Little Girl

You hear about those who have been through trauma of any sort splitting off part of themselves. To preserve and protect. To survive. The little kid hiding behind the couch as they hear parents fighting; fists slamming, guns shooting. The soldier forced to kill a child who is a threat to their safety and the safety of their platoon. Sometimes for lesser, seemingly insignificant reasons to the outside, other times for more heinous reasons than any of us can imagine. They preserve and protect in the moment or season, then spend the rest of their lives trying to get back to that little boy or girl, that innocent man or woman who would never hurt a child. 

The problem I have come across is this - - What if i know that little girl very well? The one that keeps people at a distance. That tells me I am worthless and should never be alive. The one who became so tough that no one would be able to break her. The one who kept me alive when all else would fail and harm me. I have worked to nurture and forgive her. I have given her my time and attention. BUT STILL . . .

What if there is another little girl that died so long ago . . . another little girl that I have been unable to see all along. All of the counseling and soul searching. All of the drinking and drugging. None of that helped me to find this girl. To SEE her. I am comfortable with the tough little girl who protected me at all costs. I have done all that I could to integrate her into a healthy adult life but after all of these years i saw deeper into the corner of the dark closet of my soul to see there is another piece of me. Another little girl who was locked away. Maybe by me, maybe by those around me but so deep into the recesses I couldn’t have even imagined that she existed let alone know to go look for her.

This little girl is likely the same age as the little 5 year old with a scowl. The first locked away to protect me . . . the second to protect her . . . Joy and content, peace and happiness, childlike play . . . a smile from ear to ear . . . this is the little girl that I couldn't find. She learned it wasn't okay to be excited about things. She learned there was no such thing as fun. Any positive feelings or emotions were definitely not okay. Or maybe more appropriately put . . . I learned that. And as a protection for herself, she retreated into the far recesses of my being to not allow those things to be stolen.

I am sorry little girl for not knowing that you were gone before now. For not thinking to look for you. For not realizing that protecting and hiding you no longer served me. For not noticing how important you were to me then and are to me now. Be patient with me as i try to befriend you. As i cautiously approach for both your protection and mine. Maybe slowly as first and more quickly as time progresses we can find places and times to run in fields of flowers and swing so high we might leave planet earth. While the future is unknown and overwhelming the hope of joy that comes with your face is one I look forward to finding.

I am to blame

I am to blame

A miserable mother who didn’t want me, I am to blame

A little girl whose innocence was stolen, I am to blame

Sleeping behind the dumpster, I am to blame

Another epic failure, a dropout, I am to blame

Bleeding all over your reputation, I am to blame

The destruction of drugs and alcohol, I am to blame

Finding myself on the edge of this world and the next, I am to blame

Pulling myself up by my boot straps, I am to blame

Putting the pieced of my broken heart and mind back together, I am to blame

Fighting with my wife, I am to blame

Losing patience with my children, I am to blame

Chores undone at home, I am to blame

Fear and frustration at work, I am to blame

Utter exhaustion from the life I live, I am to blame

I have found myself far beyond the end of me. The depths of my core, I have reached into and depleted. The anxiety and fear. The stress and fatigue. The hopelessness of not knowing that there is enough of me. I am to blame. For so long I accepted blame for things that were not my fault. I hid them and carried them in the darkness. I made choices to punish myself and I was to blame. But eventually I had enough. I was too tired. I gave up. And I gave myself one last chance that took several years but I pulled myself up over and over again by my boot straps and made some forward movement. I have been blessed to have others to join me on my journey to walk by my side. I am to blame. I have hurt those beside me but I also have kept so many people on the outside. I make choices every day that lead to one thing or the other.

Now I find myself at the end of me again. For this, I am also to blame. I wanted more. I began to dream of more than just my death. I opened myself to others and met my person. I fought for that relationship which involved and continues to involve a lot of fights. I am to blame. Our marriage has had to withstand a lot. I am to blame. Our family grew by three in a short period of time. I am to blame. Three little lives no one else believed in or fought for are alive today. We are to blame. Those same three little lives  make our lives practically impossible today. I am to blame. I have a career that I dreamed of as a child but let fall into the abyss. It comes with long days and nights. Questioning every little decision and being responsible for the lives of someones most valuable person. I am to blame. I can’t keep up with the house let alone doing all of the projects I want to do. I am to blame. I have everything that I have ever even thought to dream of or imagine. It is all too much. Its almost crippling. I am to blame. But as I cry out in desperation I realize that I am to blame. 

I have asked God to save me from myself and he never let me die. I asked God to save me from others, not at the time but after the fact. I asked God to take away the blame I took on that wasn’t mine. We are working on that. Turns out I actually had very little to nothing to do with being born. One day I will learn this at my core — For that I am not to blame. I did choose to cope with my life in every wrong way and for that I am to blame. I am to blame for hurting those who tried to love and care for me. 

I am to blame for this life that currently seems to be sucking every living thing out of me. For the things that leave me on my knees, hopeless, with nothing left to give but trying to give out of that nothing to everyone and everything that needs me. I am to blame. But with this blame I take responsibility for holding the hand of a mother trembling with fear. Telling her with all honesty that we are doing everything we can for her baby. And standing in celebration with that same mom for both small and big victories. The three toddlers that I can’t stand sometimes and would love nothing more than to not hear their little voices non stop, I am to blame. We said yes to each one coming into our home. We have fought tooth and nail to keep them alive and even thriving. We didn’t accept that they couldn’t do things like eating, waling and talking. I am to blame. I asked God to open or close each door to each family member— my person and partner in crime, and each of these three kids. I asked for doors to close if any of this life would be too much. I asked to not be accepted into my neonatal nurse practitioner program if I couldn’t do it. I walked eyes wide open into each of these situations; the very things that are too much right now. For each of those things, I asked and I am to blame. 

I am to blame for the hopelessness and despair in two seasons. One full of death and destruction. The other full of life even when it doesn’t feel like it. I asked for these things and I am to blame. My life and the lives of others are changed because of these things. I am to blame for the difficulties in this season and the inability to see the light at the end of the tunnel. When I have a moment to step back and breathe however I know . . . I am to blame. I opened myself up to something different. I am blessed to be used. I am blessed with an amazing family. I may not know how I will get through this season or the next. I have never been one to choose the easy road. I may need you to walk closely beside me. To catch my tears of fear, anger and sadness on your shoulder. But even when I express my frustration just know . . . it is incredibly hard and I have none of the answers. BUt I do know . . . I am to blame . . . and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Adventures and Grieving

In the Summer of 2018 I have traveled across the United States from San Diego, California to Raleigh, North Carolina. I then took the southern route stopping in Destin, Florida on my way back to Texas. This was followed by trips to Minnesota, Canada, Africa and in the very near future, I will end my summer of adventure with a job in Bethel, Alaska. All of my childhood dreams of traveling and flying in the planes like I saw flying over my high school are coming true. My life is one of fun, adventure, travel and all I could want.

I turned down a well paid job that looked good on paper because I believe in my dreams and my heart is for the adventure. Less than three minutes later I have an offer from a middle of nowhere Alaska hospital that will truly give me the Alaska life I want to experience. I couldn’t believe it was happening and honestly sometimes I still cant believe it and doubt that this is real life.

From the outside, everyone sees how amazing and grand of a life I get to live. I do get the questions about when I am going to settle down and find a man. But that is followed by excited discussions about the people and places that fill my life. How could I be anything but excited, ecstatic and fulfilled? I mean really. I have provided medical care to starving and very sick children in Africa. And I have worked with refugee children in San Diego, taking rest days at the beach. What more could I want?

Well . . .

I would love a family. A husband. Children. A mother. A father. But that may not be my reality. And that should be okay because I have a life of adventure that most people with those things don’t have. “You cant have it all,” right? So I smile and tell of grand adventures. But then I am alone. Driving my car, lying in bed. And its very real. The good that I have in my life somehow doesn’t numb the pain of what my heart so longs for.

I know I should be thankful and I am but my heart grieves. And that is okay.

KENYA CHRONICLES: She Warned Me . . .

I sat on the floor of a friends home in Raleigh, North Carolina when I “met” DeAnn. It was a FaceTime interview on my very old iPad after driving across the country. She spoke passionately about the project at hand. I was excited. She also tried to paint a picture of the situation we would be walking into.

She told me about makeshift breathing treatments and lack of resources. Of too many sick children for one tired nurse to take care of. She also told me about witnessing 7-8 deaths in a two week time period that she was there before. She drew the best picture words possibly could of the very different and sometimes sad situation we would be walking in to.

And I prepared myself. I knew seeing so many children die would be difficult. I knew there would be situations where I would struggle because if I had the resources I had at home I could make a difference . . . save a life. But I would not be at home. I would be at a county hospital with limited resources and very sick children.

Fast forward about 6 weeks and I have flown half way across the country and found myself in a meeting with hospital administration. I had no idea that in just minutes my life would be changed forever. Words will fail me just as the words I had been given were not enough either. But the reality is no words can do justice to the sights, sounds, smells and feels. By feels I mean that while the weather outside was quite nice, 80 degrees with a cool breeze. But as I cross into the threshold of the pediatric ward where I would spend my time there; the hot, stale and humid air swallowed me and a perspiration that never resolved the entire time I was there began. We wore white lab coats to distinguish ourselves although Im pretty sure my white skin was doing an adequate job of it! I joke of course, we were professionals and professionally dressed but that made a hot environment even more stifling. Not to self- next time find a lighter weight hot sleeve lab coat.

The next thing I couldn’t help but notice was the smell. As an ER nurse I have had my fair share of volatile smelling aromas but this was different. About 10 feet beyond the entrance was the “patient washroom” that I honestly never fully went in to. I could see from the door a “squatty potty” which was simply a hole in the ground for people to use. So a hot hole of sewage might be a good descriptor. At about the same time you begin to notice the smell of infected wounds and burns as the surgical cube was directly across from the washroom. Add to that the smell of hot diarrhea, body odor of many sweaty mothers and fathers. And the smell of death. If you have never smelled it there is nothing I can say that will pain that picture for you but just imagine walking in to the perfect storm of sad and repulsive odors, steaming up from the shared beds and heated by the lack of circulation.

I have to pause for a moment. Take a deep breath, as much as I could without taking in too much of my reality. But it was a lot to take in. Beautiful Kenyan children everywhere. When they smiled it was with every ounce of their face. Beautiful white teeth shining through. But they were also sick. Some very sick. Two and three children sharing one bed each with a parent. Young boys with traction tying them to a bed. Open wounds with flies landing on them. Deceased children with flies on their eyes. Burns to faces, torsos and arms. Other children gasping for air. A nurse for all of these children, sometimes not even there. Sometimes so hopeless in the situation that they sat at the desk all day and allowed new students to provide all of the care. And so many people. The oxygen bed with 3-5 babies on it. Oxygen tubing spliced with NG tubes and giving sets. But the oxygen ran out “sometime last night. It was an interesting and sad combination of beauty and pain.

And finally the sounds are ringing through my ears. Maybe it is just because I’m an introvert but this definitely does not sound anything like a typical American hospital. At least none that I have ever been to. It sounded like loud, chaos. Children crying and screaming. A few laughing. Mothers speaking loudly to each other. Much like having 50 televisions playing different things all at once in a small room.

And then we completed our walk through of the pediatric ward, exiting on the other side. The sun once again hit my face and a small breeze brought the fresh air I so desperately needed. I would step out of that door briefly many times over my stay there and take that sun and air in like my life depended on it. But still, every time I stepped back in, or came back from lunch or started my day; it was the same. An oppressive, stifling environment that no warning would ever prepare me for. But she did try. She warned me.

KENYA CHRONICLES: We did everything we could . . .

Its been exactly one week to the hour since I began the trek from Kenya back home to Waco, Texas. One month working in a county hospital that challenged me in every way. It will definitely take time to readjust and re-acclimate to life at home. Where drinks are cold and showers are warm.

Part of that process for me includes re-certifying in Advanced Cardiac Life Support and finding a new job. I find myself a little anxious at the thought of working in an emergency department here again where patient complaints and attitudes were difficult prior to seeing what medical care in a developing country looks like. Now how can I respond to those same patients without expressing my frustration at the injustice.

This afternoon it hit me though. One of the many things that probably will hit me over the next weeks and maybe even months. Im sitting in a nice chair in a nice office with air conditioning, drinking my bottled water. I review familiar concepts and take tests to confirm I am able to effectively care for patients in life threatening situations. The final video about talking to families when lives are unable to be saved. A brief note prior to it starting says, “Viewer discretion advised. If you have recently experienced the death of a loved one, consider your ability to watch this video.” Or something like that. My heart sank.  No recent close personal deaths but far too many notifications to parents of children, even babies. The first video a “bad” example of communicating to a family that their father has died. It made me angry. But angry was easier.

Then the words that have echoed in my mind since the moment they came out of the actors mouth . . . “we did everything we could but . . .” My vision tunnels and I choke back tears. Im here to show that I am knowledgeable and professional and I am only doing what I can to keep the emotions from flooding the room. So many times in my career I have said some version of those words and I meant it and although I wish we always “won” and brought people back from the grip of death. That simply is not reality. But then I find myself standing over a one month old baby. She is gasping for air. Each breath further and further from the last one. Her mother watching behind me from a few feet back. Hoping, expecting that the Mzungu could save her child's life. I know the things to do. Maybe its too late but maybe it isn’t. I am a nurse, a life saver so I don’t give up. I try everything. Especially on the babies. Its just too much to think that a child should die at such a young age. I find an Ambu bag. The tool that I had not seen in the two weeks prior. The tool that when placed on the baby’s face and squeezed could provide life saving breaths and oxygen. But I catch the ward nurses eyes and attention. He motions, communicating what I already knew. We don’t do that. I get it in the practical sense knowing what day to day life and death looks like there. But how? How do you stand there watching a baby die and not do anything to try? I said that day that despite being in powerless situations in the ED in the past there was no powerlessness like knowing there is something I could do and having my hands tied so that I could not do it. I was a guest and this was there culture.

The breaths became more agonal and further and further apart. I stood there. I taught students about apnea and how to use an Ambu bag. But why? They don’t use them there. She took her last breath. And again with the tunnel vision. I tried my best to breathe for her but it wold never work. I held my breath. I placed my stethoscope in my ears to listen for a heart beat. The full minute went by. Then a little more. I knew the truth but I wasn’t ready to accept it.She wasn’t the first nor the last child that I pronounced in my time in Kenya. But what I knew was that I could never say “we did everything we could but . . .”


            

KENYA CHRONICLES: What ifs . . .

What if’s . . .

We all have them right? We know they are not in the least bit productive in the general capacity that we carry them but we have them. What if  . . . I would have been more serious in high school . . . What if . . . I would have moved to a different town . . . a different state . . . What if . . . I would have not broken up with the one guy . . . or the other . . . Big or small we are given opportunities every day to choose and hope we make the best or “right” choice.

Often as a nurse it comes up as well. What if the patient had been found a second sooner? What if we continued life saving efforts for just a little bit longer. Most of the time we know we have done everything we can and we walk away knowing that. But more than ever I find myself asking “What if . . .” in regards to the many situations I experienced and saw while in Kenya. I know it isn’t productive and maybe I don’t need the answers but it is very difficult to be okay with that!

The big one . . . What if I had made a different decision standing in front of a baby girl gasping for air? What if in my internal struggle between what I wanted so badly to do and what I was encouraged to do from the hospital culture that I was surrounded by, I chose to do differently? What if I decided to push through those boundaries and provide possible life saving breaths for that baby? Maybe I would have isolated myself from the staff. Maybe the baby would have lived, maybe she still would have died. But on this end now I have to live with not knowing if the outcome would have been different and I question still . . . What if? What if I could have saved her life, if I had done truly “all that I could do.”

Then there are the what ifs, in a very large sense of life. What if little 2 1/2 year old Benson would have been born somewhere else . . . almost anywhere else? What if his parents had a better financial status? What if I had been born in Busia county Kenya? What if you were born in Busia county Kenya? For Benson, being born in any country that was more developed, he would have had a simple surgery on day one or two of his life and lived healthily, playing and running about lie an average child. Instead he was born, presumably right where he was supposed to but with that came a death sentence at 2 1/2 years old. It took that long for his heart and kidneys to fail from disrepair. I wont forget the day his parents, not one but both of them, carried him in. His face and eyes swollen to the point he only had slits for his eyes to peek out of. A belly so distended he looked like he could be 10 months pregnant with arms and legs to match. Every breath he took was filled with exhausted effort. This went on for 3 weeks until it was decided the child should be transferred to a higher level of care.

Then the parents who never left this child's side. Who cared deeply about their baby and would have done everything they could had to leave his side. It would take 1000 Kenyan shillings for the ambulance to take their child 3 hours away. A ride he would not likely survive. They didn’t have that money but they wanted badly to help their child. So for the first time in 3 weeks baby Benson was left alone. Just hours before he would die. And it was then that this brave child who took handfuls of pills every day, that never seemed to cry although he had to be uncomfortable and scared, cried. A single tear at first, rolled down his cheek. Every few minutes. The energy and breath it would take to cry would be too much for his tired heart and lungs. But then the panic set in. “Mama” he cried . . . He told us he was tired. But he panicked as we helped him lay down, he was drowning and had to stay sitting up. So I propped him up with a blanket against the window and hoped he could find rest and a peaceful transition from this life into the next.

What if Nasir would have been born to different parents? Or his mother would have lived? What if his father would have given up custody, would he have been placed somewhere that would have actually fed him? What if Meshack would have landed only slightly different when he fell from the mango tree? What if Meshack #2 would have went into respiratory distress overnight instead of when I was working during day shift and not received intervention? What if Mil’s little body had given up only hours earlier than when we arrived and intervened on his behalf? Instead he went from the brink of death to sitting up, alert and eventually discharged home. This list could go on for pages. But then I have to ask what if you or I would have been born there? How did we luck out to be born into whatever chaos we were born into? Could it have been worse? Or maybe better? Maybe my medical care would have been lacking but in general  the family dynamics are very different there. Sure there are abuses everywhere but there is a unity in those communities that feels so very foreign.

So maybe there isn’t actually one place that is better than the others but trade offs. Those children aren’t corrupted by iPads and cable television. They run and play, laugh and smile from ear to ear. Even with what seems like nothing to the American outsider. Or surrounded by slum life and sewage.

So yes there are “What if’s” in this life. In rural western Kenya, in the richest parts of America and everywhere in-between. There are no answers and I don’t love that. But I will try to live my what if’s as reminders. Life is precious and not guaranteed. And I am not orchestrating much of my own life, let alone the rest of the world. So I have to trust that there is something . . . someone bigger out there who does know why and the the big picture and its not up to me.

Getting familiar

Tomorrow will be 3 weeks since I moved to California. Im not sure what I had in my mind when I moved here as to what it would be lie but I can tell you it is exactly how I imagined and yet completely different. Being a kid of the flat lands of Texas, the varied topography of this area is amazing to me. When I first crossed the state line into California there were these amazing sand dunes. Not something I ever thought would intrigue me but these massive piles of sand somehow pulled at the heart strings of the kid inside me. Like a giant sand box! Then for what felt like forever was nothing! Flat, smell farmlands. And then the mountains . . . In regards to landscape California is probably the perfect place for me. I see the ocean from the mountains and can be between the two in a matter of minutes.

But upon first arrival I could only glance briefly at the mountains surrounding me because I was a bit nervous driving on these narrow roads where steep inclines and descents were met with sharp curves. Where trucks had to slow to 20 mph and ride their brakes and others were driving 70 with little regard to the reality around them. I was somewhere in the middle but focused on what I could not see ahead.

As I settled and began to work and learn the area I assimilated into the chaos that is California traffic and driving with little though and maybe a little easier than I should have. But it was on a late night drive home from work that I realized the lesson in these drives. I hate not knowing what is ahead because I am a planner and preparer. Frankly the net twelve steps would be good but combine dark with the steep mountain roads that most of the highways even include and its enough to make me a little apprehensive. As I took this high bridge to get onto the 94 that night and was driving slower than I normally would with this apprehension my attention was drawn to the situation and how it might mirror my relationship with god. I know this road leads somewhere and all signs indicate it heads to where I need to go. I know that people drive it every day without incident and yet I find myself extra cautious. WHY?!? Because I don’t know this particular road that well in addition to pretty much every road here. At this point I had only driven it a couple of times. But I found myself in a personal pep talk saying the more you drive it and get to know it the better it will be. And sure enough I am on week two and back to passing people on this particular bridge as well as others. My roommate asserts I picked up on California driving too quickly!

But on that night in this “Strange town” God showed me something about my relationship with him. Its a road that is scary to me and not well travelled. Maybe I have looked at the map a bit and pictures. Seen other people go over it with no problem. But the only way to grow and become more comfortable with its very necessary role in my life is to spend as much time with God and learning who he is practically. Only then will I be able to incorporate him into my life daily with such a great need for that.

I dont think too much about that bridge anymore because I have spent a lot of time there and its safe. Now I must spend time living and walking with a God consciousness so that I know he is safe and trustworthy too.

Burned and Scarred

Today I had the opportunity to take a baby hike through the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. It was on the to do list and since I was driving to California anyway I decided tomato it a part of my route and I am so glad I did. A million pictures and “wow’s” later and I have plenty to reflect on. At one point I had to just sit down and try to take it all in. I know it really is just some big hole in the gourd but it was magnificent. No words so I am just going to leave it at that. IF you haven’t been, get there. I would go again if you need a partner. I don’t recommend solo. I would have been more adventurous with someone to share the trip with but solo hikes are definitely not recommended.

But in all the massiveness that is the grand canyon which I barely scratched the surface of there was something far more important for me to see. There was a tree. Actually there were a lot of them as the Grand Canyon sits in a national forest. So driving in and out of the park there are masses of trees that I am sure get missed next to the canyon. There was one though that spoke to me above the hype of everything else around. As happens out this was you could tell that at some point there had been a fire in this part of the forest. Tress burned down to nothing but ashes. Others ling on the ground dead from the flames. But then there was this one tree. Nothing huge or majestic but in the midst of all the fire and death surrounding it, it was alive. It was not unscathed but it was alive.

So often I think it is easy to think that the only way to survive is to be unscathed by the troubles of this life. And while I do know a few people who for the most part have had no major storms hit their lives YET, most of us have rather we acknowledge that or try to keep up our Facebook perfect images of our lives. I do not fall into either category. I might fall more into the category of “holy cow she is a hot mess, really shitty stuff has been done to her and she has been no class act either.”

But that is where lesson and encouragement number two comes in.

As I looked at this tree for a moment I noticed how badly the bark was burned on the trunk. I cant even begin to imagine how this tree survived and the others didnt. And maybe I think too much about stuff. But I am painfully aware that I “shouldnt be alive.” From day one that what I heard and there have been plenty of times where my death seemed at hand and yet here I am. Burned, beaten and worn down. Covered by the scars of the choices that I have made and remnants of the fires others have placed me in. But this tree was doing something that maybe I am finding myself in a seas of as well. I saw places where the burned bark was falling to the ground. Where the inner trunk was exposed to the elements. It is risky to do this. To shed its protection but keeping the burned bark would cause the tree to suffocate and die.

How long and how often do we (or maybe its just me) hold onto the burns and scars for protection when what it is really doing is killing us? The suffocation that prevents new life and growth. Its scary and risk to release that protection for sure. To risk the elements, to be hurt and . . . to be raw. Accepting the emotions that might some with it. But this is where I and the tree come to a fork in the road. I risk shedding the burned bark and scars for a scary vulnerable road and chance at life and growth. Or I allow the death to isolate and suffocate me from any possible sources of life that try to reach me.

I dont understand why that tree made it and all the others around it did not. And I definitely don’t know why I have made it when everything said I wouldn’t. But what I do know is that I know have a choice to make. For today can I risk losing that “protection” that is in reality making it hard to breathe?

TSA and passed out passengers. . .

Today as I attempted to fly home from Las Vegas to Raleigh which will be quickly followed by getting in my car and driving two days to Texas, I had one of those opportunities that you don't really want but get to have to learn a lesson. Often this is not my first time to learn the lesson at hand but I like to have plenty of opportunities to experience whatever it may be that I kick and scream through.

After a week in Vegas marketing myself, taking nursing courses and having a little fun I got up this morning to head home. I woke up early and accomplished a lot this morning. Breakfast, walking and a dollar in the penny machine that I eventually lost but at least it took a while. I was flying back with my roommates from the conference who don't fly as often as I do so they actually like to abide by the "get to the airport at least two hours early" thing, so we did. As we were aware one of the many hurricanes and tropical storms that have been ravaging so many people's lives would potentially alter our plans, we arrived to be told that was in fact true. We were split into three different flights. Mine was already boarding and would be leaving in 30 minutes . . . And I was at bag check and hadn't been through security yet. The panic hit and I rushed as much as I could. I asked the tea agents if they could help me. One girl simply said " go over there." One lady was a little more helpful suggesting I ask those in front of me if I could go ahead. That didn't get me too far but there were some kind people. Some muttering I should have gotten to the airport on time. And it was out of my control.

For some reason my bag got flagged today. Of course. I felt the tears of frustration welling up inside of me. And I want to be clear at this point that I have never had an issue with TSA. I love getting to fly and know it's part of the process. I make a point to smile and and them. This morning ended with a glorious "go fuck yourself" from my mouth to a rude TSA worker. After waiting for my turn to be inquisitioned abut my bag and watching my little bit of time dwindling away a young man bright my bag over and asked if I had any sharps. He spent a good five minutes chatting it up with one coworker then another. Evidently my bag of almonds (that I would very much need due to the lack of time to grab lunch for the flight) were the problem. I attempted to ask while he stood chatting it up with another coworker if he could just grow them away because they weren't worth the time it was taking. In response he got short with me stating it was my fault that I was pushing it to get to my flight. I got to keep my almonds as I ran away with him still speaking horribly to me and again yelling words that make me a little proud.

The good news continued as I saw my gate was downstairs and not nearby. And even better when I realized my trip to the gate involved a tram, another set of escalators and a long hallway. Have fat girl will sprint, in flip flops with a giant bag of swag on her back. I'm sure I provided some entertainment! As I made the turn to the final hall way and noticed my gate was literally the last one I heard a page over head, "Last call for passenger Ivy Fannin to gate D53." I may have considered yelling down the hall in hopes they would hear me . . . "IM COMING!!!" But I made it. I did the walk of shame as the one who was late, the girl with the window seat who was keeping the doors from closing. And THEY wouldn't know that. This plane full of people I didn't know and would likely never see again might be judging me. Such a smart kid and yet yes I think I'm that important sometimes, maybe because I judge a little too much. God help me with that. But that's for another time. The bottom line is it was stressful and not how I planned my trip home. I had been trying to help another nurse with me not stress about it, telling her it was all gonna work out and here I was. I made it to my seat next to a very nice and understand couple of men who listened to my brief explanation so they knew I wasn't just a slacker.

And then the plane sat there for an hour and twenty minutes waiting to be cleared to head to a city getting some outer effects of one of these storms. Keep in mind I have been in Vegas for a week and have little awareness of what storms are happening where.

It was about 15 minutes into the flight when the flight attendant came overhead and asked if there were any medical professionals on the plane. I pushed my "call light " to identify myself and provided them with an electronic copy of my California license because it was way quicker to get to than trying to figure out the Texas one and was escorted to first class where a man had a syncopal episode. He was pale and diaphoretic. And I had little to assess him with. But I did and we got him fixed up. Fortunately it appeared to be a transient event, at least at this point. We have two hours left together but he looked better on reassessment.

In reality all of the medical details and rambling aren't pertinent but what the people in the row behind me said as I exited my row to go assist did. I guess one lady overheard my ramblings to the innocent guys on my row. She said wow I guess there is a reason that she ended up on this flight. Hashtag OUCH! It's true though. I was not supposed to be on this flight. I arrived at its initial take off time to catch my flight and it was delayed. I stressed about making it and the details when I knew better. On a day when 1300 nurses were leaving the city of Las Vegas I was the only one on this plane. The man was not going to die. What happened was easily fixed but I knew how to figure out what was wrong and how to address it. But the real thing I was able to do was to help this man and his wife feel safe. And to help a somewhat frantic flight crew know that it was all going to be okay.

Again, in the grand scheme of my job and the many things that could happen medically to someone I didn't do much. And yet clearly things were being arranged for me to be right where I was, in seat 10F, four rows behind the man who needed medical attention. And yet I will again, stress about the next thing and not trust that God has his hands on my life and those around me. I struggle to think that the details matter at all to him but then there is this.

Flying

I was a freshman at Yvonne A Ewell Townview Magnet Center, School of Education and Social Services. I lived in a home where food wasn't always a guarantee and the ground I lived on was turbulent at best. I rode the city bus to and from school, 30-45 minutes every day. I had to start early to makes sure I got my connections and got myself to school on time.

When I got to school early I would sit in the window in a giant cafeteria. Where other students would buy their lunches and get ready to start their academic endeavors of the day. My stomach growled and I seemed to often find myself in the sky. There was an airport nearby. I sat in the ledge of that window and watched as planes flew over. Imagining where they were going and the fabulous life the passengers were living.

One day . . . I said to myself . . . One day that will be me.

And here I am sitting on a plane, flying from the West Coast to the East. My second flight of the month. This time a trip for work, last, a vacation to Costa Rica.

The lines and restrictions. The hurry up and wait. The lack of leg room and smelly recycled air. All gifts that come with the ability to transverse the country and across oceans.

A gift for the girl who shouldn't be alive. Who should have never made it out of poverty. As I look out into the clouds surrounding me I am overwhelmed by the reality that my life is a gift of travel. The thing I never imagined could really happen as I sat in that high school window. Broken, defeated and hopeless. Inches away from my own death.

And yet here I am. I have taken the long road and have missed out on a lot. But I have worked hard and taken giant risks. Sometimes I ask how I got so lucky and sometimes the answer is I made my own luck. With a little help from God of course!

Candle

See the candle how it burns.

One quick light of a flame and it is forever changed.

Its size diminishes and smooth exterior becomes worn as it melts.

All while it gives off light and warmth to the hand that holds it.

Somewhere out there . . .

When I was a kid I watched an old movie called “An American Tale: Fievel Goes West.” I watched it again this year and realized the movie wasn’t actually any good but as a kid I wanted to watch it over and over again because of a single song that was sung during the movie.

“Somewhere out there”

Somewhere out there,

Beneath the pale moonlight,

Someone's thinking of me,

And loving me tonight.

Somewhere out there,

Someone's saying a prayer,

That we'll find one another,

In that big somewhere out there.

And even though I know how very far apart we are,

It helps to think we might be wishing on the same bright star,

And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby,

It helps to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky!

Somewhere out there,

If love can see us through,

Then we'll be together,

Somewhere out there,

Out where dreams

Come true...

I used to sing my little heart out to this song. While I was singing that little heart imagined that somewhere out there was my father. In my naïve state I thought this was true about him. I grew out of the movie but not the song. A download on my computer and phone. And every once in a while, as my songs shuffled on my phone the song would play reminding me of my heart. This although he has now been dead for several years. Today as I went for a hike in a beautiful state park the song began to play and I choked back the tears that welled up in my eyes.

But then something happened . . . I heard the words again for the very first time. Could this be true? In reality I will never know but as I have learned about my father I realized how much I had a skewed perception of him. I wanted so badly for this to be true but in reality it probably wasn’t. His death left me with more questions than answers and maybe he did think of me but the reality is that this song was probably more a reflection of my heart than his. And while this may not be one of the most profound things I have ever written it has some truth behind it. Sobering as that truth may be. But the reality is my father did not want me. He made a mistake and had the opportunity to escape that until I turned 18 and tracked him down. After a short time of communicating it became clear that this song is not at all true. Somehow there is freedom in that.

And maybe there is a someone, somewhere out there for me. Maybe a new family and maybe something all together bigger than all of this that we can see. So I will let go of the somewhere out there that I longed for with my father and hope for something even better than I could have imagined.

Learning to Fly

“You broke my wings . . . Told me I would never fly . . . And I believed you. But I'm getting off the ground a bit these days and soon will soar.”

Baby bird looked up at mother bird

She looked alright

But it is all baby bird ever knew

Baby bird had no way to know

But mother bird was different

Even though baby didn’t know

From one side mother bird had a beautiful, strong wing

But the other was terribly small

Mother bird had a wing that was bare

A twig, featherless

Small and broken

A wing that wouldn’t let her fly

So mother bird taught baby bird

The same was true for her

Baby bird was excited about life

And wanted badly to fly

But every time she tried

Mother bird would pluck a feather from her wing

You can not fly she said

Cant you see the truth

You are grounded and lowly

And that’s all you will ever be

You are just like me she said

And even though baby bird thought they looked different

When she looked in the mirror,

Two broken wings were all she could see

Years later when baby bird was all grown up

Her mothers image she would no longer see

She continued to pace lowly on the ground

For that was all she knew she could be

But days went by

And she wanted more

Never knowing that could be

But something inside her followed cautiously

She saw other birds flying

Was even told a time or two

Hey that could be you

So she would flap her wings

But they were stiff

And it took some time

And others around her

Telling her it would be fine

They were proud of her

For where she stood now

But they sky was the limit

And they would show her how

Now that little bird

Fly’s a little further every day

Soon she will soar

And find the joy that new heights will bring.