A once in a lifetime offer just for me

There is something fishy going on in the African country of Burkina Faso and, in particular, the capital of Ouagadougou (which I pronounce in my American accent “oooga doooga”). Actually, I think that Ouagadougou was my very first word, but my parents clearly did not know I was already interested in learning my world capitals.

Like many people living in today’s high tech society, I have more than one email account. My newest email is the very one I created to receive any potential feedback concerning this column. For some reason, I imagined hordes of angry people taking a few minutes to anonymously tell me what a horrible writer I am, but so far that hasn’t happened.

Because my email filter is set to “high,” I have to comb through my junk file every so often to search for mislabeled friendly mail. In doing this, I have discovered that I receive a large quantity of scam email with the majority requesting that I correspond with some fortuitous, if not slightly shady, bank auditor who accidentally stumbled upon millions of dollars while combing through the records of some poorly run financial institution in Ouagadougou. This trustworthy guy or gal wants to share the wealth with me because they can’t get all that money out of the country without my help.

ME! Here in Highlands County, Florida! Astonishing.

Now here’s the kicker: the only requirement of me is that I send them every last piece of personal information including my American bank account number because, you know, they have to wire all that money somewhere.

Sometimes, I actually want to send it just to let them be disappointed to find that my personal checking account at Bank of America has a whopping $0.24 in it. No, that is not a misplaced decimal. I long to see the look on Manila Mohamed Hassan M. Nur’s face when he drains my account dry. What would he spend his fortune on? If he could borrow a penny, he’d have a quarter, provided that the bank didn’t charge a withdrawal fee.

In another email from Mis Ehivet Kafoumba, she writes: “Hello Dear, How are you doing? Hope fine. Im Mis ehivet” (Note: all spelling and punctuation are hers). There is also something posted at the bottom, but it is in another language so I’m afraid to share it because it might mean something offensive about gullible Americans. If I emailed her back, I’m sure I’d get the bank auditing story all over again.

Miss Joy Kipkalya Kones of Kenya has recently lost her father in a plane accident. Her wicked step mother has taken all the inheritance except for her father’s briefcase that she “fined.” In his briefcase was a deposit slip for eight and a half million United States dollars which was placed in a bank in, guess where! Burkina Faso! Her name is listed as “next of skin.”

Joy is not only looking for someone to help her get all that money, but also needs a husband. I get a surprising amount of junk email from people who think I’m a man.

Lately, I have also been receiving several emails that appear to be written in Mandarin Chinese, but I have no hope of deciphering them.

Today’s column has been a public service announcement. Please don’t open or respond to those emails. The only reason they are sent is because they have worked at least once. You’re better off keeping your hard-earned money stuffed in your mattress.

And now for something totally different

For the people who read my weekly column, you know that I tend to share every minor detail of my life. This week is no different, but I’ll warn you now that there is not as much humor in this story as there usually is.

Early Saturday morning, while still sleeping, I had a seizure that lasted about ten minutes. Though I don’t remember the episode, I’ll never forget when I gained consciousness and saw the concerned look on my husband’s face. He was telling me crazy stuff about calling an ambulance and asking me what day it was.

My son had a seizure when he was four years old, so I had an idea what had happened to me, including the cloudy haze my mind was struggling to overcome. I’ve always been pretty healthy despite all of my hard work packing on extra pounds, you know, for a caloric reserve in case Florida gets hit with some kind of freak blizzard.

It didn’t matter how uncooperative my brain was acting, I knew for certain that, though the EMT personnel were top notch, I was not going to set foot in their ambulance so I could later receive a bill reflecting the most high-cost fare in town just to go a mere five miles.

My husband loaded the kids and me into the family car and drove us to Florida Hospital where I received excellent care that began in the Emergency Department and ended in a room on the 2^nd floor where my fellow students and I attend our clinical rotations.

Being a nursing student-turned-patient was a surreal experience. I was attended to by several nurses who were grads of the very program at SFCC that I am currently enrolled.

The bad news came when I met with the neurologist. I had my “Medical-Surgical Nursing” text book from home (I wasn’t going to let a seizure keep me from studying) and had already researched the topic to discover that, since June, I have been having what are called “focal seizures.” These minute-long brain hiccups always involved a phantom smell followed by a wave of nausea.

The neurologist confirmed what I had read and informed me that the big seizure that morning was one my brain couldn’t stop.

My life is taking a slightly altered course for a while in that I will be on anti-seizure medication, maybe for the rest of my life, and I cannot drive for six months! When he said I couldn’t drive was when I started crying like a baby. For some reason, this seemed worse than having to take drugs to survive.

During my three day stay at the hospital, I received several phone calls and visitors wishing me the best. One of my teachers, Mrs. Greenwald, said that many of my classmates were already volunteering to drive me wherever I needed to go and actually started a sign-up list so that “Driving Miss Damara” could be shared amongst them.

I cannot express how my heart swelled to know how much people really care about me. Sometimes, life feels a bit lonely and then something like this happens to put it all back into perspective.

My daughter drew me lots of pictures and both the children made sure to snuggle with me a little extra. My husband is my hero and I thank God for him and all the other wonderful people in my life. I don’t think I’ll ever allow myself to feel lonely or ungrateful again.

An annoying person's pet peeves

In honor of Andy Rooney’s retirement from “60 Minutes,” I have decided to expose my inner crotchety old woman and share a short list of my pet peeves. The fact that I have a list should suffice as homage to Mr. Rooney.

1). People who talk in movies. My brother used to do this when he was a kid. He’d loudly discuss what just happened as if the rest of us didn’t see the exact same scene at the exact same time he did. It was almost like he felt we required an explanation because our tender minds couldn’t possibly comprehend a simple movie plot on its own. It was so torturous, that I had to sit several rows away from him.

Genetics is a cruel and complicated subject in that, somehow, my brother’s most bothersome childhood behaviors have resurfaced in my own son. You almost have to be cruel to get the boy to keep his mouth shut during a television show. He even laughs like my brother. God loves a good joke; particularly the kind that plays out over many years with a punch line that is seldom appreciated.

2). The drop-off loop at the elementary school. This is where parents part with their precious children for the day. I embrace the moment that I can relish in a little exile from my kids, but it would seem that some parents feel the loop is the perfect place to engage in excessive conversation!

I’d like to invent a type of ejection system that would assist my children in exiting the vehicle faster; something that I’d have to barely reduce my speed to accomplish. The loop is not the place for long goodbyes or for writing that lunch money check. There is an ideal area that you could effectively utilize called a parking space.

3). People who complain about everything. These are the folks who see the world through brown-tinged spectacles. If you comment on how nice the weather is, they respond, “Yeah, if it weren’t for the bright sun and cool breeze!” When you say “Happy birthday,” they inevitably retort, “What’s so great about it? I’m just another day closer to death.” I’m not sure how these people survived long enough to complain so much, but I am positive that their existence serves some weird universe-balancing purpose.

4). People who use their cell phones everywhere. I used to waitress and one of the rudest behaviors that a customer could execute was to wave you over only to answer their cell and disregard your presence. It is bad enough that the people around them are forced to overhear the trials and tribulations of a perfect stranger’s life. Though I love the flexibility of having a mobile connection device, I sometimes miss the days when a person had to be at home to receive a phone call. There was a freedom to it that today’s youth could never understand.

5). The methodical murder of the English language. I text quite a bit because it saves me from having to talk on the phone, hence, getting my ear all sweaty, but I possess a strong belief that numbers should never take the place of words. There is a distinct difference between “to” and “too,” neither of which should be substituted by “2” (unless you are the artist formerly known as Prince in search of a title for your new album).

Retire well, Mr. Rooney. There are many of us who will attempt to carry your torch in order to illuminate that which is ridiculous. Your legacy shall survive and flourish.

Learning to live with tone deafness

“She has the voice of an angel” is a comment that will never grace my ears unless I happen to be lurking nearby someone else who is the intended recipient. I have the voice of a buffalo with a nasty cold which means that I’m always irrationally jealous of people who have an innate ability to sing well. I once considered voice lessons, but I have come to truly believe there are just people in the world who need to fulfill the role of listener.

I first realized that my voice had an undesirable quality to it when I was in elementary school. I was one of those kids with a speech impediment specifically concerning the letter “R.” For some reason, the speech therapist thought it would be helpful if I could hear myself talking wrong so she stuck this contraption on my noggin which I can only describe as a carved-out, plastic-shelled headset. When I talked, the sound of my improperly pronounced words carried to my own ears.

Intelligent is not a word I would have used to describe my voice. From my perspective, I sounded like a cross between Eeyore and Chewbacca. This did nothing to help with my already low self-esteem and, instead, catapulted me into a bout of chronic shyness.

You can’t keep a cap on an active geyser forever and, by the time I entered the sixth grade, I began to emerge from my shell. On one particular occasion, my friend, Leilani, and I decided to loudly belt out a popular 80s tune on the school bus at approximately 7:15 am. People are generally not ready for impromptu a cappella performances that early in the morning. Unfortunate for us, our rendition of the Beastie Boys’ “Paul Revere” captured the attention of the neighborhood bully who threatened to beat us up if we didn’t stop. I suppose music appreciation was not something she practiced with any degree of regularity.

Though I tackled and overcame my “R” problem, my singing voice never did mature. I restricted my faulty pipes to the shower and the car until I discovered the liberating bliss of karaoke.

Originally, I was known to be highly opinionated about people singing karaoke and frequently discussed the possibility of carrying a license for the privilege, but then I realized that singing can be so much more fun if you change the style of the song. My breakout performance was a punk rendition of the “Gilligan’s Island” theme song. Since then, I have perfected a twangy Southern song voice along with the ability to play a mean air guitar.

Though I’m no stranger to public humiliation, I just can’t bring myself to destroy the beautiful sound of our congregation singing together at church. Most of the time, I barely whisper the hymns unless I have one or two empty rows in front of me.

In addition to my inability to carry a tune in a bucket, I also sound mannish, especially on the phone. When I worked in accounts receivable, people would call and ask to speak to the gentleman they had just been talking with about their bill.

Sometimes, customers would say “Yes, sir” and then I’d have to embarrass them with the correction of my gender, but they could never disguise the surprise in their voice. I wouldn’t even bother correcting a few people as long as they paid their account in full.

Like many who are destined to have a face for radio, I suppose I possess a voice for print. Not a bad trade if you ask me.

My nursing school family

Nursing school is back in full swing which means that the 2^nd year students are being unleashed upon the area hospitals so we can practice on patients, instead of mannequins, all the procedures and information that we’ve been methodically cataloging in our mental file cabinets.

One of the perks in choosing nursing as a career is that, if you are motivated, you can pretty much pick whichever area you feel a passion towards. There are a few of my fellow students who are being pulled in the direction of pediatrics, a couple who are fascinated by wound care, some very special individuals who want to work in hospice, several ER addicts, and one who seems to want to scope any available orifice. As for myself; I love the heart and everything cardiac-related never ceases to amaze me.

My first clinical experience of the school year will be located in a pediatric unit at a hospital outside of my Highlands County home. I must say that I am suffering some serious trepidation about being in this particular nursing environment because taking care of sick and injured children requires a different type of preparation in one’s mind.

As much as I claim that kids are clingy little germ spreaders, I secretly adore them and can’t help but wonder if this is an area of medical care that will force me to face the biggest challenge yet in my educational journey.

The only thing possibly more daunting than sick children is the fact that my classmates and I have to endure each other for one more year. We are like a family; we didn’t get to pick each other and, similar to many families, we are dysfunctional at the core.

All in all, we actually get along fairly well together which a good thing is considering the fact that I get to share a hotel room with three of my “sisters” this week. The last time I had a roommate was in Tallahassee with my friend, Amy. Girls get all weird and goofy when we’re alone and frequently fall into fits of uncontrollable giggles.

At one point, Amy and I were on separate beds, no more than five feet apart, commenting on each other’s Facebook posts and finding it all quite hysterical. I don’t think that scenario could be recreated if we tried, but knowing us, we could probably go crazy with a couple of soup cans attached by a string.

The rest of this semester will be filled with local clinical adventures, a lot of exams, some volunteer opportunities, and pretending that my home finances will hold up until I get a job.

Also, I am now the official President of the Student Nurses’ Association which should lead to some interesting and unique opportunities for embarrassment due to the fact that possession of said title means that I will be forced into giving too many speeches in front of an uncomfortable amount of people. I’ve already executed a couple of oratory performances and I must say that the nervous effect it has on me is not yet reduced by the number of times I’ve done it.

From what I can tell, nursing seems to be full of challenging experiences, unlimited opportunities, and of continually being forced outside of our comfort zones. In my immediate future, I’m going to clear my head and work on bringing a smile to a hospitalized child’s face. If I accomplish that, the rest should be a walk in the park.

Sibling rites of passage

Growing up, I spent almost every school break with my mom on a cattle ranch just outside the city limits of Avon Park. My older brother, Jerry, and I wasted countless hours roaming through the pastures, climbing trees, playing with cars and riding his Shetland pony, Cricket, all over the place.

Some of our pastimes were questionable in nature, including those spent fighting, armed with anything from sand spurs to dried cow patties. All of these altercations were, of course, initiated by Jerry because I would never have thought to utilize these nefarious devices on another person without his influence.

One of our more disturbing games was “bug dungeon.” We’d turn over rotted logs and catch whatever species of insect we thought could be contained in our hand-dug dirt pit. With its rhinoceros-looking horns, our prized catch was the ox beetle. For some reason, every time we found one, my brother immediately named it “J.R.” which, I suppose, originated from the T.V. show, “Dallas.”

On one summer break when I was around 8 years old, Jerry showed me the crowned jewel of nightmarish creepy, crawling discoveries: a large population of banana spiders (a.k.a. Golden Orb Weavers) thriving in a stand of palm trees. If you’ve never had the opportunity to see one of these monstrosities, count yourself lucky.

For those with weak constitutions concerning arachnids, I’m sorry to say that their leg span surpasses that of a large person’s hand and they have the audacity to grow prickly, black hair around the joints of their appendages, like some type of hell-spun leg warmers. Their golden abdomens, speckled with white splotches, are too large for comfort while their heads have a white coating that makes it look eerily like a human skull.

The weaver’s webs are so strong, they can catch small birds. Make no mistake, if these suckers were any bigger, they’d find a way to take over the world.

Our previous attempts to trap spiders in the bug dungeon were unsuccessful, but Jerry had another, really stupid idea for the Golden Orb Weaver. He thought our tree house could use a little sprucing up and decided to transport several of these menacing spiders.

I was the containment unit and he was the catcher. My red Salvation Army shirt with my name stenciled on the back was fashioned into a make-shift pouch by folding up the bottom half to hold tightly against my body. Jerry would grab a spider and I’d snap open the pouch as he dropped it in. I could feel their spiky legs poking me in the stomach and managed to hold it together until, all of a sudden, something foreign (which I later discovered to be a loose string) brushed across my upper thigh.

My nerves sent an impulse to my brain that said, “Hey, smarty pants, one of those death spiders is crawling down your leg at this very moment!” I panicked. The pouch was flung open and, as I was hopping around screaming, I batted my arms in a downward fashion hoping to sweep away any persistent spider still clinging to me.

Jerry’s initial disappointment in me didn’t stop him from accomplishing his goal and the tree house in which we used to play soon became an obstacle of horror packed with dozens of spiders watching us with scores of beady, black eyes.

To this day, I still have nightmares about overgrown Golden Orb Weavers coming to get me. Big brother’s mission accomplished.

A new school year brings new challenges

Last week, my family returned to school. I began my last year of the nursing program, my husband is taking more classes towards his degree, my son entered the 5^th grade and my daughter started kindergarten. This makes my house officially “homework central” so please don’t come over unless you want to help fold laundry.

My husband and I exhibited good behavior in our classes, but my son and daughter had a few tricks up their sleeves that were revealed on the fourth day. It appears that most elementary teachers are generous enough to give children a 3 day “free pass” on their actions. This would explain the positive comments in both of their daily reports.

My son is a talker and I was already anticipating that this issue would be addressed before too long. He’s in the HAART program and maintains high grades, but, like his mom, he has a difficult time cutting off the chatter when he’s on a role. Fortunately, minimal time and energy was expelled in the correction of his motor mouth tendencies.

My daughter, otherwise known as the “X” factor, had her own agenda. Her daily reports are based on a color system: green means satisfactory, yellow stands for warning and red represents the implementation of a time out.

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday were all green days, but by Thursday, her cooperation level dropped and she began talking back which earned her a yellow warning. I discussed the importance of respect for one’s elders, but this had little effect because she dipped into the red zone on Friday complete with a phone call to my husband.

We decided a behavior chart would be an appropriate method of addressing both children’s issues so I picked up some cheap toys and put them in a container. Every day there are no teacher complaints, they each get to put a sticker on the chart. Once all five weekdays are filled, they get to choose a toy. Both displayed enthusiasm and excitement over this possibility and eagerly debated on which toy they’d pick first.

This week began well for both, but it would appear that 3 days is just too long to be good. While my son was busy not staying on task, my little girl was given green marks by her teacher, but in aftercare, she had an altercation with another child. Not content to resolve their problems with an adult, my daughter decided that biting was well within reason and left a mark on the other child’s arm.

I’ve never seen such an abundant flow of manufactured tears as I did from this child when I picked her up. She sobbed her way to the car and was sent to her room when we arrived home where she promptly fell asleep. Playing “Jaws” is pretty exhausting work.

When my husband got home and heard the report, he asked her to tell him what happened. Though she can’t normally contain her usual ear-blasting conversation level, she managed to whisper a barely audible translation of events that included a game of tag gone wrong and being bothered by this other child whom I have come to think of as “the victim.”

No rewards this week.

Kindergarten is a big adjustment for some kids. My own memories are hazy at best and involve finger painting and dressing as the letter “U” for parent night. I can only hope this is a phase that will pass. In the meantime, steel mesh uniforms might not be a bad idea.