Having a Story Worthy Week.

Good news people!  The leave of absence is a YES!  Now, things get really interesting.  I find myself nesting for an adventure is strange ways.

Take for instance, my refusal to listen to any of my favorite pod casts.  I have this irrational fear of running out of things to listen to on my trip and want desperately to have something "home-like" and "American" to listen to on my journey.

Please don't mistake my sudden patriotism.  I mean, lets be honest, I trying to leave the country for three months because I desperately want to see the rest of the world.  But, there's this underling anxiety that I have.  I find myself leery, you see, I have never been away from good old red-white-and-blue for so long, and I find the idea a bit daunting.

I am recalling my trip to Uganda, where after 3 weeks in Africa, having arrived at the airport to head back home,  I realized we had no way to get there.  A sudden panic and longing for home seemed to overwhelm me.  The sudden tug of distance that separated me from everything I'd ever known sucked the air from my lungs and left me breathless.

I was ready, at that time, to spend whatever amount of money to talk to my parents on the phone.  To make some kind of connection.  I found myself tearful, lonely, and forlorn. 

It was such a stark contrast to the rest of my journey, where I had been all too happy to explore and see a place in the world that is so different from my own.

And so, like the crazy hypochondriac that I am, I am stashing and hording pod casts. I am collecting and saving for that rainy day of my journey, where all I want to do is listen to an American disk jockey from Chicago tell be about "this American Life" or to have a "story worthy week."  Goodness knows, I should have a few of them along the way of my 3 month adventure!

Standing Outside the Fire

Death is rude.  It is cruel. Unjust. Unkind. Unfair.  It plays by a set of rules we are not allowed to see. It scars us. It comes swiftly and it drags its heals.  It steals us away.

And, at some point it becomes what it is.  The end of a life. 

 >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I work around Death all the time.  You work as an oncology nurse long enough, and that light at the end of the tunnel ends up being you more often than you might think.  My colleges and I have learned the art of Death. In fact, my co-workers often joke that we are angels of Death. 

We put on our nurses cap (figuratively, of course), strap on our stethoscope (literally), and play nurse.  We can put away all those fears and doubts and sadness that surround Death, and we can become it's angel. We can comfort a family member; we can count breaths, look for signs of discomfort, for that frown line that appears when they hurt; we can call the donor line and pronounce a death; we can touch a hand softly and whisper a quiet word of support, letting someone know they are not alone.  We are the tour guides on this journey.  We are asked, "How long?" and, "Is this normal?."  We get to warn people when things have changed, when we see the lights begin to dim and flicker. We get to coach and console.  We sympathize and council.  We nurse.

We all have our oddities: we buy the newspaper for the obits, we suggest that the baby lullaby that plays over the hospital intercom when a baby is born should be have a musical counterpart played when a soul leaves the hospital, and we oftentimes make crass and inappropriate jokes about dying. This is because we know, perhaps more than anyone, how emotionally and physically wrong-side-outing death can be, and so we cling to each other and our silly little oddities.

And we are good at it. 

It's strange.  Being good at Deathing.  (New word... go with it. I think it means, more or less, to bring about the process of death)  But, my co-workers and I take great pride in a peaceful death on the floor.  We celebrate his or her life and memories and sigh with relief when a suffering soul has been released from his or her Earthly prison.

Sometimes a death takes us by surprise.  It shocks us in it's timing, it's urgency, it's victim.  We get too close, we stand too near the fire and burn our fingers, singe our hair.  We step away holding tightly to our burns with a kind of awe that follows you around when you burn yourself on a pot you've cooked with for years.

And we tell ourselves that we were mistaken for standing so close, and plan to take a step back the next time.  To pull ourselves away.  Protect ourselves.

And at some point, we find ourselves burned again.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Standing outside the fire
Life is not tried it is merely survived
If you're standing outside the fire 
               -Garth Brooks (Standing Outside the Fire)


The question remains: is it better to have been present, been there, been emotionally invested and then have been burned?  Or, is it better of stand a distance away?

The burn hurts.  It marks you.  Leaves you changed permanently.  The burn lives inside you always.

But, having burned, and then having stood back a distance, I have come to wonder if I do a disservice to myself and the world by creating barriers between myself and the fire?  I find guilt inside myself for not having been closer.  And so I step forward.


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I was burned again tonight.  A girl I've never met, from a town I've never been to, in a car I've never seen, died.  Today.  And I felt a new kind of burn.  A kind of sympathy burn.  The kind of pain you feel when the burn doesn't really belong to you and you have no ice to give the burn victim.

I know cancer death.  I even know young cancer death.  You can see it coming from a mile away and you can brace yourself.  Sure, that bracing may not save you much.  The train impacts just as hard when you see it as when you don't.  But, there is something about this foresight that protects us.

Car accidents are not anticipated.  They are not foreseen.  They are an unexpected phone call. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I wish I could pat a hand and listen to the life refection stories.  I wish I could be there.  Help guide the way. Warn someone.  Help navigate the tumultuous storm.

I wish I had an ice cube for my sister. 

Missing the Super Bowl

I have never "gotten" football.

No matter how hard I've tried, the magic of the game has yet to tickle me just so.  Me.  The ragingly competitive, overly invested, and fastidious score keeper in almost any and every walk of life, has never bothered much over the sport.  I'd watch hokey, cheer on a soccer game, perch at the edge of my seat and enjoy a basketball game, I'd go to a baseball game, watch curling with great interest.  Shoot, I'd rather watch a marathon on the weird sports channel we get for free at my house, before I'd watch a football game.

I had a roommate once, in college, that was utterly appalled at my lack of football enthusiasm.  She would dress me up like in pep rally paraphernalia, adorn me with scarves and team colored hats.  She would point out rules and jump excitedly around with each play.  But, do you know what I remember most about those football games she forced me, under duress, to attend? I remember how stinking long the game was, and how stinking cold it was outside.

And, you have to stand. Like the whole time.

(I'm really earning my keep as "whiner-shiner" here, make no mistake.)

Anyways.  Today was the most holy of holy days to football lovers: The Super Bowl.

I realize that for many Americans, Sundays are a sacred day for watching Bowls (note: I was curious about the etymology of the word "bowl" to describe a football match, and was surprised to find it so remarkably mundane... but, here you have it, (per the internet): "The Yale Bowl started the name. It was a bowl-shaped stadium. The bowl games started with the Rose Bowl named after the stadium." Go figure.)

I can count the number of times I have had to widdle away a perfectly good Sunday with football, and I'll promise you that none of them were by choice.

I'll admit, however, that football gatherings do have some saving graces.  Those being: people, food, and beer.  Of course, all of those things exist perfectly well on there own, and need not suffer under the dictatorship of football to be enjoyed.

So, as you can imagine, it has been mildly entertaining the past few days, as people I know have offhandedly asked my "super bowl plans."  To each football enthusiast I have mournful explained that I HAVE to work.  Note the stress on the "have."

The askers eyes grow wide and they slump dejectedly, as if they had just realized that a poor soul might not be able to enjoy their most sacred day.  Its as if my inability to fully enjoy this American past time offends and depresses them greatly.  I can see in their eyes that they want to reach out to me, comfort me in some way for my loss.

And, on the inside, I smile, because this is the best excuse I've had in a while to miss a game.