Another piece of my heart

After circling the hospital parking structure, I found an open space and parked my car. As I walked towards the hospital, I looked down at the ground, watching my Converse-covered feet move mechanically just past the hem of my jeans. This is wrong, I thought. I've made this trek three nights a week for the past three years, but always wearing my "work shoes" and scrubs. And usually at dusk or after dark. But it wasn't only my attire that was unusual, there was no reason to the bright noonday sun. And again I thought of why this felt so wrong. It was a familiar journey, but today was different. I was not a nurse today. I wasn't going in to the hospital to work. I was going in to grieve.

Just two days before, I had made this same journey, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Two days ago, I had walked in to work, anticipating a nice, peaceful night taking care of my primary, Layla*. I had been taking care of her for the past three weeks, almost from the night she was born, and she was making so much progress. She was tiny for her age, 35 weeks and still under a kilogram (approximately 2 pounds). But she was feisty. The last time I had taken care of her, I had turned off her IV fluids because she was tolerating all her feedings, even bottle feeding, despite her tiny size. As I walked in that night, I wondered how much progress she'd made during the weekend while I was off.

I felt my stomach drop down to my toes when I saw her that night. She didn't even look like the same baby. She was not only intubated, but on the ventilator saved for only the sickest of babies. I had left her with only one IV access, just for emergencies, but she now had several lines inserted, and the bedside was crowded with all the pumps administering medication just to keep her alive. All night my coworkers helped me, as I moved mechanically, doing my best to separate myself from the tasks I had to do. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't help the fact that several times I was frozen in place, looking at this swollen, pitiful infant and thinking, That's not Layla. Surely this can't possibly be my Layla.

Those two nights were among the top if not the hardest nights I've ever had at work. Not only because of how much work there was to do, but because of the emotional and mental burden I had to carry while fighting to save this child's life. For two nights, I watched Layla get worse and worse, despite my futile efforts. But the hardest part of the whole ordeal was facing her parents. I knew, because of my clinical knowledge and experience, that we were just postponing the inevitable, but how could I tell that to Layla's parents? How could I take away their hope? I knew better than to encourage false hope, but neither could I bring myself to tell them outright that the outcome would not be good. It was my job to look at things objectively, it was their job to hope and pray for the best for their daughter.

As I reported off to the day shift nurse at the end of that second night, I asked her to call me in case (in my heart, I said when) anything happened. Exhausted as I was, I knew sleep would not come to me that day. Sure enough, around noon, my phone rang. I almost didn't answer. I already knew what the nurse had to say.

So I went to the hospital. not caring about my appearance. I still hadn't showered from the night before and I looked a wreck, but even though I was going to be amongst my peers, I knew I was going there not because my job required it of me, but because I needed to be there for her. For Layla and her parents. As a nurse, I was finding it difficult to maintain my professional distance. So in a way, I was glad that today I wasn't their nurse. I was their friend, joining them in their grief.

When I walked onto the unit, I washed up in the scrub room like any other visiting family member. As I walked into the room, I took several deep breaths before going behind the curtain that gave very little privacy to this family that had become so dear to my heart. Behind the curtain, I found Layla's mom in tears on the phone, likely calling all family members. Layla's dad was hunched over the warmer, stroking her cheek. When he saw me, he hugged me, or rather clung to me, and cried into my shoulder, saying, "Thank you for being such a good nurse." I instantly felt all my resolve to put on a brave face melt away as i broke down into sobs. I didn't know what to say, I had no words.

After her mom got off the phone, she gave me a similar greeting. It was just the two of them for now, but several extended family members were on their way. I told myself I would stay only until they arrived, so they could grieve in private. I ended up staying for three and a half hours. I couldn't bring myself to leave, even after all the family arrived. I stayed against the wall of the room, out of the way, feeling a little like an intruder. But when the chaplain came around to pray with the family and they welcomed me by taking my hands and drawing me into their circle I knew that right then, though we were practically strangers, we were united in our grief and sadness.

Every life is precious, no matter how long it is lived. Layla was not my child, but I cared for her deeply, and her family has touched my heart. I tried to go in to work last night, not 24 hours after she passed away, and I couldn't do it. As I walked onto the unit I saw the nurse practitioner who was on call that last night, then the fellow who wrote the order to take her off life support. When I saw the respiratory therapist who had worked with me and encouraged me those two horrific nights, I turned around and ran out of the unit sobbing. I have a few days off. I'm hoping these few days will be time enough. Time enough to ease the pain, to soften the memory. But never time enough to forget. Forgetting is ceasing to care. And in my life, both professional and personal, I simply can't afford to stop caring.

*Not her real name.

I need to get this off my chest...

I've noticed something about myself: whenever I find myself acting the most carefree and adventurous, that's usually when I'm the furthest from happiness. Spontaneity and hyperness in me is a defense mechanism from other negative feelings that are threatening to take over. I finally took the time to analyze myself, and to figure out what was bothering me. The answer? Not what I expected. Basically, I'm pissed off at God.

I first moved out to California because I though this is where God wanted me. Why? I didn't know. I hoped it had to do with finding a purpose, and possibly a soulmate. After three difficult years full of loneliness, frustration, pain, disappointment, I had finally adjusted and accepted my life here. No, I didn't find love, but at least I found some purpose and meaning in my job. And now I'm moving back. Out of necessity. And it feels like I'm facing the gallows.

I feel like all this time, I've been holding on, thinking to myself, "The best is yet to come. It make suck at times right now, but in the end, it will all be worth it." And that hope, that little glimmer of hope, kept me going. And now it seems that God has just told me, "Oh, sorry for the confusion, but all that shit you went through? Yeah, that was the 'good' stuff. And now it's over. Sorry you didn't get to make more of you pathetic excuse for a life."

My hope? Gone. It hurts to much to hold on to an impossiblity. I feel like I've been holding onto the edge of a cliff for years, fingers slipping, nails ripped off and bleeding. Knowing that I couldn't make it on my own but holding on to the hope that someone was coming to help me. Someone was coming to rescue me. But when that someone finally showed up, he just smiled at me as he kicked me free of that last pinkyhold and now I'm just falling, falling, falling into the abyss, waiting for the inevitable.

Hoping no hate..

No deep meaningful post tonight. I was just watching Manny Pacquiao's interview on Jimmy Kimmel. Now, I'm a proud Filipina. I love my heritage. And I get that to be Filipino, truly Filipino, you have to love Manny Pacquiao. But if I can be completely honest, this interview is painfully embarrassing. I want to write Jimmy Kimmel a letter apologizing for the awkwardness he had to endure conducting this interview. I know Pacquiao's a legend. I know it. But please, hire a speech writer or coach. Please.



I can only link the first part. If you can endure to see more, feel free to find the rest yourself.
But you gotta hear the singing.

Drive-by Post

Is there someplace I can go for a manual on blogspot? I like this site, but I do get confused easily.

Anyways, have been concocting an idea for a novel. Will it ever make it to paper? Or even my computer's hard drive? We'll see. Right now, I'll be impressed with myself if I get an outline typed out.

Jane Austen Book Club

Grigg: I understand why Colonel Brandon goes for Marianne. And it's not 'cause she's young. It's because she's generous with herself. She's willing to risk her heart. No rules, no fear.

Jocelyn: And Willoughby tramples her.

Grigg: She just picked the wrong guy.


I love this movie.

Alone

The other night I was driving home from a friends house at almost 11PM. I had been feeling weird--kinda... off--before I left, and I wasn't really looking forward to my 40-minute drive. Now, I had noticed that my tires were looking a little low on air, but I just hadn't gotten around to putting air in (I know, bad car owner, bad). As I was driving, I kept feeling like something was wrong. Somehow the idea got stuck in my head, not that I could get a flat tire, but that I most certainly would get on on my way home tonight. So the whole time I'm driving, I felt this anxiety closing in on me, and a voice in my head saying over and over, "You're gonna get a flat tire! You're gonna get a flat tire!" Then, out there on the freeway, I heard a thump and the smell of burning rubber quickly filled my nostrils. My hands shaking on the steering wheel, I pulled onto the shoulder. This was a busy freeway, with lots of traffic and virtually no streetlights. I carefully got out of the car and checked my tires. All four perfectly intact. At this point I was near tears, and I climbed back into my car, and carefully merged back onto the road.

You would think that nagging voice and anxiety would have gone away, right? Wrong. The anxiety turned into a thick wool turtleneck that was somehow shrinking in on my as the voice changed it's persistent screaming inside my head: "What if you had a flat tire? You would be stuck out here, in the middle of nowhere. There's no one you could call, everyone's busy at work or too far away and would probably say they couldn't come out to help. You'd be stuck alone. Alone. Alone." By this time, I was grateful that my apartment was less than 5 miles away. When I pulled into my parking spot, my hands were shaking, I was choking on dry sobs, and the chant in my head had turned into just one word: "ALONE. ALONE. ALONE."

I think it was a panic attack that shook me that night. But since that night, that word has been haunting me. Loneliness is not unfamiliar to me, in fact it had been my constant companion for years. But since moving into an apartment by myself again a few months ago, I hadn't felt that loneliness. These past few months, I felt satisfied with how my life was. Maybe not completely happy, but I really had no reason to complain. I kept holding my breath, those first few weeks, to see if the loneliness would come settle around me again, but every morning, I was pleased when it didn't. Now, all of a sudden, it came back into my life out of nowhere like a slap in the face. For the past few days, that word, that disgusting, hateful word has taken up residence in my mind, coming out and taking over, usually when my defenses are down as I try to fall asleep (much like right now). When it comes, it's like my body is a plane of glass, and someone just very gently hammers a small nail smack in the middle--where the heart is--and as the cracks slowly spread a vacuum sucks the tiny shards into oblivion, from the inside out. And I just wait for sleep to mercifully pull me into unconsciousness, but not before that empty, hollow feeling settles deep in my bones.

I'm hoping it's just a phase. A very short phase.

Pet Peeve

Tonight I hung out with some new people at a restaurant, you know, just to shake things up a bit. Most of them were cool, but the guy sitting next to me completely ignored me. That's ok, I understand some people are shy, I'm not exactly the most outgoing person either. The service at this place was horrible, but we were trying to make the best of it. Even though the waitress took forever to bring out our food, we just tried to ignore our grumbling bellies and enjoy the each other's company. However, this guy next to me was just not having any of it. The waitress had already brought all our entrees, but we were still waiting on the rice (it was an Asian restaurant). She had confused our orders and didn't realize that we were waiting on it. Meanwhile, this guy's food had gotten cold, and he was not taking it well. He kept grumbling and saying, "My food's cold now, it's disgusting. I don't want it." The rest of us were in the exact same boat, but we were just trying to laugh about it, but he insisted on sulking. He told the waitress to just take the food away, untouched.

Now, I understand the need to send things back. I understand that waiters and waitresses are paid to bring out the customer's food in a timely manner. And I understand that bottling up negative feelings is not healthy. But the honest truth is, shit happens and sometimes you just gotta roll with the punches. It's one thing to make a (albeit, well-deserved) complaint to the waiter when you're in a small group. But to do so in a large group, especially among people you don't really know? NOT a good first impression. Had he simply told the waiter to reheat his food or to quietly send it back or, best yet, speak for the whole table in our dissatisfaction with the service, his actions would have been more appropriate. So of course, because of this one, guy, there was tension at the table. Everyone tried to ignore it, but I could still feel it, this angry heat radiating on my left side causing my whole body to feel tightly coiled. I'm a peace-loving person, I can't stand when anyone around me is upset or angry, and I will do all I can to restore that person to a happier state of mind. But with this almost complete stranger seated next to me, I felt trapped. I enjoyed most of the company I kept tonight, but you can bet, not only will I never return to that particular restaurant, I will do my best to stay away from the company of this particular boy.

And that concludes my nonsense rant for this morning.

A few changes

It's 2:30 AM and the deep, thoughtful post I've been working on for months now is giving me a headache. So again, I tweaked my profile and layout because I'm still deciding what I want this blog to be. Much like I'm trying to decide what I want my life to be. But that line of thinking will bring me back to that headache-inducing post, so here is where I say, good night.

Where the Wild Things Are

I remember when I was in grade school and I read Where the Wild Things Are for the first time. The book was a mystery to me. I was confused by and almost afraid of the drawings of these large beasts with huge claws and long teeth. Reading the book I thought, why would anyone include monsters in their happy place? And why wasn’t this boy afraid of them? And how brave was he to speak to his mother in such a disrespectful manner? I decided that the book would make much more sense to me if I were a boy. But I also remember thinking, there’s something about this book that I would only be able to understand when I was a little bit more grown up.

When I heard they were making a movie out of this 10-sentence story I remembered my childhood musings and intrigue about the book. I bought a copy, wanting to rediscover this world created by Max and see if years had indeed unlocked at least some of its mystery. Sure enough, it did. Now when I flip through the pages, I see Max for the boy he is: wild and brave, creating a world where he is totally unrestricted and fully in control. He has no reason to fear these beasts more than twice his size because he can and does make himself their king. But ultimately, he is a boy who wants the freedom to express the wildness within him and be loved unconditionally for it, not just in spite of it.

Being a fan of any story that involves escaping reality through sheer imagination (Peter Pan and the Chronicles of Narnia are still among my favorite books), I looked forward to seeing this story brought to life. Despite reading reviews of it being much darker than most expected, I still had high hopes. And I was not disappointed. Somehow they managed to turn 10-sentences into a full-length movie without destroying the integrity of the story Maurice Sendak created. Out of necessity, events were created and manipulated not according to the book, but it is still very much the same world Max escapes to.

One of the biggest plot changes was the naming of the wild things. Not only were they named but they were made into complete, rounded-out characters that the audience could completely embrace as creations of Max’s imagination. Though they all had distinct personalities, it was downright magical to see how they took turns representing different aspects of Max’s personality and, at times, his perceptions of the people in his life. Carol is like Max’s best friend or soulmate, the one he could relate to most. Just like Max, Carol hates change and desires that his family stay together, just as it is. He’s looking for that happiness that is so close but remains just out of reach, and he’s searching for that something or someone to bridge the gap. Judith takes turns being like his mother’s more authoritative side and the negative, pessimistic gloom that Max can’t seem to escape, nor does he really want to escape it. Ira is probably what Max wishes his dad could be like: completely and unconditionally devoted to Judith (his mom). Douglas is the epitome of the unconditionally loyal friend because, honestly, what better friend could their be than one who still stands by your side, even after ripping out your (favorite) arm. Alexander is the part of Max that feels lost in the chaos; how Max feels other people probably view him--an annoying mosquito that people swat away. And KW is like Max’s mom in the best way. Of all the wild things, she’s the one who knows exactly who he is--she’s the only one who calls him Max from the begining--and loves him whole-heartedly, no questions asked. She can see that Max is pretending to be someone bigger than he really is, but instead of questioning his authority like Judith does, or pushing to know his background, or lifting him on a pedestal that deep down he knows he doesn’t deserve, she just loves him with her whole being.

A major addition the movie brought to the story was the conflict among the wild things that Max tries to resolve. Like his own life, a family is changed for what appears to be the worse, but in this world, maybe there’s a chance he can repair it. Through the movie Max tries his best to unite the beasts and make the hurt and loneliness go away. But even in this world of make-believe, it is bigger than he is, and Max ends up feeling like he just made everything worse. So Max returns home, glad to be free of the responsibility of fixing the world’s problems. Where he isn’t expected to take care of everyone, but instead he is taken care of, which is exactly where all little boys belong.

What I think I love most about the movie is how it is filmed as though Max himself is telling the story. All perception is biased by his point of view, and yet, it’s not the watered-down light-hearted fantasy Disney has taught us to expect of children. Even at it’s most rambunctious and happiest moments, there is still a hint of the sadness and loneliness permeating throughout. It’s as though Max realizes that no matter how free and wild he may act or how far away he runs, he can’t escape the troubles and worries that plague him. In the end, the most comforting place turns out to be the very place he has been trying to escape. It is at home that he finds beautiful, imperfect, and unconditional love.

Love Story

So Michelle just linked me to this vid on YouTube of an arrangement this guy did on piano and cello called "Love Story meets Viva la Vida." And I'm trying not to cry like a baby. It's a beautiful arrangement, go check it out (but after you finish reading. ^_^)

Anyways, I'm typing this as I listen to it again, and I'm absolutely floored at the fact that a teenager wrote the song Love Story. Just the melody alone is enough to bring me to tears. But it's the words that do me in every. single. time. And I think, how lucky is this girl to be able to not just pen down these lyrics and hear this music in her head, but ultimately have such hope that someday she's going to find her Prince Charming. And not only will she find him, she believes he will overcome any challenge, any roadblock, big or small, to ensure their happily ever after.

That's a lot of optimism for a girl to have these days. With all the crap and stupidity going on in the world, it's hard to hope for true love. It's hard to imagine that yes, there is someone out there, meant for you, who will do whatever it takes to find you. I know in my personal experience, my natural optimism is constantly battling what I perceive to be a harsh reality: It's a tough world out there, and if you're gonna make it, you're gonna have to be able to do it alone. It's created an almost fierce independence streak in me. When I first moved out here on my own, I was the eternal optimist. I was Taylor Swift. I knew I was a social person, and that I needed people. But after just over two years and a lot of heartbreak, my thinking has taken a much more realistic, defensive route. I'm prepared to face this world on my own, without a crutch to lean on. I can't waste time looking for someone to share my life with, because it will only bring disappointment.

But I'm so grateful for those out there who do believe in happy endings. Who believe in that knight riding in on a white horse. It almost, almost rekindles that spark of hope. Almost. And sometimes, it's nice to pretend there is hope.

Anyways, thank you Taylor Swift, for your beautiful music and even more beautiful lyrics. Thanks for bringing the hope of a fairytale ending into an otherwise bleak world.

Single

I currently am crushing on a much younger guy (he’s legal, I may be a cougar, but I’m certainly no pedophile). Anyways, at work the other day, I was just trying to picture what it would be like if I ended up with this guy. Now, another certain goal I have in life is to adopt a girl from China. I’ve done my research, and China only takes applicant’s over the age of 30. They take single parent applications, but if a couple is applying, they both have to be at least 30. In my fantasy scenario where I end up with this young guy, I realized I would have to wait till I was 35 before my adoption dream could even take the first step to becoming a reality. But I really I don’t want to wait that long! I thought, well, maybe this guy and I could put off getting married until after I adopted my daughter. But honestly, what would a guy think if I told him, “I love you and want to marry you and all, but I need to have a child first before I can take that step.”

This got me thinking. Maybe getting married isn’t so important to me anymore. I mean I just got this new apartment by myself, and I keep waiting for the feelings of loneliness to hit me, but they’re not coming. I’m finding myself quite content living alone. I’m loving my work and I keep planning the steps to keep moving up in my career. I’m making lists of places I want to visit, things I want to do. For once--probably the first time ever--I am truly happy and content with being single.

Maybe it’s sad that it took me this long, to get to this point, but I couldn’t be more relieved. It feels like I’m finally getting the answer to my prayer. I think, right now, I could care less if I stay single for the next 5 years or 50. The things I really want out of life, I don’t need a boyfriend or a husband to get them. I can adopt as a single parent. I still enjoy my crush and a good sappy movie or love song now and again, but the aching emptiness I’ve felt for so long no longer has a vise grip on my heart. More importantly, I finally feel that I’ve let go of the rejection and unworthiness that have plagued me for the past couple of years. Yes, I’m single, and I may be single for a very long time, possible for the rest of my life, but that doesn’t make my life any less meaningful. I’m sure there will still be bouts of loneliness, but it all comes with the territory. Apparently I’m a very slow person: It took me over 3 years to accept and embrace the fact that I’m a nurse, It’s taken me even longer, to finally accept and embrace my singleness--but at least I finally got there.

Change of plans

I was working on a graduation blog about my brother, but I just got news that my patient passed away over the weekend.

This is the first time I've lost a baby, much less a primary. I feel lost, sad, and I deeply regret not being there for my primary's family. What surprises me, is how at peace I feel. I expected to be guilty, or maybe even angry. While taking care of him, I kept doubting myself, that I was capable of handling such a sick baby. But over the weekend, even unaware of what was going on with him, I came to realize that I did the absolute best I could in taking care of him. I loved him, and it made me all the more careful and thorough in my care for him. So even now, knowing he's gone, I don't feel guilty.

I really did expect to feel at least a little bit angry with God. Given the fragility of my relationship with Him, I thought a loss like this would snap the fine thread holding me to Him. But again I'm surprised, because I actually feel closer to Him. I know He loved this baby a hundred times more than his parents did, and certainly a hundred thousands times more than I did. I know it breaks His heart that a life is lost, a family is grieved and broken, and that He hurts more than all of them put together. But I am 100% confident that this is not God's fault. God did not want this baby to come early, or to get so sick, or to give a family a baby only to take him away before he ever got a real chance at life.

So I am at peace. I know, when I return to work tomorrow night, it will hit me all over again, and I will probably shed a few more tears. But I can honestly say, though I am sad, my heart is untroubled. There is still a God who is watching, caring, loving everyone, including me.

hello again

I think I'd like to come back to this blog. I kept it private for a while, but I think I have some stuff I'd like to share, so I went public. So I did a little redesign, made use of my editing shears, and voila: I present to you, RR&RoRR 2.0. In other words, your average blog. Ah, the brilliance of narcissistic anonymity. It's the American way.