There

Once upon a time I decided that I wanted to become an EMT. So I did. It took me about 3 months and 5 phone calls to figure out what I needed to do, and in December 2001 I was officially certified. The training was a lot of fun, and very fascinating to me. I kept my textbook because I still find it interesting reading, and also because it was expensive, but mostly because I think it’s cool to have a book on my shelf that says Prehospital Emergency Care and displays a picture of a helicopter, fire truck, and ambulance all at the same scene.

The thing about emergency medical care (and probably every profession) is that there is a lot more to the daily operations than just the textbook procedures. It’s really good to know how to take a blood pressure, and know what it means. It’s certainly important to learn how to appropriately perform CPR. And it’s pretty much absolutely essential to memorize the indications for administering epinephrine. But when the 911 call comes in, it turns out that there is a lot more to responding than just the medicine. And so, my EMT instructor gave us what he called “practical advice for life” as part of every class. The stuff that’s not in the textbook, but is important to know. And he wasn’t kidding either. I didn’t realize important the practical advice for life was until I failed my first practical exam by losing “style points.” I didn’t even know that style points existed. But in his class they did, and they counted for a lot.

I walked into my exam room where the instructor explained that my patient had been the victim of a drive by shooting and received 2 gunshot wounds: one in the leg and one in the stomach. I somewhat dismissively said “Well that sounds like a bad day.” He gave me a chance to redeem myself, but I didn’t know that I needed redeeming, so when he asked “What?” I said with equal flippancy “That sounds kind of uncomfortable.” And right there I failed. Before I even approached the scene, or assessed the wounds, or controlled the bleeding, or administered oxygen, or made a decision about transportation (all of which I could have done perfectly). I failed the exam because I had disregarded the advice that one of the most important things an emergency responder can do for patients is validate them. Instead I had minimized the problem to a “bad day” and “kind of uncomfortable.”

Once I realized that style points did in fact exist, I did a lot better in the class. Most of the practical advice for life was not profound. Much of it was very entertaining. Although it has been years since I’ve really been anywhere near the emergency scene, I still recall the top 3 pieces of practical advice.

1)Always carry a pen.

2)Babies can be very slippery when they are first born. If you drop the baby…pick it up.

3)Never ever ever ever say “oops” or “uh-oh.” No matter what you do, no matter how badly you mess up, no matter what is going on, a patient should never hear you say anything that indicates something has gone afoul. It doesn't matter if the problem is painfully obvious. Even if you’re carrying a hiker down a mountain trail on a backboard and you drop him, and he goes tumbling down the mountainside- Never say “oops.” Instead say “there.”

I’m not sure why “there” is the word of choice, but it is.

I have generally been very pleased with my doctor. He has been very helpful, usually has good bedside manner, and I would recommend him to anyone that asked me about him. His medical training, although exponentially more thorough than my little foray into first aid, evidently did not include practical advice for life. I’m officially past my due date, and am exhibiting no signs of impending labor, so he sent me for an ultrasound to check on the growth of our baby. When the ultrasound tech handed him her report he offered a very surprised, and not reassuring, “Oh my!” This is not quite the same as “oops,” but not much better. Apparently, despite having very average sized parents, our baby is huge: potentially large enough to significantly complicate delivery. We are now scheduled for the soonest available induction. All of this information would perhaps have been much more welcome if it had been preceded by “there.”

New Job

I have taken up babysitting. This is also frequently referred to as substitute teaching. Substitute teaching is in no way similar to real teaching except that it occurs on a school campus.

Benefits

1. I don’t have to work every day. This is really convenient on days that I am sick.
2. I have no before or after school responsibilities. No bus duty, no lunchroom duty, no metal detector duty, no staff meetings, no lesson plans to submit, no papers to grade. When the kids leave, I leave.
   
3. I get to have a new specialty every day. In addition to History I have now “taught” Accounting, Chemistry, Psychology, Keyboarding, Economics, English, Algebra, Public Speaking, and Basketball. I do not think the PE teacher realized I was pregnant when she called me, but it was a week that I was feeling pretty good, so I went ahead and did it.
4. By far the most significant: No irate parents.

Drawbacks

1. It’s really really really boring. Sometimes the most difficult thing I have to do all day is stay awake. Having been a teacher I understand the wisdom in providing a self-directed assignment for the kids to work on, but as a substitute I sometimes wish I had more to do than take attendance and hand out worksheets.
2. The kids aren’t mine. Instead of knowing who just got a new haircut, and who’s trying out for the play, and who has been looking for an after school job, and who always writes in green pen, and who just moved in; I just have a list of names. The politely say “here” at the appropriate moment during attendance, and that’s about all I get out of them.
3. No lesson plans. It doesn’t matter if I have an awesome idea for teaching the stock market crash, or if I know a really great activity to introduce Pavlov’s theories. My job is to follow the provided lesson outline which is usually to take attendance, and hand out the worksheet. Or take attendance and start the video. Or take attendance and tell the kids what chapter to read in their textbooks.

The job is different, and the kids are also significantly different. Rural farming community kids in no way resemble their inner city counterparts. They are remarkably submissive. They come into class and sit down without being asked, and they follow directions without argument. I wondered how far this compliance would go, and one day I told them that I needed them to line up in alphabetical order by the second letter of their middle name. They did it incredibly quickly. Nobody asked “why?” None of them said, “This is stupid.” The whole class just jumped up and started asking each other how to spell their middle names. It made me laugh. Then I divided them into teams for basketball.

Dr. Visit

I have somehow become entirely conditioned to believe that visiting the doctor will make me feel better. I'm not sure how this happened. As I reflect on my experience with doctors I realize that such belief has received very little positive reinforcement. This is in no way a negative commentary on doctors. I know that their medical expertise and advice have led to my eventual recovery on multiple occasions. But, while it has never happened, I have come to believe that a trip to a doctor’s office will result in the immediate cessation of ailment.

My doctor has told me that he has done everything he can for me, that it is normal (and somehow healthy) for me to feel awful, and that pregnancy is supposed to be uncomfortable. Even still, when I am feeling particularly miserable, I find myself looking at the calendar and counting the days until my next doctor appointment and, despite my knowledge to the contrary, believing that it is a magical day on which I will suddenly feel better.

While not a single trip to an obstetrician has been able to fulfill my irrational belief, last month’s visit was at least somewhat vindicating. As we were sitting in the waiting room I mentioned to the Texan that our baby had the hiccups. He apparently had never heard of this before, and insisted that it couldn’t be true. Later, while the doctor was listening to the baby’s heartbeat he mentioned that the baby had hiccups. And while I still felt just as nauseated as I had when we arrived, I was thoroughly delighted to declare a professionally endorsed “I told you so.”

Pregnancy Questions

In the past few months I have spent quite a bit of time with 3 and 4 year olds. It has been a big change from spending my days with 15 and 16 year olds, but it has been fun. They are particularly fascinated by my pregnancy, and have asked some fun questions.


Abby: Why is your tummy huge?
Me: Because I'm going to have a baby.
Abby: So
Me: The baby is inside my tummy. If you watch really closely you can see him kick.
At this point she gave me a strange look and decided to sit next to someone else

Samantha: Did you put your baby down for a nap in his crib?
Me: He won't sleep in a crib until after he is born.
Samantha: Oh. Did you put him down for a nap in your tummy?

Sophie: How are you going to get the baby out of your tummy?
Me: A doctor is going to help me.
Sophie: I don't think the baby likes being in your tummy.

Elliot: Are you having a baby or a boy?
Me: We're having a baby boy.
Elliot: Is it a baby or a boy?
Me: It's a baby that's a boy.
Elliot: No, are you having a baby or a boy?

Samantha: Why did you put that baby in your tummy?
Me: All babies start out that way. You were in your mom's tummy too.
Samantha: What are you going to name him?
Me: We haven't decided yet. What do you think?
Samantha: You should name him Luke when he's born, and when he gets older you can call him James.

Final Exams

For several years final exams have been a rather significant part of the Christmas season. This year I find myself neither taking nor grading exams. I would be a little bit lost, but the Texan is getting ready for his finals, so our household is not quite test free. And so in honor of all the students I know who are putting off their Christmas cheer until the testing is over, and who will spend many hours in line at the testing center, I present this poem I wrote during one exam week when I was at BYU. (It's amazing what I can accomplish when I'm putting off studying.)

How the Cougars took their Finals

The professors on campus like finals a lot
But the students, who lived just south of campus, did not!

The cougars hated finals! The whole finals season!
Now, please don't ask why for you all know the reason.

They'd have to stay up way into the night
And study real hard until morning's first light

They'd feel like they were banging their heads on the wall
Convinced that their brains were two sizes too small

But, for multiple reasons, such as midnight crams,
They sat there on reading days, cursing exams

Staring down at their books, with a sour, tired gaze
At the long lists of facts, reading page after page

For they knew every teacher on campus just north
Was busy now writing exams to put forth.

“And they’re printing them now.” They snarled with a sneer.
“Tomorrow starts finals. They’re practically here.”

“This huge pile of reading is really quite numbing,
We must find some way to stop finals from coming.”

For tomorrow, they knew, All the students would consign
They’d wake bright and early and long before nine
The testing center was sure to have a very long line.
That’s one thing they hated. The LINES LINES LINES LINES!

Then once in the building they’d sit down and write
And they’d write! And they’d Write
And they’d WRITE WRITE WRTIE WRTIE

They would write big long essays, and make no mistake
They would write until both hands had started to ache

And then they’d do something they liked least of all
Every student on campus, the tall and the small
Would hand in their tests and though somewhat deflating
They’d simply go home and they’d all start their waiting

They’d wait. And they’d wait.
And they’d WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT.
And the more students thought of this final-grade-wait
The more they all thought, “This is something we hate."

Why for quite a few years we’ve put up with it now
We must stop these finals from coming, But HOW?”

Then they had an idea.
An awful idea.
They all had a horrible awful idea.

“There’s just nothing to do. It’s all to no avail
“If we don’t take our finals we simply will fail”

So they did what all students have done in the past
They stopped whining and studied for finals at last.

(I know it’s a cop out ending, but I really should go study now)

Morning Sickness and School Busses

I have been sick for far too long. I try not to be bitter about this, but my patience is waning. A more accurate statement is that I tried not to be bitter about this, but I have given up and am thoroughly irate about my current sate. It’s like the flu that won’t go away. I kind of expected that by the time I reached the I can’t tie my shoes, my wedding ring hurts my swollen hands stage of pregnancy I’d be finished with the I need to be close to a bathroom phase. People told me that I would feel better when I got to my second trimester. They lied. The second trimester has come and gone and I still find myself kneeling in the bathroom several times a week. In my more reasonable moments (which are occurring with decreasing frequency) I acknowledge that their dishonesty was probably unintentional. However, their inaccurate estimates cause me to question if I ever will feel better. I am somewhat certain that I am destined to spend the rest of my existence in an eternal state of “morning sickness.” I do think that the person who came up with that title was intentionally lying and should be punished accordingly.

As I approach my eighth month of suffering I have abandoned all pretenses of good naturedly accepting my lot and am quite unabashedly annoyed, frustrated, angry, and irritated. Unfortunately there is no easily defined target for my pregnancy enhanced wrath, and it occasionally lands on unsuspecting innocent bystanders. One day I was dropping the Texan off at school. As I approached his building the all too familiar gagging started. He quickly looked through the car, but unfortunately my plastic bag, which is normally stashed in the glove compartment for such occasions, had not been replaced since its last use. Although he was appropriately sympathetic and concerned, all he could really do was get out of the car, and wish me good luck on the drive home.

My rush home was significantly delayed when I got stuck behind a school bus on a road with almost no cross streets. I quickly became quite mad at the stupid bus driver who kept stopping to pick up kids. After only a few stops I earnestly loathed the flashing red lights and retractable stop sign. I sat in my car nearly choking. I wondered which front yard would become the receptacle of my partially digested breakfast. I cursed the unknown person who decided that all traffic going both directions must stop while children stepped from the sidewalk onto the school bus. I considered drafting a letter to the school board recommending they discontinue the bus system entirely. I tried to conceive of a way I could make one of the kids on the bus clean my car out should the need arise. I questioned why every child had to walk ever so slowly to the back of the bus only to find no open seats and walk twice as leisurely back to the front of the bus before sitting down, and I quite particularly wondered why the bus driver felt the need to continue holding up traffic for this entire process at every stop.

When I was thoroughly worked up over the inefficiencies of bus transportation and fully convinced that an anonymous bus driver had conspired with dozens of elementary students to ruin my life, I finally saw a cross street where I could turn off the horrible road and find a faster, bus-free rout home. Yards short of my escape the bus again assaulted me with flashing lights and an obtrusively insistent stop sign. I looked up the street that was supposed to be my reprieve and found instead an antagonist. A boy was running as fast as he could down the hill with his backpack in one hand and his coat in the other. I spent a full minute of my life hating this tardy child and mercilessly wishing the bus driver would leave him on the curb. The bus driver waited. If I had not been clad in pajamas (the white flannel polka dot ones) I probably would have taken more assertive action. Instead I sat in my car and angrily muttered hypocritically to myself about how late children should be left behind.

Since the bus incident the doctor has given me a new medicine that has significantly curbed the vomiting. It has also significantly curbed my ability to stay awake for more than an hour at a time. I am happy to report that, with the assistance of promethazine, I have made it as long as 10 days without involuntarily expelling my meals. I feel sort of like the factories that post how long it has been since their last accident.

Pajamas

Fifth period continued. John’s empty seat was soon occupied by a student named Charlie. His story will be forthcoming. Today, however, I would like to articulate some of my thoughts on pajamas.

I am irrationally emotionally attached to the clothing in which I sleep. Much like a young child who requires a specific stuffed animal or security blanket, my ability to fall asleep depends largely on the pants that I wear to bed. My unreasonable affinity toward my pajamas began just prior to the Fall Semester of 2001. As I prepared to make the trek halfway across the country and attend a semester in Nauvoo, Illinois, I was shopping at Kohl’s for some last minute necessities. Megan was with me. I don’t remember what I was actually shopping for, but I do remember stumbling across the most amazing pajama pants on the clearance rack for $2. (Yes, I do remember the price of the pajamas that I purchased over 9 years ago.) These were magical pants. They were made out of a blue crushed velour fabric that was decorated with white clouds and yellow moons and stars, some of the shooting variety. The pants were remarkably soft, and they were definitely not my size. I’m not normally an impulse shopper, but with some encouragement from Megan I decided that I must have the pants, and took my extra-large clearance find to the register.

I packed my magic pants and headed to Nauvoo where putting on my pajamas became a highly anticipated part of the day. The fit was ridiculous. I had to tighten the drawstring to the point that less than half of it remained around my waist, and they covered my feet entirely, but I loved those pants. After the Nauvoo semester, I took the pants with me back to Provo and continued to love them. In 2003 I took the magic pants with me as I served a mission in Pennsylvania. In December 2004, on the last day of my mission, the mission president’s wife took my magic pants and threw them away. She said that they were worn out to the point of being immodest. As I looked at the nearly sheer seat of my magic pants I decided that she probably had a point, and offered only mild protest.

For the next 2 years I wore a pair of good fitting pants made out of striped purple cotton. I developed no connection to these pants. They were not magical in anyway. This is when I decided that there are three essential elements to attachment-worthy pajamas:

1. The most simple requirement of amazing pajamas is that they must be soft. Some animals are easily distracted by shiny objects. My attention is easily captivated by soft things. And, despite the fact that I know better, I am always tricked into thinking that I am warmer when I am clad in something soft.

2. The pajamas must be way too big. This makes them very comfortable, and keeps my feet warm when I get out of bed. It also makes them a novelty. Appropriately tailored pants are practical and are to be worn during the day when I have to look at least moderately professional and mind my limited manners. Extra-large pants are fun and are to be put on at night time when I no longer have to be presentable.

3. Very closely related to element 2, incredible pajamas must be made out of awesome fabric. Awesome pajama fabric is any design that is really cute, but not suitable for regular clothing. No one in their right mind would be seen in public wearing blue crushed velour with moons and stars on it, but sew it into a pair of pajama pants and suddenly it’s acceptable. This is probably at least partly due to the fact that most people are not seen in public wearing their pajamas.

Basically, pajamas that are way too big and made out of awesome soft fabric are so completely different from normal daily clothing that they are very fun to wear. Putting on such a pair of pants is the physical incarnation of the "my day is over and now it is time to rest" sentiment.

My boring pajama spell was finally broken on Christmas in 2006 with a gift from Heather. She gave me pajamas made out of white flannel with multicolored polka-dots and a striped drawstring. These pants make me happy. The Texan refers to these as my nun pants. I’m not sure why he calls them that. There is nothing about ill-fitting flannel polka dots that reminds me of nuns. Nonetheless, that’s what he calls them. They have made it through several years without reaching the extremely tattered state of the magic pants because I alternate their use with another pair of pants that I acquired in March of 2007 while visiting Washington DC. After hearing the National Symphony Orchestra perform Dvorak’s 9th symphony (which, incidentally, is an excellent piece of music frequently referred to as the New World Symphony) I was perusing the gift shop at the Kennedy Center and discovered the music pants. Much more appropriately named than the nun pants, they are made out of a white knit and are covered in musical notes and symbols. At first I was quite dismayed to find that the only size apparently available was a medium. Not willing to purchase anything smaller than an extra-large, but really wanting to have awesome pajamas as a souvenir from the nation’s capital, I located a clerk who was able to find the appropriate size for me. Someday the nun pants and the music pants will meet the same fate as the magic pants, but I think that they still have a few good years left in them.