July 15, 2019 Love is and love does

What makes love, love? 

Love can be a verb. To love someone seems to imply that one somehow demonstrates their love through miscellaneous acts towards another person. Because I love you I...

                      attempt to make your life easier

                      want to spend time doing everything and nothing with you

                      trust you with my story, my joy and my pain

                      hold you with unconditional positive regard

                      want what you want

                      put your happiness at the top of my priority list                                                          There are a lot of things to "do" to show someone you love them but there is also a long list of things to NOT do when you love someone. Because I love you I will not...

                       break your trust

                       disregard your needs

                       be disrespectful of the things that anger you, scare you, worry you or concern you 

                           about us and our future

                       allow another person to harm you if it is within my power

                       use any weapon against you- physical or emotional

But can love really just be whittled down to a list of do's and don'ts?

Absolutely not. In fact, articulating these behaviors does nothing more than make a list of ingredients that may or may not work for you. 

Love can be a noun. A treasure, an emotion, something elusive, a notion, a feeling of familiarity, a quest and a nightmare. Love is and love does and it might not be love if it isn't both. We must be and do love- any and every kind of love. Romantic love. Familial love. Adoration as love, as with a pet. Unconditional love, as is the love from God. 

So where do we find love?  Is it even something that can be found? My belief is that love is like our five senses. Love, like wind or the scent of a rose garden, is experienced on different levels. We can't see, taste or hear the scent that comes from the rose garden, but we can smell, touch, and feel all that creates that scent. So love can be found anywhere and nowhere. It can be created but not always seen. It can exist without being felt. It can be lost, broken, grieved, and damned. It can be sacrificed for the greater good. It can be destroyed in a flash and created in a breath. 

It must be experienced in order to be created and it must be created in order to exist. Be and do, here and now. You are love and your love does.

                      

 

So there I was...: July 3, 2019- too much freedom?

So there I was...: July 3, 2019- too much freedom?: So there I was standing in front of my patient. She was sitting in a chair beside her bed in the Cardiovascular ICU, her thighs being squee...

July 3, 2019- too much freedom?

So there I was standing in front of my patient. She was sitting in a chair beside her bed in the Cardiovascular ICU, her thighs being squeezed in by the pressure of the recliner's arms with bulging hospital gown hiding that the recliner had arms at all. She was in her late 60s, diabetic, and continuing her heart attack right in front of my eyes; it was evolving in medical speak. She was eating Wendy's. A chicken sandwich with mayo and a baked shell of butter and sour cream with a splash of potato for flavor. I was standing there looking from her, to her obese daughter, and then to her older sister. "Why don't you just smack me in the face." I was amazed at the amount of control I had of my voice and words. I was almost certain there would be a four letter word or two coming out considering the complete contempt and disgust that I felt at that moment. Of course her chubby cheeks and double chin sagged in a horrible frown. "You are sitting there eating fast food, in the Cardiovascular ICU, while your heart attack is continuing on until it finishes the damage it is going to do. Just spit on me."

A month earlier:
There was a group of Greek police in riot gear standing in front of the "gate" that led into the Idomeni Refugee Camp in Northern Greece. It had been very hot the last few days. Which was strange for early April. Refugees, volunteers, and civilians all looking at each other to see who might know what was going on. There was a commotion, a buzz of frenzied terror. Standing outside the gate, as I had been on my way into the camp, those of us that were closest to the scene were slowly backing away. It wasn't something I consciously thought about. The panic and yelling coming from the crowd, the crowd that didn't speak English, did not need a translator. Looking back, it reminds me of one of those disaster movie scenes where there is a big ruckus and everyone is frightened and running, but still looking back, trying desperately to understand what was was causing such chaos. People were running in this large pack, like a swarm of bees, towards the outer edge of the camp. If I didn't know that it was an empty cornfield behind them, I would've sworn there was a tidal wave coming. My eyes followed the front of the swarm. Arms waving and voices likely yelling to get out of the way because the crowd parted as the swarm came closer. I anxiously looked ahead of the swarm wondering where they were going or what they were heading towards with such high stakes.  My eyes were darting, taking in as much as possible, what happened, what could it be... there were rocks being thrown at the police, a group of 3 or 4 young men rocked a dumpster, back and forth, back and forth, until it turned over completely. The swarm of refugees appeared to be men mostly, but the women- the crying women were right there with them on the outskirts of the swarm, not wanting to slow it down or get in the way, but running along beside as best they could. I caught a glimpse, the tiniest opening in the swarm at just the right second, and my jaw clenched. My eyes filled because I knew, but yet, didn't know- that a refugee had been hurt, injured in some fatal way. They carried him by his arms and legs, running as fast as they could possibly go in their six legged race. It was the MSF (Medicine Sans Frontiers or Doctors without Borders)  medical tent they were going towards.  Murmurs and translations were jumbled all around me. The sound of sirens in the background made sense now.
The Greek Police had run over a refugee, near the tea tent. Why? How? After the swarm stopped at the medical tent, the rest of us rubberneckers started to spread apart, for the ambulance, and head closer to it, to the tragedy. It felt like a week that the ambulance just sat there but it apparently had picked up very precious cargo and began down the dirt trail toward the road.
He was hanging blankets up to create shade for his family. The hot sun and dusty wind was infuriating. It was hard to escape. His wife and three children had survived their desperate flight from Syria, through Turkey, and onto Greek soil by way of  the "Mafia". The had reached the border of Greece and Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia. It was the path to possible freedom. To family that already lived in western European countries; to Germany that had been accepting all asylum seekers from Syria. They made it through the hardest parts of the their journey to freedom. He had fallen backwards while he hung the blankets, some say he appeared to pass out, probably from the heat they said. He fell onto the ground, directly in front of a Greek Police van. It was said that part of his head had been run over. It was said that he was quickly scooped up and a swarm of refugees took off with him while others began throwing rocks at the police van. Windows shattered and tires were flattened. The cry went out through the camp, "The Greek police just ran over a man!" It wasn't a lie. It also wasn't the whole truth.
As the ambulance left and the crowd ever so slowly dispersed, I went toward the medical tent. The dry, dusty ground had a very large area that appeared to have been watered, as if flowers were expected to pop up. Of course it wasn't water but blood and yes, his skull had been crushed by the tire. The young man, in his 30s, left a young wife with three young children. He died and was to be buried there in the small town near the border. I have thought of the young family he left behind and wondered where they are now or what had become of them. I think of the doctors, nurses and medics that took care of this young refugee fleeing his decimated country where war seemed to continue until even the soil gave in. As of June 2018 34,618 men, women, and children have lost their lives fleeing from war and oppression in Syria. This is just one of them.

My return to the US after almost two weeks in northern Greece was an amalgamation of exhaustion, self-righteous anger, and incredulity. Which is why I found myself in front of my patient, telling her to just spit on me. Did she know, understand or even grasp the monumental gift she had been given? Did she realize how many other possibilities would have left her dead decades ago? If an ICU bed costs $5000/day (that's a low estimate), her outrageously fortunate self was receiving the benefit of top tier healthcare bestowed onto her for $3.47/minute: NO QUESTIONS ASKED. It was on this night, with this patient, that I knew my nursing career in Intensive Care would not be lasting much longer. Medical professionals carry heavy patient loads, working as best they can to ensure that the patient has the greatest possibility for the best possible outcome. Our performance is graded on those outcomes, mine personally and the hospitals' overall. Not one ounce of accountability is required to receive healthcare in this country. Our freedoms "are not so we can do what we want, but to do what we ought" -Jim Caviezel. When it comes to our personal health, to what should we be held accountable?

An authentic AH-HA moment for the ages.

There are self-help books, motivational TED talks, therapists, and even fortune cookies that ladle out advice on everything. If you don't have anything wrong with you, go to the self-help aisle in a bookstore and be quickly corrected. Apparently some of us can't even get sleep right. I have no qualms sharing the subjects of some of the many, many self-help books I've read in my life. Most are the everyday stuff like weight loss, diet and exercise, happiness, healing, alcohol abuse, finances, what religion I most closely identify with (apparently it was Hindu at the time) how to be a better Christian, restoring energy, depression, suicide, even finding my own north star. Truthfully, it's mostly pop psychology or a current fad like The South Beach diet, now more detailed and called Paleo. And Oprah has been the author of more than one of the books I've read.

Ugh- it's exhausting. Literally.

I'm going to guess that I'm not the only person who has felt like a failure about a week after finishing one of these types of books. I can never seem to get a hang of the very simple 937 steps it would take to lose weight, eat an anti-inflammatory diet, or get to my North Star with my "Untethered Soul" and it has really started to get on my nerves.

Am I right? These things aren't rocket science. It's not complicated to understand the "calories in -calories out" math. I've set goals for setting goals, that's how much of a perfectionist I have been. I've also sat with myself and given myself some grace that I may not be able to win everyone as a friend or influence anyone. Truth be told, I would settle for being nice enough to myself to be considered my own friend, and then maybe I would actually be able to influence my own behavior in positive and lasting ways.

Brene Brown has been my favorite hero now for five years or so. Daring Greatly profoundly changed my relationship with the rest of the world. Rising Strong as a Spiritual Practice opened the window I needed to stop apologizing for all the ways I was too much, or not enough for other people. I have learned a thing or two through all of this, but it was today that I finally had that real AH- HA moment that has been so elusive.

James Clear wrote the book Atomic Habits and I've only started listening to it today on my walk. It will apparently give instructions on how to create habits that can change your life. I will briefly explain his reasoning- We do not reach a goal because one day we have done enough of this or that and it just happened. I've set a million goals, and setting that goal, whether s.m.a.r.t. or not, didn't help me achieve it. Don't we all want to lose weight and get in shape? The crux of my ah-ha moment is that in our lives we make tiny, insignificant decisions, changes in 1% of our everyday lives according to the author. These decisions, at the moment, are harmless. But when today's decision is repeated tomorrow, and the next day, it doesn't take long for a habit to form- good or bad. For me, depressive thinking became a habit. It was years of accumulating decisions in my behaviors and thought patterns that ultimately allowed me to become incapacitated by my own mind. A few months ago I described doing sit ups while going through some bizarre overwhelming sadness that came on out of the blue. The sit ups got rid of the overwhelming sadness. It was my DECISION, that 1%, to just do SOMETHING besides sitting tearful on the couch that likely changed the trajectory of my life. According to Clear, it is not the goal that matters, it is the systems we use in life that need adjusted 1% everyday that will facilitate the goal becoming a reality. Have you ever tried to stop drinking soda or smoking, just to be frustrated and cranky? It's because the systems in our lives weren't adjusted to succeed. For example, I'm fairly excited to say that I haven't had Dr. Pepper in my refrigerator for months. Although I will still drink one if I go out. But, I started ordering sweet tea, and now I order half and half tea. The system that shapes my Dr. Pepper habit is slowly being changed. Maybe you get in the car and you are used to lighting a cigarette right at the beginning. That is a system at work that you can influence, 1% at a time.
I've stopped having the inner dialogue that what I cook won't turn out right and I'll wish I had eaten out instead. I allow myself only 10 minutes of snoozing, and then 5 minutes of looking at the notifications on my phone for the last "snooze session" and when the alarm rings for the final time, I'm up and out of bed. I think this notion of 1% at a time will be very powerful for me when it comes to my self-talk. If my mind starts nagging, whining, berating, calling names or anything else, I'm just going to stop, say a quick thank you to God, and get on with life. I don't need to mull over every negative detail that shows up, sticks out, or demands attention. Which reminds me of something we did in Bali during the women's retreat, and that was to put the bitch in the box. That haughty, mean spirited, troll of a voice that can ruin a perfectly good piece of pie, or marriage, or life.
Ah, yes.... things are already in motion that in a month, a year, a decade from now- will transform how I approach the art of life. This is very, very good. A

For my friend, Jan. You've got this.

For nurses in an intensive care unit, there is an unteachable gift that gets honed related to sound. The equipment, the lights, the hum of life, all become the context that our work exists in. We may not be able to articulate what it is that we know by just listening, but we know. Background noise, the sound of a working ventilator, the hair raising recognition that something is wrong and someone needs help with their patient before you hear the words yelled into the hallway. It was the sound of the quick and heavy foot steps and the way the intensity of the voice got projected before all of the words were even spoken. You knew. We know, and we act. It's the sound of an IV pump beeping for too long followed by an alarm that makes us get to the room more quickly. It's the tension in the face of someone who is dying that we pick up on hours, even days, before the resignation of the body. That is the space that nurses save lives in. The stillness of life after the exhale is finished, but before the inhale is initiated. We know but can't tell you what it is. It could be compared to driving your car and knowing something is wrong because of the sound it is or isn't making, or the sense of motion that feels different then usual. I've taken for granted how much my senses inform my world. Smelling the perfume "Michael" takes me immediately to Australia, smelling a camp fire takes me back to the nights in high school spent with the people of my past, and hearing the difference between elated tears and spirit crushing sorrow makes me tear up when it is the latter. How miraculous these senses are for our lives. The weight of a sleeping baby on your chest that brings feelings of peace. 

There is another area in my life where the 'muscle memory' of 42 years of experience shows up and speaks to my life. I can furrow my brow, turn down the corners of my mouth, relax my body into a defeated posture, and I'm on my way to feeling depressed. I would not do this on purpose but after spending a whole lot of time in that depressive posture, it is no surprise that the emotions of hopelessness, anxiety, and apathy come to keep the posture of my body company. It is a horrifying carousel of self-defeating existence. 

I was quite sick last week with the usual winter potpourri of fever, cough, chills, aches, and nausea. The kind of sick that makes sleeping exhausting work. The heaviness of an over tired body is one of my biggest false flags of depression. I am glad that I can recognize it as fatigue and not defeat. So last week in the midst of my cold medicine haze, I couldn't shake the feeling of overwhelming sadness. There wasn't any event that prompted these feelings of sadness. No horrible tragedy or death of a loved one. But, nonetheless, I felt the deep ache of an emotional pain that had no name. What was it that my body knew that I didn't? I kept asking myself what it had been that prompted such turmoil.Then I was asking myself why in the hell was I crying? Then, the most ludicrous of all ideas came to mind, (which is usually the work of the Holy Spirit)- I was on the floor with my knees bent and my fingers interlocked behind my head, not even knowing why I was doing it. My crying and counting was- shocking and somewhat hysterical. I don't know how many sit ups I did. It wasn't many before I lifted myself off the floor in astonishment of not feeling overwhelmingly sad anymore. As a matter of fact, I didn't feel any of the emotions that just a few minutes prior were doing a dress rehearsal of another major depressive battle to endure. But they weren't real. The sadness wasn't real. I had the single biggest epiphany about my depression: I am not crazy, but my chemistry is. How and why, I don't have answers to. But that night, in a daring act of rebellion, I hijacked my self from the chemistry that was attacking it. I climbed up and out of the depressive posture that my mind and body have so frequently and easily conformed to. I replaced the emotional and muscle memory of depression with the motion of my body. In all the history of my major depressive disorder, I have never done sit ups. I took the chemical context and replaced it with a physical reality with absolutely no connection to the emotions of sadness, hopelessness, apathy, and defeat. And I kinda wanna say "In your face, sucker!" This is the very first time I have been able to short circuit the cycle of depression. This was my victory. Cue the song "Eye of the Tiger" no, not Katy Perry's version- pft. 

January 20,2019- We the people

There is a question I've been asking much more frequently these days. 

"What is wrong with people?" 

Personally, I have asked this question most recently about a variety of topics:

Puppy mills, child abuse and neglect, any and all types of violence, up to and including murder. Sometimes in response to reading the news or watching a news clip-- "What is wrong with these people?" ISIS, human traffickers, Catholic priests who have sexually abused children, a President who literally calls people names, as if he were on a school playground.

The slanderous name calling of those on different political sides, the incivility toward each other based on presumptions that seem to require no fact checking or follow up questioning. How did hatefulness become the path of least resistance? Where or when did our rose colored glasses turn into the image at the end of a barrel? How did foe become the default assumption? 

Why do you hate me? Imagine that being asked today by people from different backgrounds, cultures, ages, sexes, races, and sexual identity.

The answers would be quite eye opening, I'm sure. Heartbreaking and convicting all at the same time.

Interestingly, I hope anyway, most people wouldn't be able to name specific people, but rather after a few names they would have to admit that it isn't the actual person, but that it is the group, or side, or belief that they stand on. We are all too familiar with the groups- I'm fairly certain that I don't have to name names to make this point. What it boils down to are the two main culprits that are alive and well in our society- us and them. If you are not for us, you're against us. The lines have been drawn in the sand. Which side to choose?

The last time I checked- there was no requirement to choose. How did we come to the point of accepting the way the media portrays the issues affecting our country as being only two sided? For or against. When did we give them the power to define sides and then explicitly give reason and meaning to those in opposition?

Black Lives Matter- if you don't think so it's because you are racist.

Make America Great Again- if you don't support it then you don't believe in patriotism and support of the foundations this country was built on, and are probably a Socialist.

Me Too-if you don't support the women who have spoken out against violence, harassment, and sexism, then you must think that women are partly at fault, or asking for it, for how they were treated. 

Gun Control Laws- if you don't support gun control legislation then you are fine with the threat of mass shootings, even if children are the potential targets.

Behind each of these narratives are the people who have endured through the worst of what could be dealt to them. The mothers and fathers of those who have been killed by police without provocation, whose children died at the school in an unthinkable act of violence, of those who live in the grips of systemic poverty and social injustice, and being raised in an environment that has stopped trying to fight it anymore. Enduring the harassment of men because you have been groomed to believe that you owe them for your job, your home, your security, or some other thing, and feeling unworthy of acceptance and belonging unless you wear skirts and heels. 

In all things, there is a bigger picture, a wider angle that diffuses the intensity of each individual's experiences. That is not fair. It would be similar to telling someone having a panic attack to just quit stressing about it. Right, because they never thought about that before. Or telling a woman to just leave their relationship, their job, or their home - just do it, doesn't work. It's complex, multifaceted and deserving of patience and respect from those on the outside of it. We've all heard the cliche` that everyone is going through struggles, or not to judge someone until you've walked in their shoes. We need to be much more curious then certain about our reaction to any of the us vs them topics. As human beings we have the capacity to reason, to take into account multiple variables and come to a conclusion. It might be difficult to hear, but our self-righteous indignation, arrogant assumptions of what it is like being in their shoes, and any other topic that you have no first hand experience with, has no place if you have not moved in closer to "them" to understand their struggles, fears, obstacles, and dreams. People are not statistics. The parents of children killed in mass school shootings are not comforted by the statistics of how much less gun violence there is over the last 50 years, and shame on us for thinking it should. Ditto for the families who have lost a loved one due to an interaction with a police officer, or the women who have endured the unwanted sexual advances in the American work force and the powerlessness they have had over it for so many decades,  just because there are women who will fabricate such things.  

It is not "Us the people, of the United States of America- or "Them the people" it is WE the people. 

And the Pledge of Allegiance- is to the flag of the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. Not just for democrats or republicans, not just for the red states or the blue states. We are all covered by that flag, and to maintain liberty and justice for all, we can't be "us or them". 

There are entities at work, attempting to divide and conquer, our great nation. Media is no longer trust worthy, and to know something for sure, will take us moving in and meeting our neighbors and loving them like ourselves.