Monthly Archives: April 2010

Some Days I Hate It.

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I wrote this back when I worked for an OB clinic.  I think it’s one of the most powerful blogs I’ve ever written.  I really wanted to share it.

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There are very few days that I dislike my job.

Today was really one of them.  It wasn’t a hard day, or superbly busy, or even moderately stressful.  No one yelled at me, and I didn’t piss anyone off.  I can’t even say that I didn’t enjoy the most difficult sonohistogram that I’ve ever done.

I can’t really explain the dread feeling in my gut.  It’s hard to describe the way my heart pounds against my chest, and the way my breath catches in my throat.  The tears prickle in my eyes, and my fingers tremble.  Because the worst part is that I can’t look this mother full in the face and tell her that her baby is fine, and that everything is ok.  It hurts me so much.

My patient came in after not feeling her baby move in almost three days.  She had been out of town, visiting relatives, and noticed all of a sudden that she hadn’t been feeling that familiar flutter that reminded her of her baby girl.  She called us immediately upon returning home, and was told to go eat a big meal, drink some juice, and call back if she didn’t feel any more movement.  She was 27 weeks pregnant, into her third trimester, and she was supposed to be beyond the fear of a miscarriage.

About an hour later, she was in the office in a room with the nurses trying to find the heartbeat with a “doppler.”  They couldn’t find one.  We keep hope, thinking maybe the baby is turned upside down, or laying with her arms and legs towards the dop-tone.  We pray that everything is ok, but we feel the dread in the back of our minds.  The nurse came out of the room, and asked me to scan her.  She said, “Please, tell me you can see a heartbeat in there.”

Immediately the fear sets in.  I know there is very little chance of this being a happy ending.  I tell the doctor that I’m taking the patient in to scan, but please don’t go anywhere in case I need you.

The moment I placed the transducer on her belly, I knew all was not well.  There were no sweet legs kicking back against me.  There were no precious arms waving.  Her little heart was still, no flicker of life in her chest.  I could feel the tears stinging my eyes.  I’m not prepared to deal with this.

“Please, tell me… just tell me.  I need to know, please…”  she begs me.

“I need to take some pictures out to the doctor, ok?”  My voice is strong, and unbroken.  It lies about how I feel.  It doesn’t tell of my heart breaking inside, my mourning for her baby already gone.

I walked out the door, leaving her alone, and I couldn’t hold back my tears.  The doctor knew the moment she saw me, and cursed.  This was her second fetal demise today.

Dr. L came back in the room with me, to verify.  She can’t just go on my word, she has to see it with her own eyes.  The mother is nearly hysterical now, crying “Please don’t tell me… please don’t tell me.   Please, don’t tell me!”  The Doctor looks for nearly a full minute, before she is asked, “Please, doctor.  I have to know.  If it’s not ok, I need to know.”

“I’m sorry.  Your baby is gone.”

She cried, and cried.  She blamed herself.  She asked what she did wrong, and she cried again.  Dr. L held her while her body shook with sobs.  I held her hand as she started to catch her breath.  She said to us, “It’s ok.  I’m ok,” and we both told her, “You don’t have to be ok.”

She said, “I just want to go home.”

She called her husband to come and pick her up.  She wanted some privacy while she was on the phone and we gave it to her.  But I swear to you, right now, that the hardest thing I went through today was trying to maintain my composure when her husband walked into the room, and burst into tears himself.

They had lost their little girl.

Sometimes, I really don’t like my job.

Wordless… Thursday?

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Today had been a bit of a pain in my rear.  Ronan has been making trouble all morning, and I had to drive out to Gaston to pick up a prescription I forgot to get while I was at work last night.

Since we were in the car for almost an hour, we missed Ronan’s nap time.  He didn’t sleep in the car.  It’s now 1:45, and he has still not gone down for a nap.  We’re on nap attempt #3.

(I would like to take this moment to point out that he slept from 6:15pm last night to 9:30am this morning.  Without waking.  I know.)

So anyways.  I didn’t feel like writing.  Much.

Here are some great pictures from the last amazing few days.

OHEMGEE RONAN DON’T PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH!!

Get the ball!

He loves his soccer ball.

At the Park again!

Also, on Tuesday, Farah came over for a visit while Stephany and Ava had a special Mommy&Ava Day.  We had a good time (with a few hiccups) and I got some sweet pictures.  And LOTS of cuddles!

This cracks me up!  Looks like they are texting each other.

Sweet Farah, loving on Flint!

I may or may not add a video later today.  I have a few cute ones :)

He’s My Husband.

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There is a wonderful person in my life.

Someone I feel lucky to know, and lucky to be around.

Someone I am proud of every single day.

Someone that makes me feel special, no matter what happens.

He holds me when I’m sad.

He makes me laugh.

He kisses like he means it.

His son is the center of his world.

His smile is the center of mine.

His heart is too big to fit in his chest, so he wears it on his sleeve.

Time goes by, and I love him more.

Time goes by, and he loves me better.

Time goes by so quickly.  I can’t imagine a day without him.

Loyal.

Strong.

Proud.

Stubborn.

Sweet.

Romantic.

Sexy.

I have never known another man like him.

And I never will.

He is my husband.

Happy Birthday, Brock, My love.

You make my world go round.

Bath Time Fail.

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This is a story, as a mom, that I just HAVE to share.

Last night, Ronan was extra tired.  We fed him some dinner and then went for an early bath.  He was with a sitter yesterday, and one of the things that happens when Ronan’s with a sitter is that I lose track of when poops happen.  Never usually a big deal, but it’s something I like to know.

Until last night.

I put Ronan in the bath as it was filling, and sat next to the tub.  We played and splashed in the water.  All of a sudden, he squatted down and made his poop-face.  I panicked a little, but picked him up and perched him on the edge of the toilet.  He finished pooping in the bowl!  But I had to fish the early poop out of the tub and let him run naked around the bathroom while I drained the tub, sprayed some Clorox clean-up, scrubbed and rinsed.  Then I started refilling the tub.  He played in the bathroom the whole time.

So… poop in the tub = fail.  But first poop in the POTTY? = WIN!

I showed him his poop in the bowl, and then we flushed and watched it go away together.  Then he closed the lid.

I put him back in the tub, and went to clean off all of the toys that were in the water when he pooped.  I had my back to the tub… well, really my SIDE to the tub for about 3 minutes.  I came over with all of his toys, ready to give them back…

… and he was playing with poop.

LOTS of poop.

There was a shit-fest in my bathtub.  I was so mortified, I froze.  Brock took Ronan out of the tub again, and I was at a loss of what to do.  “What did you do last time, Mandy?” Brock asked.

“I fished it out with my hand!  But it was just one little poop!  There are a HUNDRED in there!”

There may or may not have been less than a hundred poops.

Finally, I decided to just get the poop out.  I fished around with my hands for a while, drained the tub, re-bleached, re-scrubbed, and re-filled.  At this point, Ronan was crying because he was cold and wanted in the bath.  We did a lot of talking, “We don’t poop in the bathtub, Ronan.  We poop in the potty.  Poop is dirty.”

Finally, we got him in a clean tub sans poop.  We washed quickly, shampooed, then rinsed.  Bath time took twice as long for half the actual amount of bathing.

I used to be SO proud… Ronan had never, ever pooped in the tub, even as a small baby.  Now?  Twice in one night.

Bath time FAIL.

The Weekend of Babies

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I had a rough weekend.

It was busy, and the ER kept me running.  I hardly had a chance to sit both of my nights.

Whenever I get home from work, I always sit and think about the patients that I’ve scanned, and if any of them stick out to me – someone that might be worth writing about.

This weekend was all about the babies.  And I don’t mean that literally.

One of my more memorable ultrasounds was on a 12 year old girl.  She was in a lot of pain, and they had given her hydrocodone.  She was SO FAR OUT of it, it was almost funny, but she kept trying to chat me up.  She was talking to me about her school, and her friends.  She told me about her parents and her sisters.  I mentioned to her that I didn’t remember what it was like to be 12, but she seemed VERY mature for her age.  She held a conversation, even drugged, better than most of my full-grown patients.  She laughed and told me it was probably from having two older sisters, and growing up a little before her time.  She told me that she’d had a lot of health problems thus far, and she was used to spending a lot of time in the hospital.

The thing that struck me the most about her was the fact that she still cuddled a teddy-bear.  She was sick, and in the hospital, and the bear just made her feel better.  She was a little sad that her mom and dad couldn’t be in the room when we did the exam, but she had her bear.  As grown up and as sweet as she was, she was still just a little girl.
A few hours later, I had another ultrasound – this time on a 13 year old girl.  She was status-post D&C, which kind of freaked me out a little.  Who does a D&C on a 13 year old?  There wasn’t a lot of information in her chart, so I waited to talk to her.  When she rolled up into my room, it scared me how little she was.  But the similarities to the young girl I had scanned earlier were hard to ignore.  She was very eloquent, and very bright.  She told me about how she’d had very heavy periods ever since they first started, and no one could figure out why.  At 12 years old, she was put on depo-provera to try to stop the bleeding, and that made it worse.  She’d been given a D&C a month ago by her ob/gyn to try to curb the bleeding, and had spent the last several weeks hemorrhaging.  She ended up coming in to the hospital because she had started passing out.

We talked for a while before I started the exam.  Because of her age, I automatically assumed I would skip the “internal” portion of the exam.  (Yes, there are some parts of my job that are rather invasive.)  I asked her if she knew what that was, and she said, “Oh yes!  I’ve had many of those before.”  I was shocked, and asked her if she was sexually active.  There are very few contraindications to vaginal or internal ultrasounds, but not being sexually active is one of them.  She blushed and looked at me sheepishly before answering, “Yes.”

My heart fell out of my chest.  Thirteen years old, and sexually active?

Wow.

Blink, blink.

Not that I haven’t seen it before, but this little girl hardly looked a day over ten.  She’s still a BABY!  I wanted to shake her, or hug her, or… I don’t know.  I can’t imagine.  It breaks my heart, and scares me at the same time.

She pulled up her gown so I could scan her belly, and I spied a tattoo and a navel ring.  My blood ran cold.  She told me she ran with a ‘bad crowd.’

Here it is, guys and gals…

I don’t know how to be a great parent.  I don’t even know if I’m doing the right thing from day to day.  It makes me crazy, knowing that these girls are smart, and well spoken, and outgoing… and that things can go so wrong.  Bad choices, bad friends, bad directions – all despite how good things could be.

All I can hope is that I do better for my son, for my kids – that some part of what I’m doing will help them make better decisions.  That I will never see a child of mine on a hospital stretcher, dealing with the fallout of poor choices and a bad direction.  I know I derailed this post, but I can’t help it.

I hope, hope, hope that caring, trying, and wanting the best is enough.  I hope that being involved is enough.  I hope.

Ancient History: Just Me

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Here’s another Xanga blog from back in the day.

I find it incredibly interesting to see how far I’ve come, how much I’ve changed.  When I go back and read my writing, I am usually pleasantly surprised.  I usually enjoy my own work far more than I remember liking it when I wrote it.  However, the difference between that Mandy and “me” is immense.  More than what can be put into just a few words.

It’s nice to have a little proof that I’m still growing, still changing, and still getting better.

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Xanga – 7/28/2007

I’m going to share with you one of my biggest fears.

I have generally found in life that the more I get to know someone, the less I like them.  The people I meet and like more and more every day are few and far between.  However, my fear is not that I wont find people that I like, or that I will always begin to dislike them the more learn about them.

My fear is entirely self-centered.  I am a little ashamed to admit that, but it’s true.  There is something about “me” that seems to attract people off the bat – I’m bright and friendly, I’m upbeat and sweet.  I can come across as smart, and funny (I’ve been told these things…)  but for some reason, whatever spark people seem to see in me that make them like me so much on first meeting… it fades.

I find myself not wanting to allow people to think highly of me.  I find myself trying to convince people that I’m not everything that they seem to think I am.  I find myself on the verge of yelling, screaming, shouting that I am just me. I am just me.

I know this comes from the hidden fear that if someone expects very highly of me, I can do nothing but let them down.  But I look inside myself, I look in the mirror, I examine my daily interactions, and I do not find myself to be worthy.  I do not deem myself fit.  There is always a part of me that disagrees when I am given a truly wonderful compliment.  I am just me.

I see a young girl that tries to be too thin, and can’t usually find happiness with her body.  I see a woman with far to much of her father’s cynicism.  I see a daughter with far too much of her mother’s ability to worry.  I am thankful for my health, and my strong body, my able mind.  But the Mandy I know is so unsure of herself.  She walks on eggshells, waiting for the days that she ruins everything.  She has a hard time believing someone like Brock finds something so lovable in her.  She keeps waiting for the day everything it shatters like it did before.

I don’t know if this is a fault I have always held, or something that has been created within me as a result of my past.  I hope it is something of the latter, something I can overcome and rise above.  I want the “just me” to be good enough… for me.

Get Out While You Can!!

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I was at work last night.  I had a really great shift, working with some of my favorite people.

Later on in the night, after nearly all of the ultrasounds had been done, my co-worker (here forward referred to as CW) and I were sitting around chatting a little.  The worklist was down to two patients, both of which were waiting for something or other before they could come for their exams.

Around 9:45, CW looked at the clock and said, “You can go if you like.  There’s not much going on here.”

I smiled, because I LOVE to leave early, but said, “You know, I’ve only got about 10 pages in my book left.  I wont get to finish it if I take it home, so I’m gonna just knock it out.”

CW laughed at me and pulled her book out.  “Great idea!”  We’re reading the same set of novels that I had turned her on to last week.  She loves them as much as I do.  We read quietly for a few minutes, and then one of us would interrupt the other to talk about what we were reading.  I have read all of the books already, and she loves to ask me what I think is gonna happen, or whether or not she needs to worry.  I have a really, really great poker face about stuff like that, and I KNOW she doesn’t really want to know.  So I just smile at her and let her keep reading.  We were both laughing at each other, when CW slid her chair over to the computer terminal to check the worklist and make sure nothing had been added.  I informed her that I had just done that, and we were good.

“Oh yeah?” she asked.

There were six ultrasounds added from the ER.

SIX EXAMS.

Added in less than 10 minutes.

We both said a few choice cuss words, and then called the transporters.  CW said, “They KNEW we were having fun!  That’s what we get for enjoying ourselves at work.”

They starting bringing patients, and we started scanning them.  CW and I can really turn out the patients when we’re together.  We are both used to being the ‘only’ tech, and when we get a chance to work as a team, we really work well.

At 10:45, fifteen minutes after my shift ended, and an hour after CW told me I could leave, she said to me, “Next time I tell you you can leave if you want, you’re gonna get the hell out of here aren’t you?”

“DAMN STRAIGHT!”

Although, in all honesty, I’d rather stay and help her get all of those exams completed.  Because I’d want the same done for me in her position.  And I adore her.