Tag Archives: nurse blogs

Never Stop Developing Your Curiosity: New Post This Week for TheONC

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This week, I’ve written a new post for TheONC titled, Never Stop Developing Your Curiosity.  I discuss the role curiosity plays, not only in creativity, but also in patient care, such as helping a patient deal with chemo induced alopecia.

TheONC is an online community for cancer care teams with blogs and discussions covering a variety of oncology topics. Recent posts discuss palliative pain control, stem cell transplant, cancer risk after solid organ transplant, music therapy, and more. Individuals involved in the care of cancer patients can register for a site login, and join the conversation. Follow on Twitter @The_ONC.

Solar Flares

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Sun flare photo by jparadisiI am a nurse. I believe full moons have influence over hospitals.  I also believe in the electromagnetic power of solar flares. Last week, hospital staffs in the Northern hemisphere had the joy of exposure to both. While I can’t speak for healthcare providers as a whole, I experienced a few incidents last week, which I attribute to solar flares.

First, I noticed communication glitches in communication David and I. Since communication is a core strength of our marriage, it was weird. Standing in the same room, conversations went something like this:

Me: “Hmm. We’re out of butter, let’s put it on the grocery list.”

David: Silent.

Me: “David, did you hear me say we’re out of butter?”

More silence. Half an hour later…

David: “We’re out of butter.”

Me: “I know, didn’t you hear me say that half an hour ago?”

David: “What? Oh, you better put butter on the grocery list.”

Me: “Can you hear me when I’m speaking to you?”

David: “Are you saying we don’t need butter?”

At the infusion clinic, a nurse complained people were not receiving her messages.  Another nurse looked up and said “Solar flares.” The first nurse said, “Weird, you are the second person to say ‘solar flares’ to me today. Solar flares?”

“Yep. There’s a solar storm headed towards Earth this week. It’s all over the news.”

“Really, I hadn’t heard.”

That was Thursday.

On Friday, we lost login ability to the electronic health record, once logged out, therefore access to patients’ charts.  All the records were secure and intact, we simply couldn’t access them for a short, but inconvenient time. Our fabulous IT team fixed the problem reasonably quick. We weren’t informed what happened, but I blame solar flares.

On Sunday, our car’s GPS system acted up, eventually righting itself. Solar flares.

I wish everything in life were so easily diagnosed.

Do you have a good solar flare or full moon story to tell?

Hospitals Are Not Restaurants

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A Blank List photo: jparadisi 2012

My horoscope says today is a good day for diversion, but I disagree. This is one of those mornings I wake up with a to do list forming in my head, which means I am already behind. One of the things on the list is writing this post. Be charitable as you read it; I haven’t finished my coffee yet.

This feeling of being behind before the day begins is familiar in our home. David, a hospital pharmacist, and I work the same weekends, and this weekend we both worked the Saturday, Sunday, Monday stretch. For some reason, all hospitals I’m familiar with staff units lighter on weekends: no unit secretary, linens are not delivered, IT support is unavailable. Pharmacy has less support, meaning nursing waits for medications to arrive; everything slows down.

This mindset is puzzlement. Why would weekends be more or less busy in a hospital than any other day of the week as if they are restaurants?  I’ve worked in food service. For restaurants, happy hours and dinners are consistently busier on Fridays and Saturdays than weekdays. Restaurants catering to the business lunch crowd are understandably busier Monday through Fridays.

People do not schedule how sick they are going to be according to the day of the week.

Granted, most doctors’ offices are closed, and surgeries are usually not scheduled on weekends. I get that. However, this leads to the proviso that people who are admitted for hospitalization are too critical to wait until Monday for surgery or treatment. Trauma and sepsis do not wait until the doctor is in. They keep the weekend health care team pretty damn busy.

I’m not complaining, just pointing out a reality of life in health care, by way of explaining today, our first day off, both David and I are feeling a little frazzled. The evidence of this is on our dining room table. Rather than a place for a leisurely, home cooked meal, over the weekend it has become a catchall for the implements of our trades: his messenger bag, my tote. Both of our notebooks charge quietly, their green LED lights reflected in the luster of the table’s finish. Valentine’s Day cards, still without a permanent home, remain on the table.  Although our home is a disorganized mess, there is love.

We’re out of food though. Add a grocery store run to the to do list.

Staycation

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Reflections on the Willamette River photo: jparadisi

I am on staycation this week. It means I scheduled a week off from the oncology infusion clinic, and spending the time here in Portland, where I live.

I admire nurse colleagues their ability to schedule travel vacations months in advance. They bring brochures of exotic places like Machu Picchu, Sidney, Tuscany, Spain, etc. to work, having booked cool hotels and fabulous dinner reservations. One coworker planned an extensive road trip, driving solo, through national parks. Besides being courageous, she has a sense of humor: she purchased an “inflatable man” to occupy the passenger seat of her car during the trip. Then she gave “Joe” away as a white elephant gift at our staff Christmas party. Better than a gnome.

My staycation reflects a lack of planning on my part. A few days after Christmas, I realized my mind wandered when I listened to small talk, the small talk my patients generate adapting to their role, connecting with me, making the experience pleasant for all of us. My sudden inability to concentrate on more than actual patient care signaled to me I let too much time lapse between vacations. There wasn’t enough time to coordinate David’s work schedule with mine, nevertheless, I needed a midwinter break sooner than later. Our scheduler received my request for vacation time that week.

So, how am I spending the time off? I booked a fallback Pedi Mani, then met a girlfriend for Happy Hour at a new tapas bar the first day. Over the weekend, David booked a two-night stay for us at a hotel on the Willamette River. The off-season rates were great. We saw the French film Le Havre, leisurely dined at restaurants we’ve only talked about, and slept in. I’ve booked a spa day for myself, complete with green tea service, and lunch later this week.

After that, who cares?

Hand Knit Socks for the Journey of 2012

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Mom's Hand Knit Socks photo: jparadisi 2012

It was a quiet New Year’s Eve in our home, as I worked the next day. It’s okay, because I’ve heard what you do on the first day of the year sets its character. With several hospitals in town looking at staff lay offs, I’m grateful.

I wore a pair of wool socks inside my nurse clogs, knitted and given to me by my mom. They inspired me to write, “Learn to knit socks” on a Post-It note, and add it to my Mason jar of goals and dreams for 2012. Another hastily written, last-minute Post-It note reads, “Research and purchase a case of Oregon Pinot Noir.” I am an accidental wine enthusiast (another post). I may have to work an overtime shift to accomplish it, unless of course, I am a casualty of the layoffs.

2012 is a year of uncertainty, waiting to learn if the economy will improve, or if the other shoe hasn’t yet fallen. I remain cautiously optimistic; I believe the opportunity for things to improve is about the same as for things to go wrong. Surprised by joy is a possibility.

So, I’m wearing the wool socks my mom lovingly knitted, put one foot in front of the other, and begin the journey that is the year 2012.

A Blue Mason Jar Full of Post-It Notes Goals for The New Year

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Blue Mason Jar of Dreams photo: jparadisi 2011

Every year I write my New Year’s resolutions on Post-It notes, filling a blue, vintage Mason jar with them after reviewing the ones from the year before. I write the date on each Post-It note.  If a previous year’s resolution wasn’t met, and still holds merit, it remains in the Mason jar with the new ones.

Previous years’ resolutions in the jar:

  • “My health: that I may remain cancer-free” (1999)
  • “The continued good health of our families” (1999) I updated this one to “our families” in 2004, the year David and I married.
  • “David’s and my continued good health and happy marriage” (2008)
  • “To show a financial profit as an artist.” (2008)
  • “Gallery representation”(2008)
  • “Publish more stories in 2011″ (2010)
  • “A book deal for my manuscript” (2010)
  • “The blog will have more than 1,000 visitors/month (2010)
  • “Lose ten pounds” (2011)

Most striking about the hopes and dreams on this list is that none of them are actually resolvable. They are ongoing. Sure, publishing my manuscript into a book would be great, however, knowing me, the next year I would resolve to write another book, one that won an award or topped the charts, or something like that. Artists are rarely satisfied with any level of achievement. We are always looking up the ladder at the next rung:

  • Gallery representation leads to the desire for critical recognition, increased sales, collectors, fame.
  • Publishing stories leads to writing more stories, longer ones, for larger audiences.

In general, human nature is much the same:

  • Health and happiness leads to the expectation for more of the same.
  • I lost ten pounds last year. For 2012 I expect to keep them off.

Resolution is the wrong choice of word. For me, setting New Year’s Goals is better phraseology. Most of the improvements I wish for in life take time and perseverance to achieve, and more hard work to maintain. To my way of thinking, New Year’s is a time to review the larger goals of my life, and see if they are still worth steering towards. If so, then I ask myself what small adjustments can I make this year to further them? These adjustments are written as goals on the Post-It notes, dated, and placed in the jar.

The most important part of opening the Mason jar each year is reading the hand written Post-It notes, and saying a small prayer of thanks or another expression of gratitude for the advances, which occurred over the past year towards each goal. There is no lasting joy in achievement without gratitude. This year, I am thankful for:

So what’s on Post-It notes this year? What goals am I steering my life towards in 2012?

  •  Remain cancer free
  • The continued good health of our families
  • David’s and my continued good health and happy marriage
  •  A financial profit as an artist
  • Finish the Vessels of Containment painting series and start the new series
  • Gallery representation
  • Write and publish more stories in 2012
  • Increased writing income
  • The blog will continue to grow
  • Keep off those ten pounds

Here’s the cool thing about writing down goals: The Examined Life (Socrates). Today I see  each goal I’ve written down is focused on an unknown future. I haven’t written a single one, which applies to my present reality. So, until my dreams come true:

  • I will continue to develop my skills as a nurse so my patients remain safe in my care.
  • I will strive to be a better team player at work.
  • I will phrase criticism in a constructive manner.
  • I will remember that everyone has a difficult job. That’s why they call it work.
  • I will say Thank You at least once daily. It’s wrong to wait an entire year to give thanks for everything that is good in my life.

I wish to thank my family and friends (new and old) for your support of JParadisi RN blog. May your New Year be filled with Health, Love, Happiness, and Prosperity.

Merry Christmas and Thanks for the Wings

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photo by jparadisi 2011

“Dear George, remember no man is a failure who has friends. Thanks for the wings, Love Clarence.”~

Clarence Oddbody, It’s a Wonderful Life

Merry Christmas to the friends and readers of JParadisi RN blog. Wishing you joy, health, love and prosperity in the New Year.

Tis the Season for Treacle… and Santa Claus

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Christmas Abstract photo: jparadisi 2011

Okay, so I hate emails containing stories oozing treacle like gooey chocolate chips in a cookie hot from the oven. Producing an obvious tear jerker is lazy writing. However, the story below sort of got to me, despite its melodrama. I share it with you. The name of the author is lost somewhere in cyberspace, another reason to dislike these schmaltzy emails. Oh well…

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid.

I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: “There is no Santa Claus,” she jeered. “Even dummies know that!”

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her “world-famous” cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. “No Santa Claus?” she snorted….”Ridiculous! Don’t believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad!! Now, put on your coat, and let’s go.”

“Go? Go where, Grandma?” I asked. I hadn’t even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun. “Where” turned out to be Kerby’s General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. “Take this money,” she said, “and buy something for someone who needs it. I’ll wait for you in the car.” Then she turned and walked out of Kerby’s.

I was only eight years old. I’d often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping.

For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for.

I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, and the people who went to my church.

I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock’s grade-two class. Bobby Decker didn’t have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn’t have a cough; he didn’t have a good coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat!

I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.

“Is this a Christmas present for someone?” the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. “Yes, ma’am,” I replied shyly. “It’s for Bobby.”

The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I didn’t get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, “To Bobby, From Santa Claus” on it.  Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker’s house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially, one of Santa’s helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from Bobby’s house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge. “All right, Santa Claus,” she whispered, “get going.”

I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his door and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma.

Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.

Fifty years haven’t dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker’s bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were — ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.

I still have the Bible, with the coat tag tucked inside: $19.95.

May you always have LOVE to share,

HEALTH to spare and FRIENDS that care…

And may you always believe in the magic of Santa Claus!