph who was just three years old when he passed away suddenly and totally unexpectedly in his sleep due to complications from a streptococcal pneumonia. 

Through their experiences with such a devastating personal experience they have organized The Joseph Salmon Trust which aims to “support parents who have lost a child by providing financial assistance to those who need it most. This may be to help with funeral costs or to allow the self employed a break from work while they come to terms with their loss. Grieving families have enough to deal with without worries about where they will find the money to say goodbye to their child or pay the next electricity bill. Nothing we can do can make their situation better, but we can do something to stop it getting worse.”

Neil and Rachel have shown strength unimaginable after enduring what I can only imagine as being the worst experience that anyone would ever have to face.  They are extraordinary people, but I suppose I should expect nothing less from anyone whom Dan should call friend.  He’s a pretty good egg himself.  Although he could probably stand to lose a kilogram or two, but then again, who couldn’t.  The walking will surely help.  So what’s my point?  What can I do to help? you are most assuredly asking yourself by now. 

Easy. 

Give……..That’s it. 

Just Give.

Support Dan on his Dale’s Walk.  All sponsorship monies paid through him go directly to The Joseph Salmon Trust.  Expenses incurred during the six day trek are completely out of pocket for Dan.  I told you he was a good egg.  What’s in it for you?  I think Dan has some buttons and that warm feeling you get inside from knowing you did something good. 
 
           

Visit All That Comes With It and click on the button to the right to donate.  You can also follow the progress of the walk on a page Dan set up called oddly enough, The Dales Walk. 

 Dude, tell me about this nursing gig.  My exact words to my high school buddy, some ten years post graduation.  It had not been my first choice.  Or second for that matter.  Truth be told, it was probably not in the top ten but at the age of 28 and with my life in what can only be described as a state of transition, I needed options.  For different reasons, he too was experiencing a similar life transition and to my benefit, had done all of the necessary leg work in preparation for our next life journey. 

Chemistry.  Biology.  Anatomy.  Physiology.  Prerequisites as they are referred to in the course curriculum.  After wading through these and numerous others you may petition the college for entry into the Nursing School where you may sink your teeth into heartier more relevant courses.  Courses about wound care, post-operative care, general medicine, drug administration, emergency procedures, pediatrics, ob, surgery, pharmacology…..

Is that all?

No.  Then there are the clinicals that accompany the upper level classes where you actually spend real time working in the hospitals applying to real life situations the scenarios we have discussed in class and read about in our texts and workbooks.  Long hours toiling on the floors of various hospital wards and units for absolutely no pay and no reward save completing a course requirement.  But after completing this course of study you may be deemed worthy to graduate. 

So, that’s it?

No.  You’ll need a review course that goes over everything you just learned for graduation.  That’s about a week of misery, but only 8 hours a day in a cramped classroom setting.  Then, before you can go to work, anywhere, you have to pass a test, the National Licensing Exam.   Only then will you get to call yourself a Registered Nurse and be eligible for employment.  Fail this test and it’s over, all for naught.

And….that’s it?

That’s it.

Sounds great.  Where do I sign up?

And so there we were, two high school buddies re-united for completely different circumstances about to embark on phase two of our adult lives.  Fearful times made somewhat easier by the fact that I was back in my home town, my old bedroom, familiar faces, familiar haunts. 

Our local college had a reputation as one of the best nursing colleges in the state and ranked very highly overall in the country.  All good stuff.  In no time at all we would be completely prepared to handle any experience with which we might be faced in our newly chosen field.  The college of nursing through text, classroom studies and clinical practices would make sure we were ready.  But they didn’t teach us everything…….

Come back tomorrow for a very special part two.

 She looked up and forced a smile, half of a smile, really for what she would have preferred were tears.  I saw it in her eyes, in her face, in her body.  Did you hear it, her eyes were asking.  Do you think Mrs.  Bender noticed?  What about the the rest of them.  Do you think they heard it?  She was being brave, consummate, strong.  I smiled, proud and winked at her.  You did good.  I didn’t bring it up, never even hinted.

We’ve signed a contract, Zoë and I.  Ninety minutes a week.  It’s usually more but never less.  We gave our word and must honor that.  It’s not easy what with the numerous directions we are pulled on any given day.  But you would think just 15 minutes a day would be a cinch.  I’m hear to tell you–it’s not.  Miss one day and you quickly find out just how difficult a task it is.  We didn’t have time for 15 minutes today and you think we’ll have time for 30 tomorrow?  Miss two days and your time management skills become the stuff of legend. Yet, at the close of each week we are able to say with all honesty we’ve given our 90 minutes.   We have kept our word.   We practiced piano like we said we would.

For the second year now, we have opened our home serving as a guest host in the Family Recital Piano Series, one of three such scheduled events to take place during the year.  Mrs. Bender, Zoë’s piano instructor created the series as a way of getting the families of her students together away from the structured, formal studio atmosphere and allowing the students to showcase their hard work.  It’s a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon in a casual setting meeting wonderful families and listening to some fantastic kids showcase some extraordinary talents. 

Zoë had worked extra hard to prepare her pieces for the recital and could not have been more excited.  Add to the mix that she got to wear a new dress and the enthusiasm was scarcely containable.  She was ready.  And she played beautifully.  But it did happen.  During one of her songs there was an extra note, a fumbled finger, an extra pause.  She didn’t stop, never quit smiling and took her bow and applause with the grace of a seasoned performer.  But she knew she had made the mistake and it was eating away at her on the inside.  I made no mention of it, never even hinted.

The rest of the day was without incident.  Laughter, food, games and good conversation filled the house.  Zoë even won one of the games and as a reward received a huge Hershey’s bar.  Without prompting she immediately divided the whole thing and gave a piece to all in attendance.  After everyone had left, the kids and I relaxed for the remainder of the evening enjoying leftover treats and punch.  Before heading off to bed, everyone chipped in and helped me clean up.  Truly, a banner day.  As I tucked the kids into bed and said my good nights I told them all that they were very good today and thanked them for all of their help during the recital.  Zoë at long last opened up saying, “Yeah, but I messed up a little bit on my song.”

“Zoë, you made me proud today.  I think you did a fantastic job and you played beautifully.  I loved it!” 

I could see immediately that the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders.  She had been set free, realizing in that instant that it’s OK to not be perfect.  That sometimes it’s alright to make a mistake.  That Daddy will still love you.  She is an amazing little girl and I am honored, privileged to say that she is my daughter.  And a pretty darn good pianist.

I remember the first time Zoë read Go, Dog. Go! by P.D. Eastman on her own.  It seemed to take an eternity, each turn of the page leaving her stumbling over and phonetically attempting to sound out words.  I would start a word giving her the sounds and she would finish it.  We repeated the process page after page my frustration level rising though not in proportion to her excitement level as the end of the book neared.  “Look how much I’ve read, Daddy,” she would exclaim after every couple of pages.  She refused every offer and attempt of mine to take over the reading and let her just listen to the story.  She was on a mission.  By the time she had finished I was completely spent.  She was totally stoked.  “How many pages was that?  Did you see me?  Daddy, look.  I just read this whole book!”  Pride transformed my weariness and my frustration dissipated. 

This week’s Story Time with Zoë brings us back to a great beginner book, the Seuss styled meter and pattern of Eastman’s Go, Dog Go! are the perfect balance of ease and challenge for the young reader.  So grab your copy and your little readers and gather round as Zoë entertains us this week with an oldie but a goodie, Go, Dog. Go!