"Life is not about weathering the storm, but learning how to dance in the rain"

I mentioned the artwork on the walls at St Jude Children's Research Hospital, and how it touches your core. I saw this quote on a girl, let's call her Maria's artwork, and it just seemed to sum the day up.
We climbed on the bus and headed to the hospital for the second day of volunteering. This day was our big day, crafts in the morning and a performance at lunch. I had been schooled on gimp by the kids, and was practicing my way to early arthritis.
We entered the hospital and went right to the assigned areas. Tables were set up, overhead announcements were made. The kids and their parents started coming over, ready to do crafts with the "kids" on the team. Some had masks on,some had hats on, some didn't speak English, some didn't feel like speaking at all. Some where wheeled over to us in their red wagons, and some pulled their siblings along behind them. Even though some didn't feel so great, they came over and brightened up our time there.
We were gimping along until and a brother and sister bounded up to the table. We'll call them Rick and Carla, not their real names, but their endless energy made us immediately smile. Their parents in tow, Rick and Carla settled into their seats and immediately started to gimp.
"I want these colors" Rick said to me, picking out orange and blue. I started to get them ready, but he and Carla decided that this type of gimping was far too laborious and the gimp would be better used to tie up Steve to his chair. The roll of gimp (blue of course) rolled around and around one way, while the roll of orange gimp went the other. Steve was snugly tied to his chair, while passerby patients and their families laughed. Carla had been hoarding princess stickers from her blood draws and decided that Steve would look much better with each princess tattooed on his head.
"What time is the show?" Rick and Carla's mom asked. She wanted to call the oncology clinic to let them know Carla would be late. She really wanted to see the show.
It was time for the performance team to go on, and as we moved the tables and chairs and set up the folding chairs, we noticed Rick and Carla up with the kids on the team. They were teaching them some "moves" and they were both picking them up pretty quickly. Rick and Carla's mom and dad were in the back, watching their children interact with the team. The chairs filled up, and the music started. Rick and Carla stayed with the team, mimicking their moves a beat behind. They were not going to sit down. I looked back and saw their mom crying a bit, possibly happiness at the moment of normalcy afforded her children. The performance concluded, just as one girl in a wheelchair came up and asked if they could do it again, she wanted to see it.
"Of course" Sherri said.
Again the music started, the crowd didn't move from their chairs. I noticed that there were several parents glancing at their watches, and then something weird happened. The oncologists and oncology nurses started to gather around, realizing that the children were not at their appointments, they were watching the kids dance. Rick and Carla's oncologist came out, with a big smile watching her two friends dance, and gave them a wave. Carla ran over and gave her a big hug, the doctor hugged her back, but encouraged her back up to dance with the performance team.
"Go dance!" Carla's oncologist encouraged.
"Do they take dance classes?" We asked their father.
"No, but I think they should!" he answered, laughing.
The last song came on, and the kids came up and joined in with the team. Some in wheelchairs just moving back and forth, some bouncing up and down. All were smiling, all, for that moment, were not just weathering the storm, but learning how to dance in the rain.

Memories of St. Jude

I didn't want to go. It sounded like a great idea in February, and I signed up, got the time off, bought the plane tickets and mentally prepared for the trip. Or so I thought.
In reality, there is no mentally preparing for this trip, and I was scared. Scared I would cry, scared that all the healthcare training in the world wasn't going to suppress any visceral emotion expressed when seeing a sick child. I used to be strong, then I became a mom. Now I cry when they do the routine with my son to put the heart in the just stuffed Build a Bear.
It wasn't that I didn't want to go and volunteer, taking advantage of an amazing opportunity,I was just scared. We arrived on a Wednesday afternoon, our first day of volunteering would start on Thursday.
Memphis was hot, humid and green. Some streets were alive,some vacant, alternating well kept yards with abandoned housing. A confusing landscape. I had lived in Nashville, but I didn't understand this city. It had the laid back southern charm, wafting aroma of spicy BBQ sauce emanating from the opening and closing restaurant doors, and a wide variety of the cobblers I never do see up north.
I was exhausted, and crashed fairly early that night with my four new room mates. None had fur and a heavy sleep apnea snore that jolted me awake nightly like the usual four legged cover-hoggers I bunk with, but they did tell me I snored, loudly. I was mortified.
After rushed shower, crappy in room coffee, and climbing into my St Jude Performance Team uniform, we met for breakfast Thursday morning before heading to the hospital in the shuttle bus. I mentally reviewed the guidelines for visiting the hospital, and reminded myself how to be respectful of the culture they have created. We were all pretty quiet on the bus, some nervous chatter here and there, but overall this new experience was overwhelming.
I saw the hospital as we turned the corner. There it was, St Jude Children's Research Hospital. We went through the gates and to the front entrance where we were met by the public affairs coordinator and official photographer to take our group picture before going in. We were led in, single file. I was afraid to look anywhere, but when I did, I was met by smiles. Everyone smiled kindly. That probably sounds strange, to describe a smile, but it was the first word that came to my mind. Everyone that worked there didn't fake their smile, they weren't patronizing, they weren't Disney-happy, they were kind. We toured the buildings, learned even more about this amazing place, rubbed the nose of the statue of Danny Thomas, and did the first of several performances to a handful of children and a lot of employees.
The walls at St Jude are adorned. Seasons surrounding the children in wall murals. We saw the artwork of the children who had been patients at St Jude, some amazing talent. We saw the ABC's of cancer, some made us laugh, some made us marvel at the strength that a child can have, and some made us choke back tears. I know I came home that night completely exhausted, more emotionally than physically. I knew, at that point, the experience was completely worth it.

I have

have been an elevator that smelled like the inside of a gerbil cage

I have found a memorial picture of someone who died young, on the ground in a parking lot. I put him on a mailbox and hoped he was found.

gone into the wrong office, but did the interview anyway.

had a doctor's dog vomit on my suit jacket. I shouldn't have picked her up.

eaten supermarket sushi in my car, it wasn't too bad!

not blind cc'd anyone on an email since I left that other wretched place!

worked the morning in my pajamas and taken a shower during my lunch break.

Just gotten lost once and awhile, even though I had my GPS.

Sworn that my GPS is insane sometimes

The hand sanitzer

Entering into a physician's office to visit, and encourage them to use your services can be a daunting task. Competition amongst hospitals for similar services can sometimes lead to people being rude. You just have to roll with it.
This office was located in a building with many other offices, all on my visit list. Yes, you guessed it, the sheer concentration of offices meant it was affiliated with a hospital, and not the one I was representing. I have to confess, opening all the doors to these offices sometimes makes your hands feel like they literally have a glove on, a glove of germs, disease and dirt. It is a bit gross.
I walked in to one of the offices, and caught the attention of the office manager. I also noticed a nice big plastic container of hand sanitizer.
'Sweet' I thought. 'I can clean my hands'
I briefly chatted about my services, provided our brochure and asked, "Do you mind if I use your hand sanitizer"
"Go right ahead!" She answered.
Apparently, when the dispenser is not properly cleaned, hand sanitizer forms a crust around the edge. These deposits of hard hand sanitizer, can drastically change the direction of the product once pumped. Who knew? Not me!
I pressed down on the hand sanitizer, hoping for a good amount, and it came out, skyward, not even giving me a chance to duck. It sprayed directly into my hair. I had a huge blob of hand sanitizer in my hair.
The office manager looked at me, handed me a kleenex and burst out laughing. I started laughing too, I mean, what else could I do? I tried to expertly dab the hand sanitizer off with the kleenex, and snuck out of the office.

Working from home...

Working from home, seemingly a situation anyone would envy, does have its challenges. Nothing I could have forseen, but definately something I didn't think through.
Fortified and reasonably peppy on Friday morning by my recently curb-acquired leather desk chair, I looked forward to the day of paperwork ahead. My husband not in bed was not unusual, as he normally went for a run or to the gym in the morning. However, my normal morning routine seemed amiss, specifically the lack of coffee he so kindly brings me in the morning. Ambling in, disheveled and a bit green, he stated,
"I'm not going to work."
"Whats up?" I asked. Knowing my son had come home sick after vomiting a few days before.
"I feel nauseous, have been up all night".
I suspected the worst. I would have to get my own coffee.
After driving my son to school, I began delving into the paperwork sitting in my comfy new chair. Unfortunately, I didn't stay in one place very long, the phone rang and I had to go out to an account and straighten things out. Following several impromptu meetings, I made my way back home. Not hearing much from my husband was encouraging, seems he was sleeping the nasty virus off.
Again, the phone rang, My boss.
"How did it go today?" She asked
"Fine, I met with the one doctor and.." I trailed off, hearing loudly from two rooms away, "blllleeeeaaaack" My husband vomiting violently.
I ignored it. Maybe she didn't hear it.
"I think the next step will be" I continued
"BBBLLLEEEEEAAAACCCK" again. More vomiting. Did she hear?
"Ummm." she intervened. "Is that your husband.... Vomiting?" She asked.
Paralyzed with the uniqueness of the situation. Not sure how to handle this, because if I were in the office, my vomiting husband would certainly not be there with me. Not sure if I should go check on him, or continue with this conversation.
"Yeah, I think so. You can hear that? He is three rooms away." My best effort.
"EEEWWWWW, I think I am going to get sick."
Fabulous. We continued the conversation as my husband discontinued the vomiting.
Later that evening, sitting on the couch, feeling a little better, he said,
"I think I grossed your boss out. That was pretty bad."
'Yeah' I thought, 'it was".

That fine line

"There is, in fact, a fine line between having fun and being disciplined," I thought, sitting in the rather uncomfortable black metal chairs tucked against the periwinkle blue walls of the Karate studio.
We arrived at the conclusion that Karate would be a good sport for our five year old to teach discipline, patience and good character. Baseball,after all, didn't start until the spring.
Karate seemed like a good fit after an unfortunate trip to the principals office. We were called for a parent, principal, teacher meeting to discuss the pattern of behavior over last two weeks.
It was raining, it was November, and my husband and I were awaiting our scheduled meeting. 8:20, A time that made sense only in school systems and hospitals, that would "give us time to grab a cup of coffee after drop off." Apparently, other parents can eat at times such as this.
"In all my years of school, I NEVER went to the principals office." I yelled into the back seat of the car over the soundtrack of High School Musical 1.
My husband drove quietly toward the school.
I worried that he could get "kicked out" of Kindergarten. Was that even possible?
I thought back to the incidents stemmed from circumstances relating to that fine line.
"Why did you stand on top of the art table?" I had asked.
"To be funny, I was trying to be funny" he insisted. That was strike one.
Of course, he got the reaction from his peers, and the attention of the principal, whom he had a "chat with" and apparently enjoyed.
"Why did you push the girl in your class." I asked.
"She was in my way, and I got to go to the principals office." He answered candidly.
Hmmm. 'Got to go to the principals office' wasn't in my vocabulary at that age.
Strike three, well, I won't go into the details, but it involved a pencil and an arm that was apparently, 'in his way'.
It was 8:20 and we sunk into the armed chairs next to the glass-fronted beverage fridge stuffed with Red Bull.
"What is going on?" his teacher asked, seemingly as shocked at the radical behavior change as we were.
Back and forth, we discussed home life, school life, during which time the principal was quiet, weighing the situation.
"I think" he finally said, "his behavior is related to the attention he gets, positive or negative."
And we flipped it upside down. Attention for positive, not so much for negative, which worked.
I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair at Karate, where my son was randomly falling down and not getting into formation quickly enough. The teacher was joking with him, unknowingly goading him on. I tried to avoid the hostile stare of one woman whose much younger son had perfected attentiveness, intimating that my son was disrupting class.
He was.
I thought about that fine line between having fun, and needing to be disciplined. How do you discuss that with a five year old? Because frankly, like the rest of us, he is still finding his way.

Could You?

"Could you ever go without sugar?" my patient asked me intently, "For the rest of your life?"
Reflecting on my disappointment that my poptart for breakfast was without frosting, and thinking about the tropical fruit skittles in my drawer, I wasn't sure how to answer. After all, the session was about her, not me.
Waiting through an awkward silence that didn't seem to go away, I finally answered.
"I guess not."
She sat back, happy with herself that she elicited the answer and it wasn't so far from her own truth.
Squirming uncomfortably in my chair, I glanced nervously at the diet coke. I hoped she wouldn't notice.

Transition

Transitioning from Daycare to Kindergarten for parents is like walking the tightrope without a net. Daycare was always there, except for the random staff development day typically associated with a three day weekend, normally easily planned. Many mistake the emotional lability with the reality that your child is growing up. My take on it, however, is that I am emotionally labile, tearful in fact, because I now have to navigate things like 'early release' and a "full day" that begins at 8:15 and ends at 2:20. Hardly enough time for me to practically "get" to work. On top of all these, we now must deal with things like voting days, oddly celebrated holidays, and vacations when it is so freakin cold going anywhere is essentially insane. For stay at home moms, I would love to believe the tears are actually those of joy, as I did stay home for a bit and enjoyed my personal time. Kindergarten starts tommorrow, but my transition week can be marked by a few related events.

Social skills development:
Going to the same beach over the last few years has afforded us the opportunity to meet some new friends. Oddly enough, one that is in my son's kindergarten class. He greeted his new friend, Lizzie, by spitting out his grape juice and acting like a complete goofball. Though he didnt impress Lizzie, her two year old sister was dually impressed. We didn't see much of the family after that encounter.

Fashion forward (or backward):
Preparing for the first impression at the new school(for me, not him!) was at the forefront of my mind. So much so, I carefully coordinated my red and white T shirt, Red Crocs and white shorts. Looking in the mirror to dry my hair I noticed my shoulder looked slighly odd. Looking more closely I realized that I had my shirt on inside out. Luckily, I had on "invisible" deoderant.

The frustration of Information gathering:
We entered school for Kindergarten testing, I was ushered to a small table and chairs, provided with a large folder of paperwork, and confronted by Miss Abby who would be testing my son. I rapidly explained his hearing loss in one of his ears, but didnt have time to relate his udder confusion between a "skip" and a "gallop". I proceeded to fill out the same card with the same information three times, and provided the same information on other sheets of paper. Another mother, entering in after me, remarked to the teacher, "there was less paperwork for graduate school!"
Trying to remember who my third back up emergency contact was, as well as our dentists phone number, I paused and skeptically thought, "I get it,you went to grad school."


The awkwardness of Good Bye
He missed the last day of school because a high fever and cold, which he has since generously shared with all of the family. We did promise he could return to daycare and say goodbye,thinking closure would be good for him, but I didn't think of how I would react. We entered daycare, and he hugged his teachers, went right to the play yard and blended in with his friends, holding court on the top of the slide. The director asked him if he would work there as a teenager, and after careful debate as to whether it would affect his budding career as a chemist, he accepted the position. I stood against the wall, hugging his teachers, saying thanks, and blubbering like a baby. After all, I was never good at goodbye, better at just walking away and not dealing. I attempted to put on my sun glasses but tears sneaked out from under. I amused myself watching Jasmine pour a bucket of sand over Charlie, and Theo manically grabbing the fence and crying, and 'the girls' near the fence ostracize or criticize another girl for trying to climb the fence, apparently a pre school faux pas. When it was time to go, he tried to blend into the line for lunch and I lured him with (of all things) a Dunkin Donut's personal pizza.
We turned around and walked out, as he happily waved good bye.

Label everything
I sit here looking at a back pack, picked out months ago, packed and ready for tommorrow. It's stuffed with items like clorox wipes, tissues, an art smock, and a shoe box with colored markers and pencils. We spent most of the night labeling it carefully. I am sure this is the last I will see of them, and come vacation, I will be back at Target scouring the racks for replacements. As hard as we try not to, we give everything a label from the beginning.

I just pray that tommorrow, he will be that well behaved kid I see, and the principal won't need that yellow card for his speed dial.

Car Porn

Driving around is a major part of my job, one that I have wrestled with from time to time. Sitting behind the wheel feels a bit different than sitting in the cube on the computer or answering phones. To combat the sometimes long drives and the tedious shorter drives, I have begun listening to books on tape. My new multi-tasking has enabled me to drive, listen to something intelligent, all while being able to still see the sights along the way.
I recently noticed a curious sight, mainly on pick-up trucks, sometimes SUVs. I noticed that these vehicles now have testicles hanging off the back of the trailer hitch. At first, I thought it might be some sort of apparatus that helped hook up a boat or trailer. After seeing several variations, I realized I was viewing down and dirty car porn. The mid-life crisis has evolved from a sports car to the mascularization of the pick-up truck.
I thought about it for a moment and contemplated a push-up bra for my head lights. I think it has already been done.