All Good Things Must…
My week off is nearing its end. The work nightmares and peri-menopausal hobgoblins are re-emerging.
So today, I blow the dust off my inner tool kit, and pause to reflect on a few of the many things that I am graced with. Fighting bitter tendencies with blessings.

My Traveling Companions: 
Mr. Blitch, and my Book Gnome. They both remind me to put worry aside and enjoy my travels.
I’ve often been accused of being too serious. Fun and frolic were things relatively unknown in my home of origin. I’m taking strides to change my ways.

Mid-week, we headed north. I packed my little buddy in for safe transport from Rockaway to Cannon Beach.
We got in a little trainspotting on the way:

Viewing Through the Lens of Another:
Mr. Blitch grew up fishing on the rivers of northern Florida and the salt water flats of the  Florida Gulf Coast. He was in his mid-twenties when he came to Oregon for art school and got his first glimpse of the PNW coastline.

Now, 20+ years later, his eyes still pop a little every time he sees the Pacific Ocean.
Salmon and steelhead fishing have become my Florida boy’s greatest passions.
When I travel the PNW with Mr. Blitch, the view is entirely different.

I see familiar rocky cliffs with Douglas firs, Sitka spruce, prehistoric ferns and moss.
When I ask him what he sees, he says “Mountains that fall into the ocean.”
One difference I notice between the two of us… I’m always looking down; his gaze is always up and outward. (Note to self.)

Learning is fun!
I am under tremendous pressure to study for, and eventually obtain my Oncology Nursing Certification. It’s been a crap year, trying to work full time while providing care for my father.
My studying had gone completely by the wayside.
But this week, I’ve given myself a Do-Over.
I said goodbye to unfinished and expired testing modules. I purchased a test-specific online study program that will in theory, both provide me with continuing ed credits, and prepare me for my fucking certification exam.
Normally, I’m a paper and pencil kind of gal. But in this case, I opted for the online version. Instead of having testing booklets scattered between home, office, and auto, I have it all at my fingertips.
And much as this Luddite with Amish tendencies hates to admit it, I’ve been enjoying my studying this week.
Granted, my study-buddy and the quiet of a remote coastal motel room have been instrumental in setting the mood. But I am hopeful that I will return to Portland tomorrow refreshed, and on the right track.

Oregon Coast Study & Wellness Week: Day 3

I was awakened around O430 this morning by the song of howling winds. Kind of a firm, yet gentle nudging from Mother Nature to get my ass out of bed and start the day off right with some stretching and some early morning studying.

I see from the the weather report, that today will feel like 46° ~~ which is a nice improvement from much of yesterday which felt like 43°.

A note about Oregon Coast beaches: the signs and warnings? They’re there for a reason. I went for a late afternoon beach walk while my husband was napping the other day, and noted that the beach was absolutely empty. Not a soul in site.

It was also high tide, and this particular area is known for Sneaker Waves. I walked along the narrow strip between the boulder embankment and the incoming shoreline, with raindrops pelting my face. Thinking enviously of my friends who are vacationing in Hawaii this week, I came to my senses and realized where I was, like or or not, and that perhaps a walk through the semi-deserted Spring Break coastal town was a safer & wiser option.

That’s a wool poncho I’m wearing in the photo. I purchased it up in Vancouver, B.C. this last winter. I wear this on the beach here in Oregon, rather than a swimsuit, and you are all welcome.

I will save the bathing suit frolicking photo for the time, if & when, I ever make it to Hawaii.

So, it’s going well. I’m studying. I’m eating healthy, I’m getting some (brisk) walks in each day.
I’m rationing out a few hours here and there for my long-neglected, ever-patient, and supportive spouse.

Yesterday we took a back country drive along the Kilchis River. My husband is an avid fly fisherman, sadly here for a few days sans casting rod. He wanted to at least see some parts of the area he’s not fished before.

Soundtrack provided by yours truly.
#LizPhair
#lettersandsodas

 

Sometimes we have to face the hard truths.
I decided to take my Inner Unicorn for an outing, and realized that even she, like me, is a super-awkward being.

She and Mr. Blitch are trying to have a go at something resembling a vacation.
It’s unpaid, as all the Bob King FMLA days have wiped out Nurse Apple’s paid vacation bank.
It’s 47° degrees and storming on the Oregon coast. (A redundancy, I realized as I typed.)

Yet, it is still time away from Portland. It is a day without illness, without eldercare responsibilities, without a set timetable of tasks to be done.

That said, my Awkward Inner Unicorn apparently does not know how to relax.
Awake at o500, there was some stretching, some coffee consumption, and then the focus shifted to the studying that needs to be done.

Something shitty happened recently. I was given a 2 year timeline to accomplish completion of an Oncology Certification. There was a 2 year timeline: from the time of hire at my new job as an Oncology Nurse Navigator.
Study guides were enthusiastically purchased, all best attempts were made to both learn a new professional role, take care of an elderly parent, and raise a teenage son, and be some kind of spouse, and study. Study on the sidelines.

Several Continuing Education self paced courses were purchased: Lung Cancer, Chemotherapy & Management of side effects, Skin Cancer, Women’s Cancer, Pain and Palliative Care.

I’ve been chipping away at these. In hindsight, not a good strategy. It would have been better to take one at a time, and designate time for study. Instead, there was one in my office, one in my car, one in my purse… when I had a moment, I’d grab a highlighter and read a bit. Here and there. It was what I could do.

One night recently, I decided to just finish one of the damn things. I stayed up until midnight, and finished the reading, and filled out the quiz.

The next morning, I faxed the quiz off to the testing company. I knew it was close. I had had 1 year from the time of purchase to complete and submit. But life hasn’t been gentle or kind to me or my family this year, and. And.

The test was denied: it had expired.
It wasn’t just a little expired, it was 3 months expired. 15 months had blown by, with me clinging to a fantasy that I could somehow control my Crohn’s disease, my schedule, my care taking of my parent…
I give myself A for effort. 

It’s now o600. Day 1 of Oregon Coast Study Vacation. Here I go again.

Wish me luck.

 

 

I am experiencing an Alternate Universe week, where my Oncology Nursing job feels not so much like nursing, and my caregiver role for my father feels way too much like nursing.

Our Oncology Nurse Navigation team has been tasked with presenting a Survivorship Care Plan template to our IT support specialists. We have a plan in our computer charting system, but it needs to be updated and streamlined, with the goal of meeting national cancer accreditation standards, and presenting survivorship care plans to 100% of our breast cancer patients who were diagnosed in 2016 or after…
It’s a thing. A big, fucking, thing.

However, having recently been accused by my new manager of being a perfectionist, and having “extremely high” expectations of myself and others… I suppose it is, in a way, my cup of tea.

Meanwhile, there is my #eldercare role. This was from this morning:

Bob King Diaries; o2.23.2o17. 
Today is Bob’s son’s birthday. Also the anniversary of Bob’s son’s maternal grandmother’s death.
Historically, not always a great day for the Applegate-King people.
Round 2 with skin cancer lesion removal.
All handicapped parking spots at the clinic were full this morning. 
Bob appeared confused by directions to remove both overshirt and undershirt for suture removal on chest, and surgical procedure on his back.
Nurse Apple noticed that his pupils were unevenly dilated… wondering how things will go later in the afternoon, when she takes Bob in for an eye exam.
She stays in the room for the surgical prep; Bob looks to her each time the doctor or nurse asks him a direct question. It’s unclear if he is not hearing them, or not understanding their words.
He winces as the nurse places a cold grounding pad on his side. “This,” she explains, “is so you don’t get shocked when we cauterize the incision.”
“No,” Bob says, “I wouldn’t want that!”

I dashed down these words in a despondent haze of fever and cold medicine the other day:

I’ve seen it with public schools, and I’ve seen it with serious illness. 
We are not a marathon nation. 
People don’t like long term serious problems. 
Ask any person you know who has a serious chronic illness. 
Sure, the first few years, people will turn out in droves to support you and your cause… but then you just become a drag. “You’re still sick?”
And now that our public school system is very seriously threatened… parents are ferocious, true.
And many of them will surprisingly easily do whatever it takes for *their* child: screw the pack.
This is where fear turns truly dangerous: when neighbor starts to turn against neighbor.
Not many Americans appreciate the concept of “Greater Good.”

The surge of activism we are seeing is truly raw, genuine, and yes: exhilarating.
And in a terrifying time, we need that.
We need unity and voice and strength.

I hope I continue to be pleasantly surprised. I hope that #45 and his gang of Bible Thumping Thugs eventually hear our voices outside their offices and in the streets.
I hope that children and spouses and strangers and neighbors will continue to join together.
We, as a nation, are not trained for this. We are not prepared. Our public schools, our healthcare system. Like it or not, we are vulnerable.

These photos are my glimmer of hope. I look at them everyday.
I feel the love, and the strength.
#onward

 

 

 

I have never claimed to be a calm person. It is not what I’m known for.
I drink too much caffeine, and I startle easily.
I am, by nature, an on-edge creature.
I do not however, thrive on adrenaline. I specifically have chosen to spend most of my nursing career in calmer settings: Palliative Care, Hospice, clinic oncology nursing.
Even when I was a new grad RN, and was working noc shift in an extremely acute care Bone Marrow Transplant setting, I always enjoyed the quieter times. Not because I’m lazy; trust me, there is plenty that happens between 7pm and 7am on the inpatient Bone Marrow unit. There is often chemo being hung, IV bags of fluids, blood and platelet transfusions, and not uncommonly, the actual Stem Cell/ Bone Marrow transplants happening in the wee hours.

One of my first patients on that noc shift, was a delightful woman who had herself  been a Hospice Social Worker. She was not doing well, and I went to her room to visit after her large group of friends and family had gone home. Her husband, exhausted, was napping on the extra cot by her bedside.
I completed my technical nursing tasks, and on my way out, asked her if she would like me to turn off some or all of the overhead room lights.
“Oh, no!” she replied, quite seriously… “Night time is when all the ghosts come out!”

I learned early on that noc shift nurses have a special role: barring the unexpected, things do quiet down on the unit after the throngs of doctors, Physical Therapists, Case Managers, and the majority of the visitors have left for the day. The hallway lights are dimmed, there is less frenetic activity, and sometimes this is not an easy time for the patients. There are fewer distractions, pleasant or otherwise. The noc shift nurse is often the calm, soothing, voice that the patient needs for reassurance when the hubbub of the day has settled down.

Anyway, it is important for a nurse, or hell, anyone be able to recognize what type of work environment their personality is best suited for. I knew all along that I would never be an ER nurse, nor any kind of trauma or ICU nurse.
I’m more of a long-haul kind of nurse. One of the things I treasure about all the types of Oncology Nursing I’ve done is that I develop in depth, long lasting, relationships with my patients. On the Bone Marrow unit, a typical stay was a minimum of two weeks… some patients were with us for months at a time. It was always a tremendous treat when a person who had done well after transplant would come by the unit a few months after discharge to visit the inpatient nurses. Unlike the outpatient clinic staff, we often didn’t get to see people once they were past the acute transplant recovery stage.

When I left the Transplant world, I spent a few years working as a Nurse Coordinator for a Head & Neck Cancer Radiation Oncologist. This too, was a super-rewarding position for me: the Radiation treatments for Head & Neck patients were nothing less than a special kind of hell. I became extremely close to many of these folks, and the reward was that they usually did really well after treatment. For the first time, I was working in a field where the treatment could often be considered curative. It was a brutal, but hopeful, type of treatment, and seeing patients come in for their follow up visits was always a celebration.

“RJ” (2015 photo shared with his permission)

However, as previously stated, I’m not your Go-To Gal in a crisis.
Especially, as it turns out, when my own kid is involved.

I’ve decided to spare my readers the gratuitous bruise shot, because I already splashed it all over my private FB page and got the sympathy I was seeking.
Suffice it to say, there was an emergency in our home, my husband and I both thought or son was dead, and I ran like a hellion up our basement stairs in my socks. I slipped in my panic, landed my full body weight on a chunky femur, and now have a rainbow colored bruise measuring (conservatively) 16 x 5 cm.

I did not, in any way, shape, or form, stay the slightest bit calm. I completely lost my marbles in my swivet. It was not pretty.

That whole airplane – oxygen mask -thing? Cover your own mouth first?
Whatever. As my husband says, he’s our only kid. We don’t have a spare.
He has a mother who is prone to hysteria. Sorry kid.

A week prior to our terrifying event, my kid woke me up from a nap. He was playing his harmonica in his bedroom which is all of 2 meters away from mine… and the Geriatric Labrador was howling in accompaniment. I was grumpy as all get out that day. Now, I think I can honestly say that I will not take *precious moments* like that for granted in the future.

I have no current photos of HH with his howling canine pal, but I leave you with this gem from September, 2010. I think it paints the picture fairly well.

 

 

Alternate title: “Further, yet unneeded proof that I have no skills, or natural aptitude for Trauma Nursing” Portland’s biggest snowstorm in many a moon started off as a super fun…

Source: 48° in the life of my son

Alternate title:
“Further, yet unneeded proof that I have no skills, or natural aptitude for Trauma Nursing”

Portland’s biggest snowstorm in many a moon started off as a super fun event for our little household.
We had invited a few friends over for a community meal, knowing that some snow was on the way, but having no idea what would actually develop.

It became clear once we hit about 4 inches of fluffy white that Cleveland High School would not be open the following day, and so HH and three of his best pals headed out into the wintry wonderland of SE Brooklyn neighborhood.

Eloise, on the right with the magnificent cape, lives close to us, and her dad was able to swing by and get her.
HH’s beautiful blue-haired girlfriend, and her BF in the rabbit fur Elmer Fudd hat, live a bit further out, and opted to spend the night in our basement.

The next day, HH woke up not feeling top-notch, but it was about one of the most beautiful days we’ve seen in forever, and much fun was had.
As my father-in-law would say… too much fun.

I knew that HH didn’t feel well, but I didn’t know he was starting to run a fever, and he was having such a blast with these two snow nymphs, we just let them enjoy their day.

Later, the fever got higher, and he started complaining of dizziness and mild nausea. His equilibrium was off. I did what any mom, nurse, or mom-nurse would do. Fluids, bedrest, alternating Tylenol and Ibuprofen, more fluids.

And then there was a stretch where the house was quiet. I was napping down in our basement. HH was napping in his room, Mr. Blitch, also napping, in the bedroom directly across the hall from HH’s room.

From what we can all remember now, HH woke his dad up, saying he felt like he might throw up. He asked his dad to go get him some cold water. Mr. Blitch went to the kitchen to wash his hands and get the water, HH went into the bathroom, where he passed out and fell. His fall shook the house, and I woke up disoriented in the basement directly below.

All I remember is my husband calling for HH, then calling more frantically as he wasn’t getting a response. Finally, he yelled for me, and all I could hear was the terror in his voice.

Harrison is ok. We are all still trying to calm down, and we keep repeating it like a mantra, to ourselves and to him. Harrison is ok. It’s a bad virus. He passed out. He is OK.

My husband’s words today, as he processes what he experienced: There is this feeling of holding my son lifeless with his eyes rolled back in his head and not responding that I’m having a hard time shaking… he is mending and will be better soon enough. The love for my son ran over me like a high tide covering the beach. Parenting is hard work! Thank you to all that came to help, called, commented and sent love. I am so grateful.

Much of the last year of my life has involved caring for my elderly father. There were two bad falls for him too. His 83 year old body has not fared as well as our son’s 16 year old body.

I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now. I still hear my husband’s voice: he thought his son was dead. Our son. He’s not. He will be just fine.

Our Mantra: Our son will be ok.

We hold him tight, and we never take a moment for granted.

So many people are still shaking their heads in disbelief about the outcome of the election.
So many articles about the how~why?! of the now reality of a President-elect Trump.
For some of us, the horror and dismay are just as palpable, but the mystery is just not there.
You see, I’ve spent my whole life in private battle with my father, a consummate Trump supporter in the making.
I was fortunate to grow up in the liberal bubble of the Berkeley & San Francsico Bay Area. But my father was born in Nebraska in 1933, during The Great Depression. Poverty brought his parents to the West; he grew up in a small town outside of Eugene, Oregon. An unincorporated community, actually. There was a general store, gas station, a post office.

I learned a dark family secret 2 years ago, right before my aunt and uncle both died.
My grandfather, my dad and uncle’s father, had a previous wife before he married my grandmother.
That, is not the horrible secret.
The first wife had a son in 1929, my father’s half-brother. Myron.
Myron was a lovely person, he lived a long, wonderful life.
Myron’s mother became pregnant again in 1930. The family was living in Bonesteel, South Dakota. They were destitute.
In desperation, feeling that she had no options, she gave herself an abortion.
At home.
With a coat hanger.
She died not long after from sepsis.

My grandfather remarried, and my uncle was born there in Bonesteel. My grandparents then moved to a small farming community in Allen, Nebraska, where my dad, and my aunt were born in quick succession.
Struggling in Nebraska, the family relocated to Marcola, Oregon.
The brothers both graduated from high school in the late 1940s, and having no real job opportunities, enlisted in the army soon afterwards.

Both brothers served terms in Korea, came home unscathed, and then were able to attend college with the financial assistance of the GI Bill.
At one time in their lives, they were teenagers who each had one pair of jeans to last through a year in high school. They worked as loggers during the summers, and without the benefit offered via the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, neither one would have been likely to attain university diplomas.

Here’s my father Bob, on his graduation day from OSU. (GO BEAVS!)

The ill-fated romance of my parents began one summer on the OSU campus.

My mother’s future in-laws perceived her to be an overeducated liberal (keyword I learned early on in my life: Anti-intellectualism). She was already in possession of an economics degree from a small east coast liberal arts college. She was taking post-grad classes towards a masters degree in biology.
My maternal grandfather, a retired army engineer, was teaching at OSU when the families eventually met. The contrast between my two sets of grandparents could not have been more stark.
However, despite displeasure and concerns from both sides, my parents decided to marry.

Bob took a job with the US Forest Service. My parents moved first to Lakeview, OR, then to Roseburg.
Here is Bob (far left) with the mid-1960s Roseburg Forest Service gang. The women’s hairstyles are amazing, I think.

My only sibling, my elder brother, was born in Roseburg in 1965.
He came out as openly gay when he was in high school. Fortunately for him, we had moved to the Bay Area when we were young.
I say “fortunately,” in all seriousness, because I firmly believe that being a gay youth in rural Oregon during the height of the AIDS epidemic would have been no joking matter.

My parents had divorced in 1975. My brother and I lived primarily with our mother, who ferociously advocated for him from the day he came out to her.
Bob, on the other hand, has never been able to accept or even show basic kindness to my brother. It makes my heart sick, and has been the source of much of our family’s discord for as long as I can remember.

I have often characterized my lifetime of arguments with Bob as our “Archie Bunker ~ Sally Struthers” relationship.

(Photo cred: chitownstarconnections)

When I left the Bay Area for college, I headed north to Humboldt State University.
While my father was well into his 3rd decade with the US Forest Service, I joined the Humboldt chapter of Earth First!
It is quite possible that I may have dated an eco-terrorist who blew up a tractor or logging truck. I’m not naming names. It was a long time ago.
Needless to say, Bob and I have not seen eye to eye politically very often. Ever. Not ever. But we have somehow managed to stay close, despite our differences.

Bob is now 83. I am the sole surviving person in his life who he has not yet turned away, nor driven away with his intolerance and ungracious demeanor.

Which brings us back to the matter at hand: Trump.

I know I am far from being the only person who is trying to navigate the maintenance of a close relationship with a family member who I feel has politically betrayed me.

For me, the question is not “How could Trump have won the election?”
I know too damn well.
People like my father might, just might, have been persuaded to cast a vote for Bernie Sanders. But for someone who never embraced an Obama presidency, what looked like a premature victory lap from Clinton in the last days of the campaign was unacceptable.

The question I am faced with, is how do I care for an elderly man who I feel has turned his back on all the principles of decency that I hold sacred?

A snippet from my past week; I had taken a day off work to drive my father to medical appointments:

Sitting in the clinic waiting room with Bob… 
Bob: “So, your boy…” 
Me: “Yes?” 
Bob: “He seems to have gotten awfully Hawkish recently.” 
Me: “My boy?” 
Bob: “Yes, your boy Obama.” 
Me: “Oh! I thought you meant Harrison!” 
(End scene.) 

I make no excuses, I do not tolerate hateful speech from my father, or anyone else.

And, AND, we must find a way to continue to coexist.

For now, I will move forward by having the hard conversations that have to happen.

Women dying from unsafe abortions is a none-too-distant reality. I will continue to remind my father, and others like him, that none of us are too many degrees of separation from such a tragedy.

The hate crime that a man like my father does not think has anything to do with him, is in reality only a shadow away.
Matthew Shepard could just as easily have been a member of our family.

Silence is not an option.
#onward

 

 

 

 

The Curse is real, and The Curse is back.
Sometimes we can look back and chuckle.
Sometimes we cannot bear to think about it.
Sometimes it is too fresh.
Sometimes we have to make the hard phone calls: to the house sitter, to the loved one who was expecting to greet us at the airport, or at the campsite, or at their home in a far away town.
It’s been happening for years now.
Sometimes it’s Mr. Blitch: strep throat, so I take our son camping by myself.
Sometimes it’s a Crohn’s flare: I burn up all my vacation hours on sick pay.
Once, it was the house sitter: a last minute medical emergency. So again, the parents divide… One takes the boy solo. The other, left holding the short straw, stays home with the pets.
We have become fearful of planning. We buy the extra travel insurance, when available.
We cautiously make plans, we circle events on the calendar. We drink fluids, wash hands frequently, do everything proactive we can think of to stay healthy.

The Blapplegate Family Vacation Curse.

This time, it was a long weekend family trip to Pendleton to celebrate my dear friend Angie’s 40th birthday.
Angie, as another close friend referred to her, is my roll dog.
Starting from day 1 of nursing school, and everyday thereafter.
She’s a public health nurse, nay, the director of the Malheur County Health Department.
Angie is a steady force of goodness in a reckless and sometimes angry world.
Her dedication to public health, to providing education and medical resources to underserved rural and non-English speaking communities, inspires me every day.

The challenges I face as an Oncology Nurse Navigator sometimes seem pale in contrast to the challenges she faces in her work.

Managing the Reproductive Health Program and the Tobacco Prevention and Education Programs in an Eastern Oregon county where teenage pregnancy, STD, and high school drop out rates trend towards the highest in the state, she soldiers on. Cheerfully, and optimistically. I have no clue how she does it, but she does.

We were planning to convene at our favorite mid-way meeting place, a Pendleton Bed & Breakfast that has become like a home~away~from~home for us.
Mr. Blitch and The Boy were going to join us this time as well. The house/dog/chicken sitter was all lined up. The VAC days were secured.

And then… The Curse reared its ugly head. Some nasty viral infection has landed in our home. The Boy has missed a week of school, and I have once again killed off my available hours, and am sitting with a big fat negative balance in my PTO bank at work.

When the post-election blues are hitting the hardest, is when we all need to be drawing closely together with the people that heal us.
I can’t quite find the words to express how deeply disappointed I am to not have the chance to celebrate, in person, the birthday of this amazing woman.

From to Blapplegate House in Portland, to your House of Many Canines in Ontario:
We miss you, we love you, we celebrate you.

We wish you a year of wellness, of happiness, of adventure, of miracles.
The world is a better place with you in it.
Your work, your friendship, your generous spirit.
Thank you for our first decade of friendship ~~ Looking forward to all that lies ahead.