Living with unlovable pets

While I was out of town last month, our daughter was given two goldfish from a well-meaning person. The problem was we didn’t have any fish tanks lying around and by the time my husband, Chris, received them in a plastic baggie, it was already after 8pm and he had to work the next day.

Hoping they would survive 24 hours, he purchased a tank and supplies after work, but sadly the fish couldn’t handle the stress.

Lucky for us, our daughter had been picked up by her grandmother and was blissfully unaware that her first pets ever were already belly-up.

After discussing our options, we decided to nix the fish idea and return all of the equipment because we still owned a hamster cage. All we needed was food, bedding, and the animal.

My son had an adorable hamster named Peanut. She was everything we ever could’ve wanted in a rodent-sized critter. She never bit us and she was cute and fat and lovable. Her time on this earth was too short, as is the case with most small animals.

He also once had fish he’d won from the Highlands County fair around the same time. They were a huge pain in the butt. The tank was a cumbersome task to clean and the fish lived a long time considering the fact they came from the fair. I thought they’d never die.

Thinking we’d have another Peanut, I broke the news to my girl about the fish and watched her face crumple up into pre-tear sadness. Then I delivered the good part about her being able to pick out a cuddly hamster and she lit up like Christmas.

We drove to the pet store and searched all the hamster habitats for the right one. When we had a female chosen (I refuse to buy a male for certain anatomical reasons) the associate quickly steered us away from that one because it had a tendency to bite and directed us to the dwarf hamsters.

My sweetheart immediately fell in love with one and we took her home. She named her “Layla” which was kind of cool because she has no idea who Eric Clapton is.

We took Layla out of the cage to pet her being careful to box her in with our legs when she suddenly flattened-out under my knee and scurried down the hall into my daughter’s bedroom.

Thirty-five minutes later, I declared there would be no more petting sessions until I could figure out a better way to contain this animal who could somehow reach the speed of sound on legs that measure about 1 cm in length.

Now I’m afraid to clean the cage or open it to feed her. Layla always looks up at me as if to say, “I know how slow and clumsy you are and I’m just waiting for my next chance. I won’t make the mistake of running down the hall again.”

As if to flaunt her talent, when I peek in on her, she’ll dart up the side of the cage like she’s rocket-propelled. She runs on her wheel so fast that, when she stops, the wheel spins her around 2 or 3 more times and she stays stuck to the inside by centrifugal force alone.

I believe we aren’t a good family for Layla and I wish I didn’t have a cat allergy. Now that I’ve really had time to think about it, the fish weren’t such a bad idea after all.

The final push to the end

Although I’ve recently attended my own graduation ceremony to become a Registered Nurse, I’m not really finished with school. In fact, as I type this, my class actually has 27 more days until our pinning when our instructors will declare us officially ready to attempt our state boards.

Until this date, we have to complete online assignments, proficiency tests, and 120 hours of clinical time in real hospitals working with nurses who teach us and guide us in our final days as students.

For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to spend this time in an emergency room. I was lacking in certain skills, like I.V. insertions, that I thought I could learn fast in the emergency department.

Boy was I right!

Let me tell you something about I.V. lines: there are some people who can do them well and then there are those who can stick a garden hose through a straw and make it look easy. I can only hope that, one day, I can at least become proficient enough so that I have all my supplies ready when I need them instead of groping around for that one thing I left on the cart in the hall.

Aside from I.V.s, I have learned that gloves are your friends and it never hurts to pack your pockets with lots of alcohol pads. Also, patients really appreciate a warm blanket.

One thing I can’t believe is how nice everyone has been. The nurses and doctors and all the other staff have been wonderful. They may make funny faces behind my back, but I’m too busy being overwhelmed and bewildered to know it.

When I’m not tripping over my own shadow in the emergency room, I’m consumed with other nursing class assignments, studying, or in my chemistry class that I am also taking this semester. 

You may wonder if I have time for anything else right now and that answer would be “NO!” I don’t have time for my family, my friends, my favorite things, and barely enough time for a good night’s sleep.

Heck, I almost don’t have time to write this column.

My friend, Tonya, and I like to check-in with each other on Facebook. People may mistakenly think that, because we post something in an update, we are loafing around with nothing to do. In reality, we are taking sanity breaks from online testing marathons. Yesterday alone I answered over 600 questions in preparation for an upcoming comprehensive test.

After that many questions, if someone asked me my name, I’d probably respond, “You sound concerned. Would you like a warm blanket?”

If I were offered a snack, I’d say, “Broccoli is a source of calcium for someone who is lactose intolerant. Take iron supplements with orange juice. Stay away from aged cheeses, organ meats, and wines if you’re taking MAOIs because that is bad for some reason.”

Nursing students are pumped with so much information it is like we are on constant mental overload. Dumping syndrome is something people with gastric bypass surgery can experience, but it is also something that happens to the brain of a nursing student. You start packing in facts and figures and deleting birthdays, addresses, and phone numbers.

Right now, my eye is on the prize. I’m just hoping my family will remember me when it is over. Until then, don’t get too dehydrated over the next month. You never know who might start your I.V. in the ER.

Mom isn't always the best example

When I was a kid, one way to instantly stoke my mother’s ire was to act up in church. My brother, Jerry, was a horrible instigator and always the one to push the limits of Mom’s patience. It was him who spent the most time torturing our little sister, Meredith, never innocent me.

I believe that, during those formative years, we assisted our mother in perfecting what we refer to as her “evil mom look.” This is the ice-cold glare that had the ability to immediately stop time and stun children, essentially paralyzing us in whatever inappropriate behavior we happened to be undertaking at that moment.

Once we were frozen in place, she silently mouthed commands to “cease and desist” our bad deeds while promising future punishment that would commence as soon as witnesses were not present.

The remainder of the service would be spent in quiet reflection and abject terror. It always seemed like the pastor suddenly refocused his sermon and attention directly at us as we tried to sink down low in the pew as if attempting to hide from him and God.

Now that I’m a parent, I have the pleasure of policing my own kids during our church’s Sunday services. They only have to sit still until the offering is completed, then they stampede upstairs for children’s church like a couple of wild buffalo.

With all my mom duties, I really could’ve used some parenting myself last Sunday.

It all started with someone else’s kids. They stayed the whole service which isn’t a bad thing. The children were of toddler age and did remarkably well. My own kids would never have behaved through the whole service.

During communion, the crackers were passed around when one of the toddlers erupted with an angry-sounding verbal outburst, so her mother quickly carried her out of the sanctuary.

My husband, Chris, leaned over and whispered in my ear, “They must not like crackers.”

This resulted in a good chuckle out of me. He started to say something else and I said, “SHHH,” to which he replied: “Your ‘SHHH’ was really loud. I think everyone heard it.”

I told him firmly, “Listen, if you don’t stop it, I’m going to take YOU out of here.”

He said, “Only if you carry me out.”

This was the straw that broke the camel’s back. My brain flashed an instant detailed mental picture of me carrying my husband on my hip, like I do with my daughter. In fact, he was limp like kids are when they don’t want to be carried and they just kind of hang there on your side.

So in this image, here was my husband, who outweighs me by about 20 pounds or so, hanging on my hip with this pouty look on his bearded face and, for some reason, he had a Dutch-boy haircut.

I was laughing so hard that I was jiggling, but I was trying to be quiet at the same time. Chris put his arm around me, began patting my shoulder, and saying, “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay,” like he was comforting me as if I was simply overcome with emotion. From behind, it probably did look like I was sobbing.

I suppose I’ll go a little easier on my kids in the future. If their own mom can’t hold herself together in church, how can I possibly expect them to?  Mom, if you’re reading, I’ll try my hardest to behave better next week. I promise.

It's never too late to change your future

Tonight, May 3, 2012, I did something for the third time in my life: walked across the stage of the South Florida Community College’s Theatre for the Performing Arts to accept a degree.

The first time was way back in 1991 when I graduated Avon Park High School. It was a bittersweet night because I hadn’t exactly prepared for a future beyond my diploma. I had no clue what I planned on doing the next day, much less the rest of my life.

Unfortunately, my grades back then reflected the interest I had in my future.

In my senior year, I was dual enrolled in two college classes for reasons I still do not comprehend. Because of my general apathetic attitude towards anything that resembled homework and my inability to foresee consequences for this behavior, my first two college-level grades still mar my overall grade point average (GPA).

It was 1995 before I enrolled at Brevard Community College where I was told to pursue my Associate in Arts degree. The advisor directed me to take several classes, which I did, and my grades began improving, mainly because I was paying for the portion of my tuition not covered by financial aid. When your education hits your own pocketbook, homework becomes very important.

Of the 13 classes I completed, I made 3 “B’s” and the rest were all “A’s.” Suddenly, I had a decent GPA and this club called “Phi Theta Kappa,” an honor society, wanted me to join. I was pretty sure it would look good on a resume, so I signed up.

My degree was still in-process when I decided to stop everything and move to Washington State. Life took some twists and turns and I found myself in different jobs where I got comfortable with my unfinished education and, besides, I had a family and too much going on to deal with school.

That’s why, in 2009, when I signed up at SFCC to complete my A.A. degree and see if I might be able to get into the nursing program, I thought I might be crazy. 

When I walked that stage in 2010 to accept my A.A. degree that had been 15 years in the making, it felt good.

Tonight felt better.

I am now the recipient of an Associate in Science degree for Nursing; one of the most challenging and coveted programs offered at SFCC.

Not only did I have to pass an exam and meet the academic criteria to be chosen as one of the 25 students privileged enough to be accepted into the program, but I also had to maintain at least a “B” average (I made “A’s”) in all of my classes. The schedule was grueling and the clinical rotations were excitingly terrifying.

It is hard to believe that I was a slacker student who wouldn’t do homework to save her life. Now I’m studying like crazy to learn how to save other people’s lives. The irony is almost too much.

So, if you are a concerned parent who has a kid like I was back in 1991, give them a little time to taste the real world. If you’re an adult who doesn’t think they can go back to school, look at me: I’m a mom, a wife, and quickly closing in on 40 years old and I did it.

Never give up on yourself because the worst thing you can ever do is to not try. Trust me on this.