When you are looking here... it's happening there...

Okay, I admit.

It is a super lame title for a chapter. Let's see you come up with something more creative than that after a full day of studying ob-gyn and community health. Ugh.

So... this summarizes my life to a tee...

I am house-sitting a dog for friends of mine and I return home from a long day at school to the foul smell of dried dog-piss. Worst. Smell. Ever! Some people will say that nothing is worse than the smell of brussel sprouts, but they lie. Tell them to look after a poorly trained puppy and then they will understand that nothing really beats that smell on the foul-scale.

Anyway... house-sitting a dog. That was the point of the story... not the smell thing.

So I take the dog's mat outside into the backyard when I let the dog out. Standing the mat against the fire pit in their backyard, I get the hose and spray the living snots out of that stupid mat in hopes that the smell would leave. After spraying it for an extended (!!) amount of time, I leave it propped by the fire pit and run back into the house to scrub the kennel down. This smell has GOT to go! However, I was so focused on scrubbing the smell out, I forgot to watch the mat and dog in the backyard. Needless to say, this severely untrained puppy took the wet mat and dug a hole in the backyard and proceeded to BURY THE MAT! So, now I had to re-wash the mat, wash the dog, ANNNNND fill a giant hole.

The same is true internally. I was so focused on the fact that these two years would be a time of spiritual seeking and reconciling and while I was giving that my full attention, I failed to see how other aspects of my life were starting to heal up.

Two years into my first undergraduate degree, my naive and positive outlook on life was violently shattered. Fast forward through some hospitalizations, panic attacks, and months of counselling and I would have sworn that I was "good to go!"

However, then as a requirement for this undergraduate program, I found out that I was required to do an ob-gyn, maternity, post partum rotation. I did everything I could (EEEEEVERYTHING) I could to get out of having to do this rotation. I contacted the course lead and begged to do my entire rotation in post partum, working with newborn babies... the answer was a bold-type NO. I asked my post partum tutor if I could do the duration of my assignment with infants rather than labouring moms and again, the answer was... NO. Though, the tutor actually laughed a little before she said no. I visited my wonderful family doctor and requested a doctor's note to excuse me from this rotation for "religious reasons". Her initial reaction was just laughter. I guess I have a way of sounding funny when I'm really worked up?

My family doctor actually did come 'round once she knew my reasons for wanting to avoid the placement, truly giving me the choice of whether or not to go through with the rotation. In her best wisdom, she helped me figure out what the pros/cons were to both doing or neglecting the placement and then willingly wrote a doctors note to excuse me from having to witness any births and sent me on my way with Ativan.

To my surprise, once I finished up the post partum portion of the placement and transferred over to the screaming moms in agony, the labour-tutor was incredibly understanding as well. Our discussion went something like,

"I really, really, reeeeeally don't want to be here"

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. What can I do to make your time here manageable?"

"Let me go to the pre-term unit and play with pre-term babies all day?"

"Not until you see a birth. It is actually a beautiful thing. Don't you want to have kids one day?"

"Heeeeeeeeeeeello adoption!"

She thought that I was "genuinely humourous" and literally walked me through the process as best she could. Together, we chose a woman who was labouring with her fourth child. When it came time for this patient to push, she pushed for a grand total of 3 minutes and 21 seconds. At which point, I happily excused myself and went to spend the last portion of my placement in the nursery.

But the weirdest thing came of my experience at the hospital. Aside from deciding with certainty that I would NEVER have kids of my own, I began to feel as though I could conquer the world. Really, as lame as it sounds, I had just overcome that which previously, scared me to the point of not sleeping, not keeping food in, and not really breathing. I most certainly did not execute myself in perfect form or with the utmost grace, but I did it! It was not tear-less, anxiety-less, or sarcasm-less, but it also was not me-less.

From there, I had the courage to somehow follow through with one of my assignments to follow a midwife around for a clinical day. I swear it is only by the utter grace of God that I, one student among 70-0dd students, am selected for a midwifery experience rather than any of the other long list of possible experiences. There, I spent 11 hours learning that the hospital way is not the only way and that there are humane experiences of pregnancy. 11 hours in which I was not forcing healing to happen, and yet... it was. Just learning the fact that contrary to the hospital pathway, particular patient histories do not always necessitate cesarean sections and that the pregnant couple have full power of decision making, not un-involved physicians who get paid more for 'complicated delivery procedures' was enough to perpetuate healing.

Aaaaaand, as if that wasn't enough of a step forward, yesterday found myself sitting at the University Health Services awaiting an 'initial intake' with a psychologist. Unlike this time last year, I was actually able to articulate three 'priority needs' for the 12-sessions I am entitled to as a student. Granted, my second and third priority and reason for seeking psychological services both had "related to number one" written beside it, this is both huge and awesome!

Finally, as a true testament to the grand improvements that seem to be happening in life, I was able to attend not one, but two massage therapy appointments in the past three weeks. While these appointments would be heavenly relaxation to most, being able to trust someone enough to be able to lay on my stomach, having severely limited vision because of having to put one's face in that stupid face-toilet-bowl-shaped-thing, while the almost-complete-stranger makes physical contact with the clothes-limited me... is... exciting beyond words!

For those who know me even slightly, they know that this last step is truly reflective of the inner healing that has already started. Seeds that were planted in this heart of dirt over these past two years are now sprouting through the black soil in search of the sunlight warmth. I only have a mere 6 months left in the program, but that is more than enough time in my humble opinion, to continue on this journey. And, as I said to someone today, even if I never actually nurse a day in life (I *will* nurse, but if I never got the chance to), I now understand why I embarked upon this particular journey almost two years ago.

So, while I was busy trying to scrub the smell out of this spiritual kennel of mine, the healing was continuing to grow in my flower pot. The seeds that were planted over the years by nursing instructors who claimed that my brick walls were too high and suggested some level of psychotherapy... those incredibly loving people who let me hang out and play music with them every now and again without any church requirements, constantly reminding me of the fact that I am loved for who I am and where I am on this journey...those people who remind me all the time that ultimately - I just need to be me. Me, the genuinely humourous child who needs the reminder to water the plant every now and again.

Crazy how that works, isn't it? I should know by now that things never really happen how we plan them out to, but rather - they happen when we least expect them, don't feel ready or worthy of them, and when we have the inner strength to laugh at the pure irony and coincidence of the timing of them.

The Gift of Communication

At first I titled this entry, "the gift of language", but while thinking about it - language does not get us anywhere if we cannot communicate with someone else.

Take, for example, the adorable 85 year old Baba that will go down in the books as being my "first patient". Other health care professionals on the unit seem to dislike having "Baba" as a patient because every time they enter her room she either:

a) talks non-stop

or

b) only uses an English word for every 20 Italian words and even then, it is said with a very thick immigrant accent

In the short time that I have come to know her, I've learned a few incredibly valuable lessons regarding communication.

1) When 'pretending' to speak Italian, one must simply add "isimo" onto the end of every word. This way, even if the patient is confused by what you are asking them, they will laugh at your feeble attempt to try and meet them in the middle.

2) As much as I want it to be, "Crap-isimo" is not a word in the Italian language. If I had the opportunity to add it to the vocabulary of Italians, the definition I would attach to the word would be, "Wooooow, I screwed THAT up royally!" or alternatively, "DOH!"

3) If one truly does not understand what another is saying, a smile and a gentle hand on the shoulder go a very long way.

4) People prefer being spoken to directly and greatly detest having to use their adolescent grand daughter as a translator when trying to tell you that they are constipated.

5) Communication is so much more than simply the language we speak from our lips. It is about reading the pain in someone's face as they undergo an uncomfortable procedure or dressing change and reassuring them when it happens. It is about engaging their eyes as a sign of deep respect and admiration for the journey they have traveled and the experiences they have to share. It is about smiling as if to tell them that being in their presence has truly made your day. It is about holding their hand with a warm and gentle embrace as if to say, "I'm here, I'm with you, I want to help to lift you to your feet when you've fallen". It is about sitting in silence in their presence in place of saying, "I shall keep watch for you", reassuring them that they are not alone but very much loved and looked after. And finally, it is about a journey - a journey of two people towards a deeper sense of what the other means by their frantic, indiscernible speech or their playful twinkle in their eye. It is a journey that requires many steps, many detours, many bathroom breaks and many, many servings of patience, teamwork, and laughter.

She has taught me lessons that I hope to never forget and lessons that are applicable to so many various relationships in life outside the hospital walls. For even when we speak the same language as friends, acquaintances, and colleagues... we struggle immensely with communicating. We send virtual messages in place of phone calls, we neglect requests to respond, and we get overwhelmed by day-to-day responsibilities that before we know it, the day is done. Some lessons I wish I could write in a card and mail to people who have, for whatever reason, stopped communicating simply to remind them that I am still here - patiently waiting for the gift to communicate with them.

It's just a piece of paper...

In less than a month, I will walk across a stage, shake some strangers hand, and pick up a piece of paper that says I have officially received my university degree. In facing deadlines in ordering tickets and such, I emailed a friend to find out for sure what her plans were in either attending or not. When she elegantly wrote back to say the timing is less than ideal and she would have to pass, my response to her was simple: "it's okay; at the end of the day, it's just a piece of paper."

It's true. There is nothing in the world that can even come close to capturing the last six years of my life, and most especially, not a mere piece of paper. It is a piece of paper that will probably never be framed and hung on a wall, rather it will sit, packed nicely in a box, and stored in the corner of my closet. It bears the signature of someone whom I will never, personally meet or have a cup of coffee with. People get all excited about receiving this piece of paper. A three hour ceremony, cap and gown, standing and sitting amongst strangers for an entire afternoon - people I will probably, never see again.

My degree is nothing special. It does not give me more relevant wisdom than the man I sit beside on public transit each morning. It does not qualify me as a better citizen, Christian, or friend. It is not unlike the relationships that fill my life; random text messages or emails sent to a friend in which the relationship is merely a ghost of the life-changing journey that was once traversed. It is a piece of paper containing words that are meaningless unless placed in a specific circumstance, much like the communication exchanged between two people who used to have something in common. And most of all, my degree does not give me the answers to the life-agonizing questions that keep me up at night.

The same way that I will stop investing time and effort and concern into relationships that are going nowhere or in which my effort is met with a mere mumble of meaningless words, I find myself wondering if all the hype and hoopla is required in order to get a piece of paper. Because afterall, when the day is done... it's just a piece of paper.

Life vs the Fog

It is not a large picture. It does not need to be. Everyone can relate to that feeling of helpless lostness when travelling through a foggy patch. I was reminded of this in a very tangible way as I was on my way home from hockey tonight/this morning (our ice time was at 11pm so I arrived home around 1 in the morning).

For drivers (around here anyways), driving in fog requires the perfect balance between driving with a sense of confidence and competence, and tentative caution. Realistically, one could hit a deer or moose and be in serious trouble at any point along the familiar stretch of road and with heavy fog, it is impossible to see anything until it is right in front of you... when it is often much to late to react safely. The same is true for cars or other hazards. A car may have applied their brakes in plenty of time, have properly indicated they are turning and yet... as the car behind them, one has no idea until they are literally feet behind the virtually stopped car.

However, for ones own safety, it is best to drive faster than a snails pace so as to not be rear ended by the over zealous truck that is screaming down the highway. Often, the fog will not lift or disperse if you drive slower... and the flip side to driving a relatively safe and quick pace is that one is through the worst of the fog within seconds and back to being able to drive safely with 100% visibility.

Funny how often life is manifest in the weather situation, do you not agree? How there are always going to be some moments in life in which, momentarily and short term - the answer seems to be that we ought to just stop. Pull over to the side of the road, maybe wait until mid morning for the fog to burn off before continuing on our way. There will most definitely always be those moments in life in which we can not see how many fingers we are holding up, let alone where to turn, where to run, where to hide, where to venture, where to conquer. Those moments in which we are truly overtaken by circumstances beyond our control.

The only challenge that the life/fog paradox poses is that with fog, even an elementary child could point out that the sun will eventually come out and burn through the lower level of cloud or after a certain period of time, the fog will truly lift and no longer be an issue. This is a proven, scientific fact. We know "x" will happen because "y, d, a and n" happened. But with life, the story is different. We don't know what the variables "y, d, a, and n" truly are. Nor do we have the insight to "guesstimate" whether or not "x" is even possible.

Someone should work on changing that sometime soon. Just sayin'...

Fool-proof Proof that God exists!

It is, by far, thee most childish and immature argument for why I believe God exists more than Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy... but it is a proof that has never let me down. For some reason, it is the proof that I've always clung to and am reminded of each fall. Each time I remember this proof, I make the mental note of filing it in the back of the cabinet under "potential sermon illustration". Here it is.

I know that God exists because unlike Santa, God can hear the prayers that I say in my head; God can read my mind, but if you want Santa to know something, you have to either write it down or say it out loud. I know that God exists because unlike the Easter Bunny, God is capable of gifting more than chocolate and God doesn't leave a mess anywhere; God gifts things like love, forgiveness, grace, and peace, but the Easter Bunny is only capable of gifting those things which come in moulds - most often, in the shape of a bunny and rarely does the Easter Bunny gift anything aside from milk chocolate (not exactly a utility kind of gift). Plus, you don't have to clean up after God, he cleans up after you. But the Easter Bunny requires a pooper-scooper and a large pail in it's wake. Finally, I know that God exists because the rewards of making a sacrifice come in copious showers, but the Tooth Fairy never rewards more than a two dollar coin; God isn't cheap, but the Tooth Fairy certainly is. God understands that having an important, rooted aspect of your life is a painful, tedious process and never puts a numerical value on what is being lost, but the Tooth Fairy seems to think that Novacane makes everything manageable and clearly thinks that being able to break life into bite-size pieces is only worth small coinage. Plus, God does not hold our past against us but that stupid Tooth Fairy holds all the teeth in an envelope in Dad's bathroom - probably just to give back to us when we are old and start to lose these teeth.

I have been up for a few hours already, pre-sunrise thinking about this "proof" and how absolutely certain I was 18 years ago that the proof was infallible. Growing up on the farm, this time of year was one of mixed feelings. We only got to see my dad on Sunday mornings for church, if we got to stay up really, really late, or if it was pouring rain. He would always be out of the house before we got up in the morning and would never get back until after we were in bed. Every night, my mom would hear the instructions that she was to pass onto my dad when he got home. "Tell dad that as SOON as he gets home, to come and kiss me goodnight, make sure that Kristin didn't steal all the blankets or kick me onto the floor. Then, after he showers and eats his supper, tell him to come back in for one more kiss before bed, k?" She would nod, assure us that he always came into our rooms when he got home, kissed us goodnight, and made sure we were all tucked in. Night after night, my sister and I would be scolded for having to "use the bathroom" every five minutes, taking turns to see if dad was home.

If we were lucky, we would get to take supper out to the field for him. We would put milk in a canning jar and essentially, pack a small, cold picnic for him. Annnnd, if we were really lucky (and if the baby was sleeping in the car), we would get to go for a round on the combine with him. On the nights that we didn't go out to the field (we typically only took supper out on the nights where they were going to be combining into the early hours of the morning), we would leave him pictures, mis-spelled notes, and crafts by his plate for him to look at/read/admire while he ate his supper.

And this was the time of year, where part one of the proof was first discovered. Prayers were often said together, post teeth-brushing and pre-tuck in. Together, we would pray for good weather, good crops, safety, for people we loved.... and then silently, I would add a prayer for a whole day of pouring rain. I didn't necessarily want to contradict the good weather prayers that mom prayed for, but I just wanted one day of pouring rain so that dad could stay home.

Sure enough, after what seemed like eternity to a six year old, it rained. Two days straight. I didn't need to say these prayers out loud at bedtime for God to hear them. God heard my prayers for rain and didn't let me down. Now Santa on the other hand, should maybe take a lesson in the non-verbal, silent requests. If he did, I bet there would be a lot more Christmas presents of peace wrapped with a bow under the tree Christmas morning. And probably, a Transformer toy instead of that Barbie.

God chooses the ordinary

I cannot sleep.  Not that this is surprising or anything as my mind is trying to understand a number of things annnnnnd, I had a Diet Coke.  I should know by now that DC is a bad thing to drink within hours of wanting to be asleep... hmm... chalk it up to... negligence?  

The Bible is always being "pop-psyched" up and beautiful passages are being summed up in short phrases of 21st Century English.  However, sometimes the pop-psych phrase seems to "fit".  The quote, "God chooses ordinary people for extraordinary service" derives from this passage from 1 Corinthians 1:26-31 (I believe...) and it is this very passage that is haunting the hallows of my mushy brain tonight.  

This week can be summed up as follows:

Monday: I finished putting together a DVD to mail to the East Coast for the Relay for Life. Never done a Relay, don't know 99.8% of the people in the pictures that I've included in the short movie, and have no idea if I've done what I was supposed to or will have my offer accepted again.  But when I asked my youngest sibling (16 yrs old) to watch it with me and offer feedback... the tough lil' basketball star dried her eyes and said, "wow".  I can't help but wonder in amazement - how this is even possible.  I will put it in the mail shortly and find out whether I was on track or off by a screeching mile; something tells me it's more on than I could have asked for.  I also spent two hours walking a classmate through course material for the midterm the next day.  Didn't bother me in the slightest - I had nothing better to do and yet, she wouldn't stop saying thank you.  Really... no big deal.  I was studying anyways.  

Tuesday: I cleaned out my spare change and bought a bus ticket that was valid for two hours.  Took the train downtown and made a few important stops.  I stopped at my favourite flower shop and ordered a lovely arrangement of flowers (and dropped off a hand made card) for a fellow employee celebrating a big day and asked that the flowers be delivered "from a secret sender".  The owner of the shop, whom I've come to know quite well, was asking about my studies and what my life plans were.  Chatting briefly, she took my number and wrote it below "Positive, Bubbly Personality" and vowed to call me when she filed her application to the University.  She always wanted to study further, but was sitting on the fence.  Apparently 5 minutes of my time and my story was enough to give her the confidence to file an application and see what happens.  I still await her call, but have no doubt in my mind that it will come.  

The next stop was to a party store where I picked up plastic champagne glasses, paper plates, funny shaped balloons, a Happy Anniversary banner, sparklers, a #1 shaped candle, and party hats.  I also managed to find a "question mark" shaped sparkler.  Before heading back to the University, I made a quick stop for plastic cutlery, a cheesecake topped with fresh fruit, and "sparkling apple juice" - the kind that comes in a real champagne bottle but is not at all alcoholic - "kids wine".  Trudging all this stuff to the office in which I work part time as a contracted employee, I managed to enliven the afternoon of 4 wonderful people for a bit.  My supervisor was celebrating her 1 year anniversary with the program (hence the banner, candle, cake, etc) while her boss (the main director of the program) celebrated her "?" birthday on Saturday.  Decorating the boardroom with much laughter and "I CANNOT believe you did this!! I will never forget this day!  and I don't know whether to cry or laugh" comments from the anniversary-celebrant... we partied for a total of 15 minutes, then packed up and all went back to work.  

Wednesday: While playing a ball game (and not at ALL) on duty, had one of my players hit the ball (a nice double!), and then fall to the ground.  As my team knows that I have a 'bit' of training in the medical realm, I got to tend to this young man until the paramedics showed up.  We iced it and gave him water to drink and distractions to think of while he lay in the shale.  It appears that he tore the majority of ligaments in his knee and dislocated the knee cap itself.  I also got a call from a high school classmate who is going through more life conversions than anyone should have to, who just wanted to chat.  I'm not sure that I said anything of great value, but was willing to share what little experience I had with transitions and got to listen to them share their story.  At the end of the conversation, a very hushed, "thank you, can we talk tomorrow?" came over the phone.  And, to top it off, had someone email me a sermon for Sunday and ask my humble opinion.  (I tried to explain that I'm not really in that frame of mind, but they insisted that I read it through... have yet to do so, but it's on the list!)

I also took a phone call from 1-yr anniversary supervisor who was "just calling to let (you) know how touched (I) was yesterday".  

I don't know what to say.  I think it's that lightbulb realization that this type of week... is my life.  I honestly believe that if someone were celebrating an important anniversary of something, I would commend them and celebrate with them if they let me.  (There are some who never respond to anniversary wishes, but that's their choice, I guess)  If someone was in need of comforting or someone to take authority and say, "don't move him, get ice, call 911" - I would do that in a heartbeat.  I will never turn down someone's request for coffee or a chat because if they trust me enough to want to talk, I'll be there.  I know of a chaplain who refers to this notion as the economy of grace - that when you invest and share grace with others, you invest in them: their futures, their aspirations, their life.  

It's the powerhouse realization that, I dare say, in order for me to invest this grace in others - someone first has invested in me.  They did so on the basis that I would pay it forward... tHEy did so with the understanding that, although just an ordinary person - in the eyes of others, it may be extraordinary.  I just hope that HIS holy investment doesn't come with too many expectations.  And, for the record, I think that although this individual is 45 hours away, I may have been "Cliff-ed" today.  DOH!