Can I see some I.D. before you stick that there? March 3, 2009
If it’s illegal to impersonate a police officer then why can just anybody parade around in a nurse’s uniform? Why it’s even illegal to impersonate a nun—in Alabama at least.
How does one tell the difference between a registered nurse and clerk with no training in patient care or any professional standards and accountability?
I recently brought my daughter to a walk-in clinic were a woman in a nurse’s uniform directed the patients into examining rooms and asked for presenting complaints, took urine samples for urine analysis and temperature readings. Taking into consideration the tasks she was performing and the uniform she wore I inferred that she was a health care professional. However, her conduct was deplorable as she quarrelled with patients and spoke condescendingly to me. She demonstrated a considerable lack of compassion for sick people and anxious family members. As a former registered nurse I was appalled at the lack of professionalism displayed by this person.
When I later asked the receptionist for the nurse’s name to issue a complaint to her manager, I was told that she is not a nurse she is merely an office assistant. No wonder she couldn’t care less about the sick people flooding her office, she’s probably has little if any training in dealing with the public and is struggling to get by on a bit more than minimum wage. There is something to be said for the RN’s University education and a salary reflecting their skills.
Though I no longer practice as a registered nurse, (I retired to raise my four children) I do hold the profession in high esteem, and I hate to see that anyone can purchase scrubs at Wal-Mart and demand the respect reserved for the nursing profession, yet not be accountable to act in a respectful manner. These people tarnish the nursing profession’s reputation.
Nurses have come a long way since the day we wore the white dress uniform and cap, but at least in the 50’s people knew who was a nurse and who wasn’t. If I walk down the street today I can tell the difference between a police officer and a security guard, but I cannot tell the difference between a registered nurse and a veterinarian receptionist… and no I don’t want a receptionist checking my urine sample.
The Good, The Bad, and The Gluttony May 26, 2008
The May 2008 Writer’s Retreat, sponsored by the OIW, took place at Marguerite Centre in Pembroke, Ontario, from Thursday evening until Sunday afternoon.
I guess the best testament to my time at the retreat was that I completed both the first drafts of my women’s fiction novel and a contemporary romance short story. I figured I’d better work hard, because not only was I parting with $250, I also had to honour the time I spent away from my ever-dependent children.
The other good would include the camaraderie. I met sixteen fellow Ottawa writers, most writing different genres. Their readings in the evening were inspiring and their reception of my work quite flattering. I will definitely be keeping in touch with these wonderful people. The serene atmosphere, and ample opportunity to write, read, meditate, walk, or even nap was also very inspiring. I also have to include in this list of good things how much we laughed ourselves to tears at mealtime. I don’t know if I will ever be able to look at ferrets the same way again.
The bad list is short but includes the horrible ergonomics of using a laptop on a desk and sitting in a hard wooden chair for hours on end, and while I loved that my room was so bright and sunny all day, I didn’t like being woken by the sun at six when I’d just gotten to bed at one. The mini-blinds just weren’t enough for the determined sunshine.
And yes, the gluttony… To say the food was abundant would be a total understatement. Meals were provided in a cafeteria manner, except there was no cash because all was included. The choices were many and the best part is that the line started with desserts. And then if you could find room for more in your over stuffed tummy, near the bedrooms you could find a little kitchenette with tea, coffee, juice, soft drinks, cookies, muffins, tarts, cheese, cereal, bread and more. The snacks came in handy on the night I decided to stay up and finish my short story. They had the most delectable jam filled shortbreads…back on the diet on Monday.
All in all, it the weekend was so much more than I’d hoped for, certainly worth the $250, and even spending some time away from the family. I think we are all better for it, and I would gladly go again.
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- The Sitting Room
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- The Blessed Cafeteria
The Extremes of my Heart May 16, 2008
My baby lies on my bed, still smelling of lavender soap, fresh out of the bath. His hair, the colour of a freshly minted copper penny, curls tight atop his head. His blue eyes shine with mirth as we play a game of mirroring our tongues sticking out. I kiss his velvet soft round tummy and he squeals with delight.
I can feel my heart expand with absolute unconditional love. The warmth in my chest radiates throughout my body and I know this feeling of peace and joy is infused with the presence of God—this is bliss.
Three days later, my baby lies on my bed whimpering. His whole body is an angry red and he is so hot I can barely touch him. The thermometer reads 40.4°C. I check, that’s 104.7 ° F. How can that be? I just gave him fever medication an hour ago. Why isn’t it working? The decision is made in a fraction of a second—we are off to the hospital. The night is cool. I thank God for that. Then I continue my conversation with God pleading for my son’s health as I drive to the nearest hospital, speeding through the empty roads, adding another thank you for a clear path. I sling my baby close to my chest as I run through the automatic doors of the emergency room.
My heart has imploded. It is encased in a block of ice and ceases to beat, but I can still feel my pulse roaring in my ears. The fear I have for my son’s safety is physically painful. I have to remind myself to breathe. I still talk to God, begging, pleading. He answers me with a temperature drop of one degree. He is here with me. He is here. I hold my baby to my chest and his heat begins to melt the ice around my heart. Everything is going to be just fine.
Three days later, as I change my son’s diaper he gives me a grin and sticks out his tongue. Complete Utter Bliss.
Shared Inspiration March 27, 2008
I recently hosted a book club meeting at which it slipped out that I’m an aspiring author. One of the attendees hinted at a love of writing and always wanting to write a memoir about how she overcame a very traumatic part of her life. She asked me where to start as she donned her coat on the way out the door. Anyone who’s ever written a book knows that cannot be summarized into a five-minute spiel, so I lent her three books on writing.
The next day I get an enthusiastic call from her. She read one of the books cover to cover (Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott) and wrote 20 pages that morning. We talked shop for a good half hour and sure enough the excitement she exuded through the phone rubbed off on me.
I remembered how fun writing could be–when you write for the love of it and not for a cheque, when you write with inspiration and not to fit a certain publishing trend, when you write with passion and not for perfection.
This morning I am going to write with the innocence of a new writer and fully enjoy the process. I may not get twenty pages (my one and three year olds do need some type of supervision) but I know that what I do write today will be from a very special place.
A mother’s escape March 2, 2008
I lay there enveloped in the enticing aroma of lavender mingled with fig, and the lightest hint of ink drifting from a paperback novel. The bubbles caress my nude body, dying little by little as they are exposed to air and movement. I’ve escaped to a distant world in an unreachable era, taking on the persona of a princess being denied her heart’s desire. I know certain bliss…until a loud rap at the door calls me back to reality.
“MOM! I can’t find my English paper and it’s due tomorrow.”
I try to centre myself. “It’s on the counter beside your agenda. Why are you not in bed?” Silence is my reply. Back to the book. Another knock.
“Hon, your son just threw up on my last clean uniform for work. Tell me you’ve hidden the dry cleaning somewhere.”
Deep breathe. “It’s in the front closet… where I always leave it. Is he okay?”
“Yeah, I just bounced him too much after his bottle. Are you almost done in there? How dirty can you be?”
Very, very dirty. I may never come out of the washroom ever again. “I’m getting out now.”
One more scene, one more moment of peace before I go back and face the world. The last bubble pops, and the water now chilled, I pull the plug.
What’s Next Part Deux January 30, 2008
I’m posting part two today, because I received some great advice last night. I went to a Virtues Project workshop and we practised active listening and validating with virtues. My partner happened to be a counsellor, what luck! I told her my latest life crisis and to make a long story short she reminded me that I am still very young, and I have lots of time to go out there and help humanity once my children have grown. She said she is very busy now that her kids are 26 and 28, and her mother is also a therapist still seeing patients at 85 years old! I guess my potential for living another fifty years doesn’t readily come to mind since my grandparents all died in their sixties, and my mother’s health is so poor in her late fifties, and my father is in a nursing home with dementia at 65. I forget that lots of people live and thrive much longer. I was also reminded that I take much better care of my health, after all health is my vocation.
So today, I’m focusing on being present in the present. My husband and I are going on a date this Sunday and I am going to talk to him about taking home learning courses. I’m still debating over Homoeopathy or doing a master’s in psychology to be a therapist myself. Learning from home and being with my children, and when they are gone all day I’ll have a certificate to build a practise with.
I am, of course, still writing and I’ve promised myself to schedule some writing time into my week, and actually write during the time I’ve set aside. Writing may not bring in cash or save the world, yet, but it keeps me happy and sane so I have to make it a self-care priority. I also ordered Writer Mama. I’d still love to make a couple of bucks while home, writing to my hearts content. (Thanks for the suggestion andreamcmann)
What’s next? January 28, 2008
Now that we have more people in the house than rooms in which to house them, we’ve been contemplating buying a bigger home. That, of course, would involve a bigger mortgage. And now the whole house hunting thing brought up a declaration from my dear husband that he feels the weight on his shoulders from us being a single income family. This, of course, makes me feel like I SHOULD be working outside the home. Hubby also likes to point out every news article about the nursing shortage and every classified add for nurses. But what he doesn’t realize is how much my working as a nurse would completely change our lives. Sure, I’d be making an excellent salary, putting our income well above six figures, but it also means working twelve hour shifts, nights, weekends, and holidays. And nursing is very demanding physically and emotionally. And I find that keeping this house with four kids a full time job as it is, I can’t imagine working as a nurse in addition to all this! Hubby complains about the chores he does now, I’m sure we’d both be completely burnt out if I went back to work as a nurse.
So why do I feel so GUILTY about not having an income when the arguments against working are so many?
Then comes into play my own feelings about contributing to society, about what I want to be when I grown up. I have this huge part of me that is not happy if I’m not making a difference in the world. I don’t know where it came from, but I can’t stifle it. That’s who I am, I just have to live with it. I’ve tried my best to convince myself that raising four wonderful socially-minded children is a great gift to humanity, but try as I might it still doesn’t feel like enough. I can be very very hard on myself! Writing is great because I can be inspirational and put out a message of hope, but it takes so long to publish a book and the money takes even longer to come. Besides the fact that it’s not taken completely seriously around here so I have to write in rare moments of downtime, unlike going to work 9 to 5.
I would love to be a motivational speaker, or a teacher, or a counsellor, but all those would require that I do some sort of studying, and invest money and time into myself.
I could go back to practising natural medicine, which involves a lot of teaching and counselling, but it also involves finding patients in the small pocket of the population that believes in what you do– that doesn’t think you are a crook and a quack. And the money is not spectacular there, probably not enough to cover daycare as a girlfriend that I studied with is complaining out. Definitely more of a labour of love. And I would have to take a refresher course as I haven’t been keeping up with the newest research and trends. Again, money and time.
So… I’m stuck folding laundry and mashing homemade baby food, feeling like I should have some sort of game plan for when the kids are in school full time, at the very least, if not sooner. What do I do? Do you ever feel that you need to be more than a mom? Am I totally nuts to want to do more, as if I don’t already do so much?
TV’s Heroes January 18, 2008
Where are the Heroes of Television?
I’m a huge advocate for equality between men and women but that doesn’t mean I think we should demean men to make women look better. Yet, the media is saturated with portrayals of dimwitted men dating, or married to, strong women. I’m referring to sitcoms like “According to Jim” and to commercials like the ones for Diet Pepsi where the man photocopies his butt, or wears a jacket from the 80’s. It seems to me that in the age of political correctness we have gone from making fun of the ethnic, of women and of the handicapped to ribbing the White Man, surely he can take one on the jaw for the sake of comedy.
But what are we teaching our kids? That white men are all morons? I don’t want my son growing up to admire men that dumb down to look cool, and I don’t want my girls to date and marry men with no ambition because they think intelligence is for geeks and losers.
And people wonder why women read romance novels; at least they’re guaranteed to contain a strong, intelligent and caring man with goals.
Human Rights Day December 10, 2007
On this Anniversary of The Universal Declaration of Human Rights I would like to honour two groups of people giving of themselves in service for humanity:
The men and women working in law enforcement as high-tech crime investigators devote themselves to finding and apprehending the pedophiles that use the Internet as their hunting and feeding grounds. These police officers do so at the expense of having horrific images of exploited babies and youth seared into their memories. They fight for the rights of all the children of the world: black, white, Muslim, Christian, Jew, girl or boy. And for this my husband will always be my hero.
The men, women and youth who sacrifice the comforts of home to travel to distant lands in the spirit of service, and that give of their sweat and tears to better humanity. These people deliver everything from clean water, to medication, to eyeglasses, to school supplies, all of which are readily available for most here at home, but a Godsend for the millions of wanting people of the world. This year my thoughts are especially with the people helping in Darfour and Chad, may they all soon be returned to their homelands.
God bless these admirable steps towards Universal Human Rights.
