Tag Archives: rn blog

Staycation

Posted on by
Reply

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?

Learn and Live

Posted on by
3

Hawthorne Bridge photo: jparadisi 2012

American Heart Association, are you messing with me?

I was a wee bambina sitting at the dinner table the first time I heard the acronym CPR. My father, a volunteer firefighter for the small town where we lived, certified that afternoon. I remember him saying, “It’s a terrible thing to need to do, but everyone should know how to do it,” and his words are true. Everyone should know CPR.

I got my first CPR card in high school, recerting off and on until becoming a nurse. Now, I recert (renew) every two years. All hospitals I have worked for in two different states require Registered Nurses to have current BLS certification. There is no grace period. If the card expires, the nurse cannot return to work until he or she has renewed their certification.

I love The Heart, however, few things swizzle an experienced nurse’s placid pool of confidence more than CPR recertification, aka, BLS (Basic Life Support). I know this, because I renewed my card last week. Everyone in the class expressed anxiety. Anxiety occurs because, every two years, we have to relearn breath to compression ratios, and how many compressions per minute. For one rescuer or two? Is the victim an adult or a child? The ratios are different for each. And what the hell is that little rhyme you’re supposed to repeat while changing positions with the other rescuer because you’re getting chest pains yourself from the exertion of doing (how many, again?) chest compressions? Don’t forget, you’re trying to save a person’s life while doing this.

Our instructor assured us changes occur only every five years, but it seems different every time. Not only for staff I work with: once, I was running behind two women runners on the Hawthorne Bridge, and overheard them talking about CPR, and how confusing all the numbers are to remember. I sprinted to them, asked if they were nurses. They were. We ran together for a while, commiserating over this albatross of our working lives.

So you can imagine my chagrin, last week when our instructors explained the changing numbers confuses so many health care professionals and lay people, they were not even attempting CPR outside of hospitals, for fear of doing it wrong. This led the AHA to research hands-only CPR. They found:

• Hands-Only CPR (CPR with just chest compressions) has been proven to be as effective as CPR with breaths in treating adult cardiac arrest victims.
• The American Heart Association has recommended Hands-Only CPR for adults since 2008.
As of June 2011

I support the American Heart Association listening to our concerns. I applaud its continual research, which saves lives. Everyone should know CPR.

All the same, does this mean, these past twenty-five years I’ve been a nurse, whether it was one or two breaths between compressions has never really mattered?

American Heart Association, are you just messing with me?

To find a BLS/CPR class near you, click on this link.

I Wish I’d Said It

Posted on by
Reply

Keep your chin up,

No one expected you to save the world,

Otherwise, you would have been born wearing a cape and tights.

Just do the best you can.

Happinessinyourlife.com

AJN’s On the Web

Posted on by
3

This morning I’m drinking my first cup of coffee, thumbing through the January 2012 issue of the American Journal of Nursing. A familiar sentence catches my eyes in On the Web, page 22. It’s a line from a post published (and I wrote) on their blog Off the Charts. Thanks AJN!

It’s gonna be a good day.

Shift Observations

Posted on by
Reply

photo: jparadisi

Three nurses at lunch break in the staff lounge, focus intently on their phones. A fourth nurse enters.

She asks, “What would we do without our smartphones?”

Silence.

One nurse looks up, smiles, and says, “Talk to  each other?”

A longer pause, then shrieks of laughter.

All heads return to their phones.

Hand Knit Socks for the Journey of 2012

Posted on by
1

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.

Merry Christmas and Thanks for the Wings

Posted on by
Reply

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

Posted on by
1

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!

A Social License Part II

Posted on by
Reply

Occupy Portland Encampment (first week of November 2011) image: jparadisi 2011

“Oh, that’s too funny! Well, thanks for letting us know. See you in a few days.”

Those were the words of the charge nurse at the infusion clinic, when I called to let her know that, because of jury duty, I would miss the next day’s shift too.

The jury was selected. The judge outlined the case and instructed us in our responsibilities as jurors. Then we were dismissed for lunch.

The trial began when we returned. It was expected to last through the late afternoon of the next day. If the jury reached a decision quickly after the closing arguments, our job would be done. If not, a third day would be required to complete deliberation.

When court resumed, thirteen jurors took their seats. The thirteenth juror, an alternate, would hear the entire case, and then be identified before deliberation. The alternate would only participate in deliberation if another juror became ill or had an emergency preventing him or her from serving. Looking at each face in our group, I wondered which one of us would be kicked off the island (Survivor reference). Was it me?

The only other potential juror, beside me, who had been called out, had not been selected for duty. It was her opinion that cases seeking medical damages resulting from a car accident, such as this one, are always based on greed. She was rejected as a juror because she could not set aside her opinion to hear the case.

The plaintiff suffered neck and shoulder pain since her car was rear ended three years ago at a stop light by the defendant. She was suing for pain and suffering. The defendant was driving his sister’s car at the time of the accident, because an intoxicated driver totaled the defendant’s car two days before he rear-ended the plaintiff.  The defendant had been on his way to school when the accident occurred. He was not intoxicated nor using his cell phone. His foot slipped off the brake. It was a low impact collision. The sister was not in the car at the time of the accident, but was included in the suit because the car belonged to her.

That first day, I wanted to side with the plaintiff. I have seen serious injuries occur from seemingly insignificant impacts. I imagined the plaintiff sitting at her desk job in pain everyday. I listened carefully to her lawyer’s lengthy circumlocutions about her suffering, and the testimonies of her primary health care provider and chiropractor on her behalf.

I left the courthouse at the end of that first day believing the case was motivated by fear: fear of disability and loss of income, fear of a healthcare system that will likely fail the plaintiff when she needs treatment in the future. I felt disheartened.

At the end of that first day I left the courthouse. The defendants‘ lawyer would present their case the following day. Across the street, the people of Occupy Portland gathered among their tents and makeshift shelters.

I felt the onset of a melancholy I cannot identify in the chill of the autumn air.

Next: A Social License Part III

Photo Op: Happy Thanksgiving From JParadisi RN

Posted on by
1

How to Make a Turkey Mask With Simple Objects Found at Work:

Find a respiratory mask, then raid the unit secretary’s desk for forbidden White-Out, Sharpies, and Post-It Notes to make this Turkey Mask and entertain your coworkers for hours during a Thanksgiving shift, or until they force you to get back to work.

Happy Thanksgiving!

A Turkey Mask Made From a Respiratory Mask. mask & image by jparadisi 2011