Sleepless In FNEJ

(Originally intended as merely a silly email for my sisters Ashley and Adrienne, I decided that this one might be blogworthy.)

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Yesterday at Madison Station Elementary School, the Reject All Tobacco (RAT) team made yet another one of their frequent rounds handing out magnets and showing our children photographs of various forms of cancer caused by cigarettes.

On a completely unrelated topic,in a futile attempt to coax my children into ingesting some form of meat, I prepared two meatloaves for supper.  As I took the dish out of the oven, my eldest child exclaimed, “ARE THOSE LUNGS?!”

Little did I know that in my mad dash to catch the shuttle bus, the very guts of my life were spilling out of my purse piece by piece.

I was late for yet another Mistletoe shift…the dreaded requirement each active member of the Junior League of Jackson must face on an annual basis.  I realize, of course, that the normal people thrive on the hulabaloo of the maddening crowd of shoppers…the merchants who offer goods too magnificent to resist…the Official Kickoff of the Official Season of Joy, Santa, and All Things Obnoxious.

But for the claustrophobic few of us doomed to toil in the shoulder-to-shoulder ocean of angst-ridden shoppers from miles around, Mistletoe Marketplace is simply a fantastic reason for as-needed anti-anxiety drugs.(Pharmaceuticals such as ativan, valium, xanax, and klonopin cross my mind briefly during this writing.  After all, a proper Junior Leaguer is required in the bylaws to keep her chill pills within an arm’s reach.)

As I boarded the shuttle, I glanced backward and saw in my tracks my daytimer, flapping madly in the cool November wind…photos of my children, my social security card, appointment cards, artwork made by my daughter, a picture of myself at the entrance to Disney’s Kilimanjaro Safari a couple of years ago, and of utmost importance, a ragged index card to which I refer on at least a weekly basis.

Briefly, I considered waving the whole lot off as a lost cause.  Having completely lost perspective, I mistakenly thought that being late for my Mistletoe shift was more important than running through the Coliseum parking lot chasing items of sentimental and/or actual value.  Luckily I was able to clear my thoughts enough to realize that, for one reason or another, I did NOT want my social security card blowing randomly through downtown Jackson.

The gentlemanly old shuttle-driver realized my conundrum and paused patiently for me as I scurried about picking up the odd bits and pieces of my life.  I boarded the bus breathless and felt for my cell phone, which of course, was not there.  I begged the old gentleman for mercy, and he obliged me.  I ran back to the minivan and grabbed my poor, beat-up pink Razr…my lifeline to my family from the midst of the multitudes.

Back on the shuttle en route to the Trade Mart, I sifted through the mess I’d chased down in the wind.  The artwork… made by my daughter last spring, on faded orange construction paper and tattered around the edges from being carried around and treasured by an adoring mother…second-grade handwriting so profound to me…”Nurses are great to our cummunity.  Nurses help when people are sick.  They save our lives.  They don’t give up.  I think nurses are great!”  I gently placed it back into its assigned spot in my daytimer.

Last year’s Christmas card picture of my children, all three in church clothes, with our mantle and five stockings in the background…eldest daughter looking perfect as usual, middle son with a huge impish grin, and baby girl standing, without explanation, in full-salute.   The bottom left corner was bent, but I didn’t care.  I placed it carefully in front of the Official Statement on Nurses.

A check from my mother; $53 to comp me for the Heelies I picked up for her to give my son for his birthday a couple of weeks ago, made out to me on 10/27/07.  I am horrible at putting in checks.  My parents fuss at me every time they give me one; due to my negligence they can’t balance their account to the penny.  It looked like I might have stepped on it, but  I tucked  it safely away.  Figure I’ll probably deposit it around Valentine’s Day.

A recent, yet-unused  prescription for chill pills.  Enough said.

A very worn-out index card given to me by a dear friend months ago when  I was experiencing some tough times.  Apparently he was too, because one day he simply walked up to me without saying a word, reached into the front pocket of his green scrubs, and handed me the card.  It was tattered then, as if he had been carrying it around for awhile, referring to it often for encouragement.

In typical doctor’s chicken scratch, it read, “Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance, and perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”   Given to me by a dear friend whose path I crossed for only a brief season of my life, I pondered that he would never know how profoundly his gesture of Christian love would affect me.  I’ve carried that ragged index card everywhere with me from the moment he gave it to me, and when the waters got choppy, I’ve retrieved it, read it, and re-read it, and remembered my dear friend.

The shuttle was comfortable, and it smelled new, and the driver talked cheerfully on his cell phone, occasionally erupting into raucous belly laughter.  I dreaded the crowd I faced inside the Trade Mart as I carefully tucked away my last piece of paper…a diet order sheet from the hospital from 6-Sep-07.  Scrawled on the back in my hurried handwriting was a quote from a Vietnam vet that I thought memorable enough to write down and keep with my other treasures…“Life is an adventure to be enjoyed, not a problem to be solved.”

Well put, old soldier. 

It was without a doubt one of the toughest decisions I had ever made, leaving the safe-haven of my beloved
Baptist hospital and accepting a nursing job at the VA Medical Center.  I prayed fervently, enlisted the advice of the people in my life whom I considered wise, and agonized over it for weeks.  I hoped deep down that God would close that door for me; despite what I thought I wanted, though, the good Lord only seemed to be opening it wider.

My friends at Baptist thought I’d finally flown over the cuckoo’s nest.  When I actually decided to make the change, I got similar reactions from almost everyone; puzzled looks of disbelief, jaws dropped to the ground, and comments like,”Ewwww!!  I can’t believe you’re gonna go work over there!” 

Admittedly there are plenty of preconceived notions in the community about VA hospitals in general.  People think it’s depressing, dirty, and that the staff there are aloof and inattentive.  The patients are often viewed as hopeless, wheelchair-bound men with incurable psychiatric problems.

A few physicians with whom I worked recounted their days there during residency with a shudder, insisting that they hated everything about the place.  But one day as I endured my daily dose of friendly beratement about my decision, a surgeon I worked with came to my aid.  Himself a veteran, Dr. Russell Rooks quieted the room when he turned to my group of coworkers and said in his serious-yet-gentle voice, “I believe our veterans deserve the best care.”

I suppose that remark pretty much sealed the deal for me.  I’d always respected him, not simply for his serious demeanor, commanding personality and a haircut you could set your watch to, but because I knew he had served our country, and that made him a hero in my eyes.

To that end, I started my new job in July.  My homesickness for Baptist was overwhelming.  Everything at the VA was unfamiliar; I didn’t know anyone…I couldn’t find anything…I was like a fish out of water. 

I thought I’d made a huge mistake.  I cried myself to sleep on more than a few occasions.  I just wanted to go back home to my old job, where my friends were… where I was comfortable.  I wondered why God had led me to this place that felt like another planet.  But I hung in there.  I was convinced I was going to do it, and I jumped in feetfirst.  And I daresay that as of this writing, the pleasure has been all mine. 

Initially it was shocking to see so many men with such life-altering problems brought on by things they had experienced while protecting our freedom; vets with cancer caused by exposure to Agent Orange…men with severe post-traumatic stress disorder…old World War II vets who yearned to share their stories with anyone with half a minute to listen to them.  I found myself both honored and fascinated to indulge them, yearning desperately to just pull up a chair and stay for hours…as long as they wanted to talk, and all the while ashamed of my lack of knowledge of history.

I see young men come in for clinic visits dressed in fatigues…twenty-somethings who have just returned from Iraq; they look like boys.  My heart nearly bursts with a desire to throw my arms around them and thank them tearfully for their sacrifice.  I restrain myself; they would probably think that was a little weird.  I manage a conservative, “I want to tell you that I appreciate what you’ve done for our country.”  They usually just smile and nod, probably a little embarrassed.

One vet told me recently that he shipped out to Vietnam as a photographer and ended up with a rifle in his hand.  His exposure to Agent Orange had left him with bladder cancer.  His stories were captivating and his zeal for life was absolutely contagious.    He told me of an anonymous inscription on the wall of his barracks at Kuason that read, “For those of us who fought for it, life is a special flavor the protected will never know.”

The husband and I recently took the kids to the beach-our beloved Redneck Riviera-over Labor Day weekend.  On the drive down, we had to make a pit stop at a convenience store near Camp Shelby.  A Hummer was parked out front, and inside were three very tall men in fatigues.  My five-year-old son whispered to me as we perused the candy aisle, “Mom.  I think I want to give those army men a high-five.”  I told him, “Jacob, that is a great idea.” 

I approached the intimidating-looking threesome with butterflies in my stomach, feeling very self-conscious.  “My son wants to give you a high-five to thank you for serving our country.”  The serious-looking men suddenly grinned, beaming with pride, and stooped down to my son’s level as he gave each one a heartfelt slap on the hand.  My heart swelled with pride, and I felt that on some level, my five-year-old son understood the reverence of the moment.  The three guys made their way back to their Humvee and I prayed that God would watch over them and keep them safe wherever they go.  It was a moment I’ll never forget.

One of my patients recently told me, “Life is an adventure to be enjoyed, not a problem to be solved.”  I never really thought much about Veteran’s Day, but this year I am honored to serve those who have served me.  Truly God has blessed me.

It’s five a.m. on Tuesday,

I have sleep lines on my face.

I have to get all made-up now,

And start today’s rat race.

My oldest child can’t find her jeans,

The baby’s got the trots.

The middle woke me up at one,

To pee but missed the pot. 

He slept with us from that point on,

In horizontal fashion.

I fought for sheet or comforter,

But none to me was rationed. 

I clung to edge of bed and woke,

At two, and three, and four.

And now it’s time for them to see,

Mom running out the door.

Scrubs, purse and pink warm-up fleece.

A bagel with cream cheese,

Prescription drugs to calm me down,

And make me feel at ease.

Washed down with ice cold chocolate milk,

They’ll kick in in a jiffy.

I thank the Lord for meds like these,

Without ‘em  I’d be iffy.

I kiss the kiddos  one, two, three.

Stool specimen in tow,

To take to Dr. Welch en route,

And off to work I go.

A golden blur my minivan,

100 K she reached,

Of melted crayons, stinky stains,

And white sand from the beach.

 I text my friend from 55,

To tell her I’ll be late,

I finish up my lip gloss,

Tell myself that I look great.

Three hours sleep and starbucks bold,

For what more could I ask?

I like job as supernurse,

I’m ready for the task.

Come home at night to sickly child,

And pumpkin carving time.

They’re late for bath and supper,

And it’s getting close to nine.

I draw my bath and take a look,

In nearby mirror I peer.

And much to my chagrin I find,

The crows feet are still there.

I bought expensive night cream,

From Clinique this past weekend.

Don’t really see much difference,

Just  a new zit on my chin.

The house is dirty, the laundry’s piled up,

It’s time to go to bed.

With sickly baby fast asleep,

I must go rest my head.

Perhaps less puffiness tomorrow,

Underneath my eyes.

Besides, who’s looking anyway?

Gon’ make some pumpkin pies.

It’s the Place to See and Be Seen in Fashionable Northeast Jackson. Broad Street Bakery. At any given moment of any given day, you can bump into scads of acquaintances, friends, local celebs, and even some people you can’t stand and would rather not see.

Apparently the pinnacle of existence for the VIP-Jackson crowd, the main draw of the Bakery is a pretentious atmosphere, sour waitstaff, an overpriced/nothing-special selection of food, and bad coffee.

Attire does not matter. You can go in dressed for work. You can go in dressed for church. You can wear your formal attire, or you can put on your baseball cap and come unshowered.

And after you get your boob job, and the swelling and bruising subside, you can even come sauntering down the stairs wearing next-to-nothing like you’re on the runway and turn all kinds of heads. Clean-cut businessmen, exhausted-looking med students, even-more-exhausted housewives, wide-eyed children, local pervs…I mean, who doesn’t enjoy an impromptu peepshow and a burned cup o’ joe around midmorning?!

However, as much as I disdain the whole scene,  there’s something about the place that keeps me coming back.  I’d maintain that it’s merely the cheese grits, which are a must-have for anyone who dares enter this Haven of High Society.

But I know better. It’s not the bowl of grits that draws me. It’s the sheer entertainment value of it all. To walk in and be utterly checked out from head to toe, then toe to head, by folks already sitting down eating. To get my own food and check out the other customers coming in.

To see people walk into Barnette’s, (a ridiculously expensive salon), and pay a hundred dollars for what Andy Griffith so aptly described as “a haircut that doesn’t look like a haircut.”

To sit outside Lemuria, a bookstore so incredibly uppity I don’t even dare darken the door. Why, the whole scene is like watching a movie, and all for the price of a croissant and a bowl of grits!

Yesterday as I stood at the counter awaiting my order, a short, stocky young man approached the cashier, cleared his throat, and announced loudly, “Uh, YES! I’d like FOUR KWA-SONT, please.”

I smirked and looked at my husband. “Who the hell pronounces it KWA-SONT?” I whispered, amused. “Where does he think he is, Paris?”

My husband whispered back, “Maybe he’s from New Orleans?”

Like it or not, folks, we’re right smack dab in the middle of Mississippi!  And the older I get, the more I appreciate the adage, “An ounce of pretention is worth a pound of manure.”

As I tiptoe into a dark, quiet house just after one in the morning, I’m greeted only by Jane and Belle, my two faithful canine companions.  Even they seem groggy, roused from a happy doggy slumber by Mommy coming in from a graveyard shift at the hospital.

I feel my way into the bedroom where the cadence of my husband’s snoring continues undisturbed by my arrival.  The dogs, now excited by my homecoming, pant loudly, jump up on the bed, and bark for rawhide treats.  My husband doesn’t budge.  Good thing it’s me and not an intruder.

I turn on the bathroom light and begin to run a hot bath. A note from my oldest daughter, Sarah, propped up on my countertop catches my eye; a detailed list of grievances committed by her younger brother Jacob in my absence, complete with an albeit rudimentary sketch of the poor sap crying loudly with his mouth wide open and ball-point representations of tears flying out all around his head.  “Dear Mom,” the caption read, “Jacob had a tantrum and he cried SO LOUD!!!”I laugh to myself; looks like old Jake must have had a pretty tough night. 

So goes it for the middle child, I hear.  “Hard row to hoe”, “no one cares for you a stitch”, and so on and so forth.

As the bathtub fills, I make my way into the kitchen to prepare my favorite toddy; a tall, ice-cold glass of milk with two heaping spoonfuls of Nesquick  powder; a treat for kids of all ages, and my favorite late-night drink.From my dimly-lit kitchen I see a spotlight pass my house slowly: it’s only Madison County Sheriff’s Deputy perusing my neighborhood during the wee hours as they so often do.  As I think my appreciation of their fastidiousness , I notice a rather battered gallon-sized Ziplock bag on the kitchen counter.

Upon closer inspection, I notice that the bag appears to contain a small Bible and a couple of folded pieces of paper. The first note is written in my daughter Sarah’s neatest third-grade, little-girl handwriting. It says, “Dear Mrs. Cooper, Jacob loves Jesus, God, Church, and the Bible.  His greatest treasure is his Bible.  His Bible was passed down by Dad.  It was his Dad’s birthday present.  He loves school!”  This note is signed in bold, neat, kindergarten-boy letters by a very proud Jacob Bartley.

I wonder what the exact meaning of it is, and then I read the other note, which is the assignment from the teacher.  It says, “Put your favorite treasure in this bag and return it to school tomorrow.”

This, of course, sets me to choking back tears. I have to swallow hard to get the chocolate milk past the lump in my throat.  I realize what an incredible blessing I’d just received from my sweet little babies…and babies they are no matter what they think. No matter how crazy life gets, or how many curve balls it throws your way; no matter how messy the house gets; no matter how badly the laundry piles up; no matter if the dog tinkles in the foyer…every single day of the world; no matter that the kids refuse to pick up after themselves and bicker incessantly; no matter that the baby colored the beautiful trim in your new house pink; no matter what ridiculous hours the hospital demands; no matter how exhausted you are when you’re actually off; no matter if you’re just living the typical rat race…this is what it boils down to.

That somehow, in some small way, you see that light begin to flicker in your children and you just hope with all your might that all your meager prayers and seemingly insignificant efforts to guide them and steer them in the right direction will somehow have an impact in teaching them what it all comes down to in the end.

“Our children, Lord, in faith and prayer,We now devote to Thee.Let them thy covenant mercies share,And Thy salvation see.”  

As the usual evening routine begins, all three children run wildly into the master bathroom and unashamedly strip down to absolute nakedness. I start the shower for the eldest and begin to draw the preferred lukewarm bath for the little two.

Clothes fly everywhere, landing all over the floor, the countertops, and even end up suspended from light fixtures. Shoes full of sand from various school playgrounds are dumped on my freshly-mopped floor…I sigh, defeated; I wonder why I bother trying to maintain a clean home.

The water roars into the bath, and the baby prances about naked singing her own rendition of ‘Wheels On the Bus’ at the top of her lungs. Children line up to tinkle as per protocol.

Eldest daughter gets there first. She quickly completes her transaction and suddenly is intrigued by the sight of her brother holding himself, jumping up and down on one foot, and asking her to hurry up. I see a light go on in her mind, and I notice how conveniently she tarries.

She realizes his predicament. She thinks. She ruminates. She plays with the toilet paper roll. Her brother petitions rather politely as he runs around in circles.

She looks up at the ceiling, then counts the tiles on the floor. She swings her legs and continues to sit. Her brother begs for mercy as if there’s only one loo in our house. She’s clearly not giving in.

I notice this battle of wills and I know whose side I’m on.

“Hey, buddy,” I muse as I sit on the side of the tub waiting to see how it’s all going to play out, “why don’t you just pee on her?”

And without further ado, he did.

She jumped up screaming, “MOOOOOOOOMMMMM!!! He DID it!!! EEEWWWWWWW!!!!!!”

Drama ensues. I tell her to get in the shower, and from now on, don’t stand in the way when a boy’s gotta go.

Hannah, (3), panicked and screaming wildly: “I CAN’T SEE WHEN I CLOSE MY EYES!!!!”

So it’s come this…the state of the state of my life…running through the grocery store at noon on Saturday…chucking items into my buggy completely oblivious of price…doesn’t matter as long as I can get enough food to sustain us for another week and get the heck out of dodge in time to feed the multitudes their usual Saturday lunch of hot dogs and Capri Sun.

I glance at my “one-cheeked” (my polite way of saying “half-assed”, a phrase which a conservative southern Presbyterian lady like myself ought not post on her blog) grocery list…a few items quickly scrawled on the back of a crumpled-up piece of junk mail…and make sure that I’ve got everything I came for.

I make my way to the register. A random old lady begins to follow me around, chatting nonsensically about first one thing and then another…how kids today (referring, of course, to me) are just so different than back in her day…how she used to get her hair done, buy her groceries, and send her kids to the movies all for under twenty dollars…how she doesn’t know how we make it financially in this day and age. I smile politely and manage a few fake laughs as I pay my $178 tab and wonder what the heck I just bought to run it up to such a ridiculous amount; after all, I was only “stopping in for a few things.”

I smile politely to the old lady and wish her a happy weekend. I try to scurry off, but much to my chagrin she follows me into the parking lot, to my car, and continues to talk to me even as I am loading my bags into the back of the minivan and pushing my empty buggy into the cart corral.

Astounded by my Florida license plate, we delve into another whole topic of conversation…yes ma’am, I had a wreck the other day, and this is my rental car…no ma’am, I’m not from Florida, I just had a wreck…no ma’am, it wasn’t my fault…yes ma’am, the other guy had good insurance…yes ma’am we’re all okay, there were no injuries…

And what do you do for a living, dear?

I’m a nurse.

And where do you work, dear?

I work at the VA.

And where are your children now, dear?

I’m not really sure right now, ma’am, they’re probably setting fire to my house or someone else’s, and frankly I’m just trying to figure out how to get the heck away from you…

(No, I didn’t really say that!)

As I pulled away, she was still standing there talking about how she moved from Sarasota, Florida to Tupelo to Madison, her husband is eighty, and he had a wreck too; seems he hit a parked car at a local Mexican restaurant and she doesn’t think they’ll get their car fixed this time, after all, it doesn’t really look all that bad, it’s hardly noticeable…

I think she’s probably still standing in the parking lot of the Madison Wal-Mart now, talking…talking…talking…