Ecole

Nursing school is not something you do. It is something you survive.

I am living, breathing, eating, drinking, sleeping, and dreaming school. Homework, homework, homework. Readings, papers, group projects, presentations, and tests. It's like banging your head against the wall. Over and over and over.

I know that I am so close to the end, but it feels like it's never going to end.

I wish I could say this post was about Italy again, however, it's not.

I am so overwhelmed by school right now that it is consuming my thoughts. No matter where I am or what I'm doing, I'm feeling guilty and thinking about all the school work I need to do. I'm even dreaming/having nightmares about school. I have four more huge papers, an in-class essay, another midterm, an 80-minute debate, my final exam for Phil 335, and a giant group project which includes a presentation. All of this before November 23.

I'm drowning.

the breakdown

what do you do when you hit your breaking point? when things are so far beyond your ability to handle them or even cope? when facing them head-on just isn't an option anymore.

i don't want to run away, but it might be the only option left.

pizza party - Italian style!

Okie dokie. So when we left off, we had just gone cave exploring.

Rachel and I sacked out for about an hour, then spent some time emailing home and such. You might be familiar with the late dinner rule in Europe [seriously - if you go into a restaurant before about 1930, they look at you like "what a tourist!"] and the Italians eat dinner much later than you might expect: about 2100 or later. When we got to Elena's, she and Fabrizio [Fah-BREE-tzee-oh] were hard at work. They had made about four home-made pizzas, and weren't even halfway through. These pizzas were made with fresh dough, home-made tomato sauce, cheese and meat from the local salumeria and oh. my. gosh. Amazing.

The only bad thing of the night was my limiting appetite. If you think American portion sizes are ludicrous, take some advice from me and skip Italy. I was dismayed at how little I could eat in comparison! Tiny Sylvia, who would weigh in at 110lbs tops soaking wet, packed away at least nine slices of pizza, a piece of fruit, some cheese, and two pieces of dessert, which was a specialty cake from the local patisserie. We drank beer with 7-up, and the noise was deafening.

Italian adults are loud for a very specific reason: they need to be heard over their kids. Elena and Fabri live in a beautiful stone house, so the echoes were fantastically loud - four kids yelling, and the parents ever increasing their volume in order to carry on their conversations. The language was a mix of English and Italian, and there was lots of laughter and love. Mio cuoro era pieno. [MEE-oh coo-OHR-ro ER-ra pee-EN-noh - My heart was full].

I love the Italian way of doing family. Everybody is all up in each others' business, looking after, loving, and disciplining the kids. Sharing their time, their homes, their food, their lives. Making sure everybody is okay. Although it was loud, it was joyful and filled me with a sense of peace perché era bello [pehr-kEH EH-ra BELLE-oh - because it was beautiful]. This is a family that has not lost their grip on what's important: not money, or houses, or cars, or things, but people!

Dinner lingered on until about 2330, then Erio and Bruna took home two very tired Canadian girls who collapsed into bed. We were asleep within minutes.

Coming up next: our trip to wine country and how Rachel made her birkenstock sandals permanently hers.


Song of the Day: Until I Die by Brandi Carlile

oggi è il mio compleanno

or "today is my birthday"

Yay! I love my birthday. This year was a little on the lame-side (midterm at 0800, followed by two classes, followed by paper-writing ... blech), but it's my birthday and therefore I still love it.

I have the very best friends and family.

Jaw-seh-LANE and RRRRAY-chelle

Boves is a tiny town in the Piedmont region of Italy. Piedmont is surrounded by the Italian Alps and borders both Switzerland and France. It is mainly an agricultural region, known for its wine [mmmm] and rice. The second one surprised me - if you'd asked me before my trip, I would have told you that Italy doesn't grow rice. But they do. Lots of it! The flooded fields are very pretty, especially when reflecting the golden glow and rosy warmth of a sunset.

Our family friends have lived there forever. Bruna and Erio and their two daughters, Sylvia and Elena [ELLE-enn-ah], first stayed with our family in ... 1992? We were living in Whitehorse, Yukon at the time and my parents ran a bed and breakfast called The Mossberry Inn [moss berries grow in colder climates - they're blue, and relatively tasteless but my mom made the most incredible moss berry pie!]. Their girls are about ten years older than the kids in our family, so a few years later, when Sylvia was in her mid-teens, she came to spend the summer with our family to improve her English. I have some vague memories of that summer, including a prolongued camping trip, but I was still pretty little so I don't remember much.

My parents took my brother to Europe when he was twelve or thirteen years old and they spent a few days in Boves. Then, when the whole family spent a month travelling in Europe in 2003, we all stayed with them again. At that time, there had been a few marital additions to the family and one baby. It was pretty much a given that I would have to stop in for a visit during my 2011 trip. Once we knew the dates, we arranged that Rachel and I would spend our first weekend in Italy at their place.

The Friday night/Saturday morning we arrived, we were given Elena and Sylvia's old room and around 0100 or 0130 we collapsed into bed. [PS - I do use a 24-hour clock. So do the Italians]. I set the alarm for 0900 because we were determined to start adjusting to the time change. We were pretty much dead to the world all night and dragging myself out of bed at 1000 was really, freaking hard. They had these amazing shutters on the windows that pretty much blacked out the whole room.

It was 0200 in the morning according to my body's clock and I felt like a zombie. I opened the bedroom door to be brutally assaulted by stabbing sunshine pouring in through the front windows. Blurry eyed, I looked down the hall in the direction of the kitchen [where I could hear the sounds of ... breakfast?] and saw a little body hurling itself towards me. The miniature person grabbed onto my knees saying, "Buongiorno! Ciao! Ciao!" [Boo-ohn-jee-ORno; Chee-OW - 'Good morning! Hi! Hi!']. "Mumble-mumble-mumble-ino!" [Not actually what was said, but rapidly spoken Italian sounds sort of like this, especially if you're half-asleep]. At that moment, Bruna stepped out of the kitchen and called the, what I could now tell was a, little boy back to the kitchen.

I got dressed and brushed my teeth and opened the bathroom door to see an adorable little girl with brown ringlets looking at me with confusion and apprehension. We just stood there and stared at each other for several seconds. Bruna once again came to my rescue, introducing me to Melissa, age 3 [Meh-LEE-sah, also known as MEHL-ee] and Enrico, age 5 [EH(n)-ree-coh; the 'n' is barely audible], Sylvia's daughter and Elena's son, respectively. Meli was a bit unsure, but Enrico had determined that we were to be best friends, right now, thank you very much.

Rachel made it out of bed shortly after me and we enjoyed a breakfast of yogurt, toast, and [amazing] coffee. Then, we walked into town to visit the market. It was exactly like a movie - adorable little town, narrow alleys, cobblestone streets, big open-air market, and loud Italians everywhere, waving their hands as they spoke. I loved it. We met Elena and her newly adopted daughter Punam, fifteen months old [Pooh-NAHM]. These kids were seriously unnaturally cute.

We marched through Boves' main piazza to one of the offices that the family runs. There, I saw Sylvia, and met her husband, Roberto. She told us we would be going sightseeing that afternoon and did we want to see a castell [she meant castle, but in Italian, you would pronounce the 't'] or go into a huge cave. We chose the cave. We picked up Sylvia's son, Lorenzo, age 8 [Loh-RREN-zoh], traded out Meli [who needed a nap] for Enrico, who didn't want to miss the fun, and headed for the hills. Literally.

The driving into the alps was a bit crazy. Italian 'secondary highways' are about the width of an alley you'd find behind your house and almost as bumpy. We twisted in and out, drove into valleys and up steep hills, and zipped through towns with roads so narrow that we could have reached out the window and touched the walls on either side.

The cave itselft was very cool. The beginning tunnel has been set up as an art exhibit [the only of its kind] and then you reach the main part and it's an enormous cavern with a waterfall pouring down in front of you. We got a guided tour up and down about a zillion stairs [literally thousands] with Sylvia translating the whole thing. It was pretty cold in the cave, so coming out was a relief. Then, the drive home. Rachel, prone to being carsick, sat in the front that time.

Another day I will talk about the pizza party we had afterwards. And about our trip into wine country - Barolo, to be exact. All  you wine lovers will know how awesome that was.

By the way - I named this post what I did because those were our new, Italian-ized names; especially when pronounced by 3 and 5 year olds. Add lots of rolled 'r's on the RRRRRay-chelle. Perfecto!

interlude

So this has nothing to do with the trip that I took to Italy this year. It actually has to do with a trip somebody else is in the middle of.

My baby sister is in Kenya right now. She is spending three months there learning about the community and working with the kids in a children's home and school. If I may, I will take a moment to wax nostalgic about that girl.

She is incredible. A rail-thin, super-model who dresses like a hipster, right down to her big, thick-framed glasses. Her hair is big and wavy, she's got a million-dollar smile, and she adores the fact that she is three inches taller than me. Her sketchbooks are full of various works of artistry, usually accompanied by a poetical tag. She has got a huge heart, the ability to make somebody feel like they are the most important person in the world only two seconds after they meet her, and a lot of courage. Most of the time, she is the bravest person I know.

Sometimes, like we all do, she doubts her ability to do things on her own - but she is so strong. This is my sister who packed up and moved to Africa to have a new experience, make a difference in the lives of somewhere between 100 and 150 kids, and learn something new. She was in Mexico this past year, and wants to do a trip to Central America next year with a project that has to do with providing clean water. Her plans for the long-term future are not concrete, but whatever it is, you can bet she'll be helping out. This is not a girl who is incapable. I admire her tenacity, her chutzpah, her humility, her fortitude, her willingness to serve those around her, her determination, and generally just her ability to endure.

I miss her. I miss her a whole heck of a lot. [Although I am enjoying the use of her closet while she's gone - she's got great taste!]

If you're interested in following the blog she's writing while she's away (keep in mind her access to the internet is not exactly reliable), please go to http://ameliawiens.blogspot.com/
You'll notice it's called "Harambee." This is swahili that has become Kenya's motto. It means "Let us all pull together." It's perfect for her.

Song of the Day: If You're Out There by John Legend

milano centrale - my nemesis.

We made it from the airport to the main train station after what seemed like an eternity sitting on this train being winked at by these two extremely creepy guys sitting nearby. I will state from the get-go that this will be mildly exaggerated. But understand that it really felt this bad at the time. This is the story of our primo giorno [first day, pronounced PREE-moh jee-OHR-noh]

Imagine this:
You have been awake and travelling for nearly 40 hours and have slept for only three hours in that time. Due to the end of  semester, last-minute errands, and frantic packing, you also haven't slept much in the weeks leading up to this event. You are exhausted and carrying a quarter of your own weight on your back in a huge backpack. You are in a maze of twisty passages, surrounded by thousands of people who don't speak English but are chattering away a thousand miles a minute in a language you don't understand. Almost everybody but you is smoking.

You don't know where you need to be. There are signs pointing in three different directions for "Informazione" but all of them are lying. There is even a map with a labelled point that is the information desk. You go there. It does not exist. Many people are staring at you because you are clearly a foreigner. You are thirsty, hungry, and in search of help. In English, if at all possible. You also have to pee. Badly. It costs one euro to use the toilet and that pisses you off. Finally, you find a policeman. He manages to keep a mostly straight face and points you in the direction of the ticket office while a group of his fellow police friends stare at you and crack up. That is the first time you talk to him. You find two huge lineups in the ticket office and don't know which is the right one. Crap.

A worker validates your Eurail passes [most likely because you look like you are about to cry] but does not tell you where to get in line, how to get a ticket, or who to ask about those questions. You now also need a payphone because you are now 1.5 hours later than you told your friends [who will be picking you up at your final destination] you would be. You finally make it to the front of the line only to be told that you don't need to be there, even though you were told you must always get a reservation. You just need to catch the train to Turino, then switch to the train going to Cuneo [COO-nee-oh]. You will get there at 2255. He tells you which platform to go to. You go to ask another policeman where the payphone is. It is the same guy. He does not keep a straight face this time. It takes you fifteen minutes to figure out how the damn phone works. This is because not only are the phones nothing like those at home, but the one you fiddle with for about ten minutes turns out to have been broken.You manage to reach your friends to let them know your new arrival time and then you get on the train. This was our experience of Milano Centrale train station. It is also officially the worst part of our trip. Who cares that it JUST started.

Everything is fine until you get to Turino. The ticket man failed to mention which of the three stations in Turino to get off at. Crap. The man sitting across from you kindly tells you you want "Porta ...." You missed the second word. You get off at the wrong stop, although the first word IS Porta. Word stronger than crap. The station you DO want is one further. Only one. The next train going to the next station is coming in 12 minutes. You catch it, get to the right station and have missed your train to Cuneo by one minute. More foul language. On the bright side, the station is full of men of all ages, wearing Robin Hood style hats [complete with feathers] who are drinking, playing the accordion, and singing. Loudly. You manage to laugh. You find another pay phone [and know how to use it without feeling like an idiot] and reach your friends. You will be one more hour late. You feel very guilty because they are driving to the station to get you, putting you up for the whole weekend and now have to drive to the station at midnight to get you. More language not appropriate for children. You are so exhausted, you end up giggling uncontrollably and checking the next train approximately 50 times to ensure its the right one. You make it to Cuneo. Your friends are on the platform to pick you up, and very excited to see you. All is well that ends well.

So, admittedly, that was a bit melodramatic. But it was honestly overwhelming at the time. I do have to add that we did have some time on the train to enjoy the Northern Italian countryside and it is lovely. Think of all the photos you've ever seen of Italy - it was better than that.

The friends we were staying with in Boves [BOH-vehz] were people who had stayed at my parents' bed and breakfast many years ago. There have been a couple visits between the families since then, but not a ton. I did made the mistake of telling Bruna [Nona - gramma] on the drive from the station that we were a bit hungry. Keep in mind that it was midnight when our train arrived.  We arrived at their house and were fed. It started with tortollini soup, followed by meat and potatoes, followed by cheese, followed by fruit, followed by ice cream. I'm not kidding.

We were exhausted, happy, and getting fat. Oooof.

Oh, and a word to the wise. If you're ever taking the train in Italy - the main stations are usually called Porta Nuova, Santa Maria Novella, or Centrale. Those are most often the ones at which you can catch connecting trains.

and thus, our story begins

It is considerably cheaper to fly to London, England out of the Calgary International Airport than the Edmonton one. Thus, on the morning of May 5, 2011, Rachel and I set out for Calgary. Paid with a promise of breakfast at Tim Horton's and a bottle of whiskey, our friend, Steve, agreed to drive us the three hours South to catch our flight. The driving soundtrack was the album Helplessness Blues by the Fleet Foxes, we stopped once at Timmie's for breakfast and coffee, again at a Starbucks for ... well, more coffee, and made it to Calgary in plenty of time.

Good thing, too! After many thank you's [and Rachel laughing at me while I tried to lift my backpack], we discovered an achingly long line for check-in. A downside of flying budget airlines? No online check-in the day before you leave! We got stuck in the middle row, way far back in the plane. But our flights were only a little over eight hundred dollars, so ... fair's fair. Since it was about 11pm in Italy when we set off, we tried to sleep on the plane. We were a little less than successful, each dozing for only about two hours or so. The food, however, was delicious. For supper, the main course was butter chicken and rice [pretty good, actually - not the best I've ever had, but also a far cry from the worst I've had ... and far, FAR better than you usually expect of plane food!], sliced fruit [pineapple and melon, so even I could eat it!], cheese and crackers, and raspberry crumble. Stuffed full of the best plane-food I have ever had, we settle in to watch The Tourist, as it was the only movie available to us economy-class folk that didn't completely suck.

We arrive at Gatwick airport [London, UK] early in the morning - about midnight our time - to find it under some serious construction. As we could not check-in for our EasyJet flights until two hours before departure, we had to spend the time somehow. Most of the seating areas had been blocked off for repairs and renovations, so the first order of business was one thing: coffee. One cappuccino and a latte later, we were no more awake than when we'd landed. We managed to find a couple benches and attempted to doze for a short while, though not too much [airports are loud!].

Eventually, we were able to check-in and make our way through security where we spent the time until our flight departed browsing the cool English stores and lounging on the couches [the hidden inside of Gatwick is much nicer than the pre-security portion. If you even have to spend time there, hope to all that is good that you can get through security early!]. Finally we departed.

Our first view of Italy was from the plane window - the Italian Alps [near the border with France]. As we neared Milano Malpensa [main airport in Milan], we managed to garble out some Italian to the businessman sitting next to us who spoke zero english. We came to understand that there were three methods to get to Milano Centrale [pronounced Mill-awn-oh Chen-trawl-eh the main train station]: taxi, bus, or train. Sounded so easy. We had no idea what we had gotten ourselves into.

Next time: the story of our first Italian train station, and arriving in our destination, Boves, four hours late. Whoops!

retrospective travel blog - italia

I spent five weeks in Italy. From May 5-June 9, 2011, a dear friend and I strapped on our backpacks and took a month to travel through Italy, starting up North and working our way down.

During the planning stages of our adventure, I had grandiose plans to blog faithfully throughout the trip. However, as the time for departure drew close, I realized that I really wanted my friends to be able to read what we were up to, be reassured that we were still alive. Sadly, the best medium for that was facebook. There are a lot of things I dislike about fb [that's for another time, though], but fact is: most of my friends and family have an account. It would be easy for them to check my profile for status updates, comments, and notes.

In the end, it's probably for the best that I did that. Up North, public access to the internet is easily accessible and fairly cheap. However, the farther South you go, the more difficult it is to find a reliable internet connection. And the prices creep ever higher. The easiest thing for me to do was to post the occasional status update on fb [to reassure people of our well-being], and send brief emails to my mom [who required a little more reassurance than a ten word update] and my boyfriend [who I really just missed].

Now, I realize that I have been home for three months now [yikes, how time flies!], but my summer was crazy. And now that it's September, I'm not less busy but I am determined to plonk out the story of my trip in small segments for anyone who would like to read it.

Today is about how and why I decided to go to Italy.

The summer of 2010: I was halfway through my degree [for those of you who don't know, I am taking a Bachelor of Science in Nursing], feeling like I was going to be in post-secondary forever, suffering from a serious case of the travel bug, and reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Love or hate the book [if you've only seen the movie, don't pass judgement. You must read the book before you're allowed to do that] she does include some pretty fantastic descriptions of sites, people, food, and wine. Italy has always been on my go-to list - Rome, Venice, Tuscany - I've always wanted to explore them all.

I had pretty much made up my mind that that's where I wanted to go on a trip. Then, I was talking to a friend, Rachel, and she mentioned that she was reading this book about Italy and she really wanted to travel to Italy in the summer of 2011. With an appropriate amount of squealing, giggling, and "Oh my gosh"ing, we decided to go. We contemplated the idea of a whirlwind, 4-5 week trip through Europe, but found that there was so much in Italy alone that we wanted to see, we had to narrow it down. A fast tour hitting only tourist sites in several countries would probably only leave us exhausted and feeling like we'd missed a lot. So we bought travel guides, read Italian phrase books, browsed blogs, and hunted for cheap flights. We found a wicked flight deal through Canadian Affair [www.canadianaffair.ca] and booked our seats. Originally, we planned to go for four weeks, but the way flight deals worked out, and with all the places we planned to visit, we extended our trip.

May 5 - June 9, 2011. Four flights, seven accomodations, an unmeasured amount of Italian wine and food, many, many new friends, several thousand photos, and innumerable stories. Me amo la bella Italia.

Permission

i'm in the corner
surrounded by my friends
You come rushing in
arms full - books, binders: school paraphernalia
and our eyes lock
one heart-shuddering moment
that ripples through my soul
and You trip.
Your shoe catches on the uneven floor
and You go down
papers flying; wind picking them up
sending them on their maiden flight
spiralling skyward
but gravity catches up
and there's no choice but to rain back down
You land hard.
flat on the ground
i'm so sorry.
the world froze
the whole world
and my fluidity solidified
unsure of my next move
no choreographer to provide direction

i am a broken clock -
as the circle around me titters -
incapable of any action
only emotion
scattering me to the paper-snatching wind
i'm so sorry.
i see now my duty to run over
help You off the ground
pick up Your things
but

would you have let me?

[February 28, 2007]

i'd rather wing it

There are several things standing in the way of me getting this careplan done by friday:

1) it is my last careplan ever. EVER!!!

2) there are only 7 days of clinical left, then it's summer.

3) in 23 days, I fly to Italy!

4) writing careplans is not something real nurses do. for real.

5) i hate careplans.

6) the patient i have to write my careplan on was discharged two weeks ago. so this is really a retrospective careplan therefore if there was any point, it is now moot.

7) i have a lot of other things that I need to get done in the near future.

8) there are a lot of things that I'd LIKE to do instead of this.

So there's my bitching for the day. My final assignment, in four spectacularly complicated, overly detailed and frustrating parts, will be handed in Friday at 1445. Then I will be all done careplans for the rest of my life. Lovely.

shades of green

I think have a problem with envy.

I'm not a musical prodigy. I'm not a genius with straight A's. My artwork looks like it was completed in a kindergarten classroom. This is not intended to be self-deprecating, it's just the honest truth. I'm a pretty average person.

This can sometimes lead to a bit of a problem. I tend to get a bit [read: quite!] jealous of people who are extremely accomplished. Those people who can sing absolutely anything they want in whatever style is desired. Artists who whip out a pencil, or pen, or paints and recreate the Mona Lisa in five minutes or less. Students who only half-focus in class, ignore their textbooks, and run off ten page papers in a couple hours the morning they're due and still end up with a gpa of 3.8. Those kids who suspend gravity when they jump, effortlessly run 15km a couple times a week, are the mvp of every game in every sport. Those people.

I noticed this week that a lot of the people who I don't expect to like before I know them are people who have talent that far exceeds my own. When I realized this, I spent some time trying to figure out why that is. And it's not a very flattering trait, but I have to confess this: I really dislike feeling inferior. I guess this probably also ties in with my self-esteem.

This is not something that I appreciate in myself. I wish that I were secure enough in who I am and in my ability to do the things that I do so that I would not feel threatened by other people. Ever since I realized this, I have been trying to assess the real reasons for why I dislike the people I don't like. I'm finding that my green-coloured glasses seem to be tainting my view of the people I envy ... how awful am I.


Song of the Day: We Don't Want Your Body by Stars

memorize everything

I hate being a student. Every time I start a new rotation on a new unit with a new teacher, there are hours and hours and HOURS of research to be done. I am expected to be an expert within the week. Physiology, surgical procedures, unit policies, pharmacology, pathophysiology - the list goes on and on.

Farewell, social life, for another four weeks. I look forward to greeting you when I'm done this rotation.


Song of the Day: Morning Yearning by Ben Harper

next summer

This is essentially my last summer. Ever.

That sounds melodramatic, but let me explain. This is my last summer as a student. As a nurse, there is pretty much only one thing to do immediately after I finish my final clinical: get a job as a graduate nurse to ensure that I am employed when [and if] I pass my Canadian Registered Nurse Exams [CRNEs]. The hope is to find a casual or part-time position so that I can work and still have time to study for the CRNE [supposedly on June 4, 2012] and the National Council Licensure Exam [NCLEX - the American/International equivalent]. Once registered, I am no longer able to work as a graduate nurse and will have to sign a contract as a RN to remain employed.

Like most professions [I believe teachers are one of the very few exceptions], I will not get summers off. Sure, I can book time off, but in the nursing profession, time off is booked based on seniority. The first time to be booked off is summer and Christmas holidays - the most senior staff [generally the oldest nurses on the unit(s)] get these. Then, things like May long weekend, September long weekend, Easter, etc. After that, random weeks throughout the year. These usually go to the newest nurses. Unfortunately, the better your unit is to work on, the longer the turnover, therefore the longer it takes to build up seniority as you wait for people to retire.

Anyway, I ramble. The point is this: this is pretty much my last summer. And I know that I am so lucky and so spoiled to get to be a little sad about this, but I feel like it needs to be a great summer. And it will. I have got big plans!

Song of the Day: All This Beauty by The Weepies

Oh take and seal it

"Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love."

I find it so frustrating that my heart is so fickle. Even though I know what I believe and I want Him to be the most important thing in my life, I tend to chase after empty dreams and fading flowers. Somehow I can't seem to stop myself. Often it seems to be the absolute most I can do to redirect myself when I realize how far off-track I have gotten.

I know that He is there and that He is calling for me. I want to want Him; I want to be unable to live my life without Him.

Bind my wandering heart to Thee.


Song of the Day: Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing by Robert Robinson

the disgusting miracle

I helped deliver a baby last week.

It doesn't look anything like in the movies or even on the reality shows where they "let you see everything." It was simultaneously disgusting, incredible, shocking, frightening, beautiful, and just plain amazing. As a student, I was very lucky to be up close, right in the action. As one friend laughingly put it, I was "in the splash zone." [Ew.] But seriously. I held the mother's leg for 90 minutes while she pushed and at the end of that, there was a baby lying on her stomach. A baby! I won't deny that I got pretty choked up, but I couldn't cry because I didn't have any available hands to wipe my face.

After we gave mom a chance to hold baby for a couple minutes, brand-new, delicate, screaming baby was handed to me. I took vital signs [or tried to - it's hard to hear a heart beat and respiration rate while the infant is screaming blue murder], administered the erythromycin eye ointment, and gave the baby it's vitamin K shot [I understand the screaming for that one]. I swaddled baby, and then gave baby back to mom. The look on her face - awe.

I think the look on my face was pretty awe-struck as well. When I entered the room that morning, there was just an extremely uncomfortable woman in the bed and her partner standing next to her. Two hours later, they were parents, with a beautiful baby in their arms. The whole experience made me realize that I am NOT mature enough to do that. I think I could do the whole pregnancy thing, and I really anticipate the day when I get to be a mom. But labour? Not yet, thank you! I told my instructor this and she said to me, "If you're mature enough to assist with labour, which you clearly were, you're either getting pretty close to or already are mature enough to do it yourself." Not comforting.

A good friend, who is also a nurse, told me that you never forget the first delivery you see. I definitely believe that.

Song of the day: Lux Aurumque by Eric Whitacre [translation - light and gold]

Growing up?

I hate it when life forces me to be a grown up. Choosing to act like an adult because I am one is one thing, but being forced into it by life circumstances, by the stupidity and thoughtlessness of other people - that I absolutely despise.

There are times when I fully come to the realization that I have to grow up. That one day things like basic house repairs, car maintenance, taxes, and income management will be 100% solely my responsibility. And it scares me. Right now, while I'm in school, I live with my parents. It's not always wonderful (I love them, but sometimes I really wish I lived elsewhere) but when I realize all the responsibility that I am starting to and will have to take on when I graduate next year, I figure I've got it pretty damn good now.

When situations like right now arise, and I have no choice but to take the high road, be the mature adult - I am not so happy about it. As I take on responsibility and adulthood in increasing doses in preparation for my independence (freeeeddooomm!!), I do it in measured amounts, knowing that I have a safety net to catch me if I screw up. With this situation, that is not the case. If it goes badly, there could be some big and unhappy consequences.

Maybe the problem is that I DO have a choice. I could just walk away and pretend that I didn't know what was going on. Be the bystander who encourages the negative behaviour through their non-action. But I will hate myself if I do. Especially if something similiar, or even worse, were to happen down the line because I didn't want to be the adult this time. There is a certain kind of person that I want to be, and cowardly does not fit on that list, but I am feeling like a coward right now.

I will do what I have to do, but I certainly don't have to be happy about the situation.


Song of the Day: Bullet and a Target by Citizen Cope