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BabelFishe
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Name: Diamondtrim
Country: United States
State: New York
Metro: New York City
Birthday: 9/1/1982
Gender: Female
Interests: Aberrations. Beginnings. Bonding. Connecting. Free time. Spare time. Growing. Healing. Hurting. Discovery. Discovering. Deviation. Capturing moments. Green-thumbing. Expression. Distinctive markings (metallic or inked). Original ideas. Meaning. Identifying. Patterns. Symbols. Idiosyncrasies. Simile. Revamping. Unearthing. Strategies. Releasing compunctions. Wording. Rhythyms, rhymes, and harmonies.
Expertise: Coming up short, one way or another.
Occupation: RN
Industry: Living.
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  crazedweazels
MSN: crazedweasels@hotmail.com
Member Since:
6/22/2004
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| Recently, I had a patient at the hospital with a very sad story. A few months earlier, he'd lost his wife, with whom he had an 11 year old son with. Not a young man, I'd say probably old enough to have been the kids' granddaddy, though an younger one. But, his much missed wife had been younger than him by about 8 years or so. Now, he was with me on the M/S unit, facing a hospitalization that was clearly scaring the crap out of him and a diagnosis that did the same. I don't remember exactly what he had going on, I believe it was something chronic, but not fatal as long as he took reasonable care of himself, but his anxiety level was definitely up. It didn't help matters much that he had also somehow convinced himself that he was dying of cancer, which up to that point, he didn't have and it didn't look like he was likely to have, either. (though they were investigating that possibility).
But, the man was nothing if not convinced.
Now, I am a float RN. Generally, this means that each night I go in to work, my assignment is different, whether it's on a different floor completely, or if it is the same floor, usually down a different hallway with a completely different batch of patients for that night.
Not with this gentleman.
As some strange circumstance would have it, I was on for a three night stretch. And, all three of those nights, I was down the same hallway and had the pleasure of being this man's nurse each of those three nights.
And we got along great. He was a pleasant man, respectful if antsy. His granddaughter was a trifle pushy and somewhat annoying, but she did that all on her own, and probably out of fear for him. But, she cooled off after I sic'd my NA on her.
I respected his wishes for things, like me not discussing his condition in front of any visitors for fear that the knowledge of it would somehow leak back to his young son. He didn't want to distress the boy, though I think he was underestimating the child (after all, why does anyone get hospitalized these days if not for something serious?), after so recently losing his mother. I was as free as I could be in dispensing the anti-anxiety meds, which he appreciated quite a bit, because up to then, he hadn't been sleeping and his physical discomfort kept him upright and pacing in his room all day. I didn't give him a hard time about wanting them, and he respected the fact that I couldn't give it any oftener than the MD had ordered. We even worked out a schedule so that he could get them when I came on, and then again at bedtime. It was good.
He even showed me a picture of his dead wife that he kept in his bedside table. I remember complimenting her hair, and then he cried. He did that a lot, too. And it was funny, because with this patient, I felt something change in myself, too. Usually, at signs of distress like that (ie-grief) I clam up, but it was easy to offer comfort to this man, and say all those things that I find abhorrently cheesy that they teach you about in school. Can't say if it helped or not, but he seemed to appreciate the gesture.
In short, he was a good patient.
Somewhere along the line, I'm not sure when or how, he got it into his head that my name was Jo.
Like I said, I don't know how; my real name does not in any way remotely resemble Jo.
At first, I thought he'd just given me a nickname. He was older, he had the right. He'd call me Jo while smirking, or introduce me to his visitors as such while kind-of half laughing. So, I thought it was his idea of a joke, and I found it amusing as well.
Especially since I wear a large badge that dangles freely from a landyard, where my first name is honking huge right beneath my picture.
Admittedly, said badge spends most of it's time with my name facing my body and not the world at large, but some of the time, it's right side out. Surely enough of the times during those three nights, it must have been fairly obvious, I would think.
But, I think by my third night with him, it became pretty clear that it wasn't just a nickname he'd given me. This was because he asked me point blank if I preferred Jo, or some other derivative of that name, like Joanne...I can't remember the actual full name that he threw out there, but it went something like that.
Semi-confused and caught off guard, I think I told him that I didn't mind either way. He crowed out something like, 'Alright, JO!' and did whatever I was in the room at that particular moment to do.
What made that exchange slightly weirder was that as he was asking me what I preferred to be called, I could have sworn he stared right at my badge for a few moments, as if trying to see the full name that was printed there.
Either this guy had a case of dementia that manifested itself in some weird, memory/name infiltrating way, or this is pretty strong testament to our brains' ability to see only what we want/expect to see.
After having spent three nights with him in the hospital setting, I'm inclined to believe the latter of this fella.
Not only did he thoroughly convince himself that he had cancer, to the point that he needed medication to take the edge off his anxiety, but here he was, staring straight at my badge, which was this time facing right side out, and asking me if I preferred to be a called by a name that doesn't sound (or look!) a thing like my own.
I didn't have the heart to correct him and be like, 'Actually, my name is this, not Jo'...not after three shifts of him calling me by a name that I thought was a nickname, but in fact was what he erroneously thought was my real name. I didn't want to embarrass him. I didn't mind, either, it wasn't insulting. It's not like he chose to call me 'dumbass' or something. And I had gone along with it for so long, I didn't want him to think I was making fun of him, or anything. I thought that if he wanted to give me a nickname, then it must be helping him on some level to relax and get through his time in a hospital.
Maybe I looked like someone he knew who was legitimately called Jo. I didn't know, and I didn't want to take it away from him, whatever his reasons were.
Besides, a patient had never nicknamed me before, and I found it cute.
How wrong I was, though.
And now, I wonder if I should have corrected him when he asked me that. I wonder if it was more fair or gentle to let him continue thinking that my name wasn't what he thought it was.
I don't know, and it isn't exactly a big deal. I'll probably never see him again, unless he ends up back where he was when I took care of him.
It isn't much, but it's one thing that has stuck with me so far.
T*m says that I should have corrected him and told him what my name really is. He says that would have been more fair, and went on to say how the guy might have been referring to me as Jo when telling other staff about me, and that they would have looked at him strangely.
I doubt that would have happened, because even though we got on famously, it's not like he would have been speaking about it to anyone. Patients have oodles and oodles of nurses on that floor, especially the longer they stay. My blip on his radar was only for three shifts out of hundreds of other nurses, so I don't think him trying to tell other staff about the nurse named Jo is going to be any sort of issue. More like a non-issue.
But still...I feel sort of bad now that I never set him right about my name.
It's too bad I wasn't faster on the uptake, and didn't realize sooner that he wasn't just tagging me with a moniker that he liked.
But mostly, I just wish I had the balls to say 'Now wait a minute...' when he was asking me what I preferred to be called.
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| So, at 2335 October 23rd, I became an aunt. Really, aside from the arrival of baby Brody, not much has changed yet. He's only a few days old, after all.
The entire experience was not like anyone imagined, including my sister, the mother. Ironically, one thing it has done for me, though, is highlight what I want going on if/when I ever have kids.
Which, in all honesty, is looking less and less likely as time goes on.
I got a verbal whipping for expressing that sentiment in the presence of my mother last night, too.
She thinks it's silly of me to worry about the passing of time and the gaining of age in relation to such things. She even tried making me feel better by telling me that she was 31 when she had my brother. Incidentally, he was her 4th child, so I think that kind of negates her argument, but I love her for trying.
Even T*m got in on it and was positive about our situation, for once. Not that he isn't always, but when he gets down about it, he can really get down.
As can I.
I feel a little better this morning, not knowing really if that is due to the encouragement I received last night, or if the feeling is finally just fading from me.
But, ever since the baby came I've been feeling sort of...angry.
I'm not sure if that's the right word to express how I've felt, but it's what came to mind. Bitter, maybe, too? yeah.
At first, I chalked it up to how the whole thing went and ended up. We were never allowed in to see her, but once for a few measley seconds, and she never seemed to ask for us, either. I think in all, we were in the waiting for ten hours. It gets mighty boring in there. The OB nurses all had bad attitudes, except for a couple. I had left so early in the AM, too, that I hadn't done a thing for my pets, so I finally had to pack it in and leave. I was beginning to slip into a foul mood there, anyway and didn't want to contaminate the atmosphere with it, as it was already stressful enough on my parents.
Then, of course, an hour or so after we left, she had a section and Brody came into the world. And I've been feeling this way ever since!
I think it's because he highlights all the shortcomings in my own life that I try very hard not to dwell on. I shouldn't place that much on him, it isn't his fault. That lies with me. Supremely.
But still, I haven't done much on the auntie front yet. Not that there is much to do, and we were never really into calling each other for much anyway, so...one example of how things haven't really changed, even though they have.
Still and all, it ended well, and all are healthy.
And there's a halloween party to go to tonight, and I'm feeling distracted, so...
pea's out.
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| I don't know what I'm going to do with myself.
I have no money, because I don't work enough hours in the week.
I hate my job, which is why I don't go in for any extra time.
It's a fine line between letting your job take over your life and maintaining a life at home when you are off. I don't understand what my big deal is, which is why I also don't know what I'm going to do with myself. The majority of the time, once I get to work, I have a good enough time. It's just getting there and working myself up to be excited for working that is the difficult part. They do something called downsizing, which is when you aren't needed, and when it's offered to me, I usually take it. The problem with that is that I don't always have enough benefit hours to still give me a full paycheck.
I am already just a part-timer, too, so there's a hefty amount of guilt involved whenever I take the downsize, especially if I have a tinkling of an idea that there won't be enough time to cover the missed hours. But, still, I usually take them. And act blithe about it in an attempt to reassure my mate about coming up short in pay. It's rare when I won't take a downsize, but if things are really tight, then I'll turn down the chance to stay home and relax.
It's not even like I have pressing issues to take care of at home. I usually do nothing with myself aside from idle little activities.
And, like I've already mentioned, if I get too many days off in a row, I end up being a tad miserable with nothing to do.
Lately, between The Man and I, it seems as if those times of discontent are getting more frequent than the days when we relax together and enjoy each others' company, too.
Ah, the benefits of being broke.
Which, of course, I have noone to blame for but myself. 'Cause, really, I don't work nearly as much as I could. Working more would give me money, but I just hate doing it so much. I can't wrap my mind around it, or why I hate it so much.
Is it just because I know that it's not what I wanted to do, and each day I have to go in there just makes me feel like I'm dying a slow death of missed chances and blown opportunities? Maybe.
But, then again, that might be a bit melodramatic.
But if it is, then why do I hate reading about people living their lives the way they want to and doing what they love? Why does doing that make me want to curl up in my bedroom and cry? Why do I feel so bitter and resentful when I hear of someone doing what they love? Being passionate? Enjoying their own work and feeling like they achieve something?
It's kind of like the hump I had concerning homework. I approach my job the same way...find any reason to put it off.
I never remember feeling this way towards work. Of course, I was always upset if I had to miss something that my friends or family was doing while I was at work, but I never remember trying to get out of working in so many ways. Granted, I never had so much ability to get out of it before, like sick time, or vacation hours to use. I think the moment that I found out about them was the beginning of the end for my work ethic, pathetic as it may already have been.
It's the same thing with my body. I'm out of shape and flabby and yet I rarely get out and do anything productive with myself. Even just going for walks I've been told would help some, but I don't. And thus, I've been hovering at the same disgusted image of myself for the last few years. I hate it something fierce, but I lack the discipline to do anything about it. Instead, I hate myself more each day, for a myriad of reasons. I hate my predicament, and I hate how it's all turned out and how it all looks like it's going to continue to be.
I'm stuck in a mire of self loathing. So stuck that even though the way out seems reasonable and easy enough to achieve, I don't go for it.
Which, makes even less sense than a lot of other things I can think of.
I think, mostly, that I just wanted to purge a bit. Rant somewhat at myself and my own inadequacies. Probably brought on by the nasty mood I'm in and the argument I just had. Could be.
But still. It's all the truth.
I'm disgusting, and lazy, and bitter. And that about sums it up just right.
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| I gripe a lot about wasting my days. To myself, mostly, but it's because I hate doing it.
Nothing can put me in a bad mood faster than the feeling I get of wasting my days. I don't mean, in the greater scheme of life kind of wasting days...more like a 'did I really just spend this whole day plastered to the couch wasting Family Guy reruns instead of being constructive?'
So, maybe I do mean it in the bigger picture kind of way, too.
And yet, no matter how much I hate doing it, and how it frustrates and embarrasses me to live that way (because, I mean, honestly, what kind of life is that?), nobody can waste a day better than I. But it isn't good for the self esteem, it is quite loser-ish, and gets me nowhere.
As a matter of fact, it isn't beneficial in any way to be such a bum, and that is why I hate it. It's like I'm wasting space, or air, to be so aimless with my days. It's life. Not the sort of thing that you piddle down the drain, right?
Sure, it's okay once in a while to do nothing but veg or read or stare at a wall. We all need a break from the routine once in awhile, and that is healthy and good. Too much of anything, though, I've been told since I was born is not good.
After all, it's not like I have a vibrant social life to liven up my other time.
Nope.
It's work and wasted days, for me. At least, that's what it feels like. With the occasional trip to a grocery/pet store in between.
You'd think with me working part time now, that I'd have thought up a whole schlew of fascinating, stimulating, interesting, and productive things for me to do on my days off.
But, I haven't.
At least, I don't think I did.
I've tried to, really, I have.
Because I hate wasting my days.
Then something occurred to me, and I swear I'm not trying to rationalize being lazy. For real.
But what does it really mean to waste a day, anyway?
I mean, I am my own worst critic...this I know, all too well.
And, even though I hate wasting time and yes, sometimes even myself for wasting time, I still enjoy doing those things that I waste my days with.
Not so much the stupid television programming, because even on a good day, that stuff is just brain-numbing. I mean, really...Parking Wars? Why on Earth would anyone think that a show about a meter-maid is a good idea? That is one I am proud to say I have not caught yet. Thankfully. But, there's still plenty of other stupid shit on that thing that I've blown much time on.
And reading. I love reading. Very much. I can spend a whole day reading, literally. With little timed breaks for things like food. Preferably food that can be eaten while still holding a book. Sometimes, I do kill an entire day this way. And therein lies the problem and the source for my strange juxtaposition of emotions.
I love reading, yet I can't seem to shake the disgusted and slightly shocked feeling I get when I realize the day is over and I have to go to work tomorrow, and oh, by the way, did nothing other than read today.
Was it really a waste to spend a day in a place that I love (my mind ), enlivening my neurons with the written word and spreading the wings of my imagination? What else was there for me to do, anyway? Household chores? Phaugh! Why was it a waste of a day if I can think of no other constructive activity with which to take up my time?
It's true, I often forget to do something else, like that online education course for my job. Or, I rationalize my procrastination by telling myself that I'm off tomorrow and can do it, then.
Of course, then tomorrow is here and something comes up. Either a chore, or a whispered enticement of "just an hour or two" and before I know it, it's bedtime again. No education done. And then, all too soon, it's back to work.
Still, when it gets right down to it, I do love reading, but I also love feeling vital. Useful. Like I have a purpose. And I don't like feeling bitter, resentful, or trapped, which can sometimes happen when I have had too many of these "wasted" days.
Optimally, I should discover something that can occupy my time without making me feel like I never get any to myself. Because I am warped that way. I crave that which can sometimes be detrimental to my psyche when I have too much of the other end on the spectrum.
Like, if my days off are too full, I can sometimes feel strung out and wanting a day just to myself, to do what I please with it. Give me too many of those days, however, and I end up feeling the motivation to make a post like this.
There is one thing that is a constant in my life, however; and that is me, wishing that I wasn't such an oddball one-gal freakshow of mixed intentions.
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