Kerry's blog

My dad called today.

He asked to speak to me.

Odd.

He wanted to let me know my grandmother died yesterday.

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Irene.  I remember her name as being Irene.  She was old.  REAL old.  Old as dirt, maybe older.  Old people didn’t scare me.  Not like they did when I was little.  When I was little, I  was forced to play the piano for them.  I hated the piano.  I hated the teachers, the lessons and my mother for making me do something I hated… but that never mattered.  If it was a job assigned to me, I did it.  It was expected I did it well, so I made sure I didn’t disappoint the expectations others made for me.  It was the least I could do to show how grateful I was for  all that was given to me by my parents.

However, this isn’t about Me, this is about Irene, and my brief time spent with her.  She was the first patient I had been assigned by my Nursing School instructors.  As part of the clinical application of the R.N. program I was parentally assigned to complete, ALL students were expected to attend ALL In-House practice of whatever  lessons were being taught in the classroom.  It was a brilliant approach, since the best way to learn IS by doing.  “Listen.  Watch.  Then do.”  Easy enough, even a child can learn how to follow a leader.  I liked how everything was considered Mandatory… it left no room for excuse.  I was free to follow orders, and it never had to be questioned by anyone, especially by those who didn’t know how needy I was to be Told what to do next.  I felt safe, working among complete strangers in a hospital where autonomy and healing was the goal.  I just resented I was told to become a nurse, and not allowed to explore my love for reading and writing.  So I cheated.  I attended all my classes and clinical-obligations and lived at home, like the Good Girl that I was… but I spent most of the lecture hours writing letters to the friends I lost when I was forced to leave college.

Irene was my specially-chosen-just-for-me Lab Experiment.  The Nursing Goal that day was to initiate effective communication.  “Ask open-ended questions, and write down whatever response your patient provides.”  <what if the patient won’t talk?>  “Then start with Closed-ended questions, those which can be answered with a “yes” or “no” response”.  <what if the patient still won’t talk?>  Then document: “pt does not respond”.  <okey-doke!>  I was given a task, a goal, and I knew how to approach the situation.  I was free to continue my list of letters I wanted to complete that day in class.

 Oddly enough, I can still hear the litany of the lesson: “when you ask a detailed question using the Open-Ended technique, you are allowing another person to engage in a conversation.”  I was amazed how difficult the concept seemed to some:  “When you ask a question, make sure you listen to the response.”  Not everyone will respond to pain in the same way, so not all efforts will work the same with each person.  Medicine is subjective and objective, so success is based on a personal experience with more trial and error, than facts or rules.  The less clues a person is able to provide, the  deeper an investigative approach needs to made if a person wants to know how or where the source of pain began.  Only at the source, the point of origin, can pain be healed.  Made perfect sense, so I accepted that as Law.  While most people scribbled notes, I was free to continue with the list of things I wanted to do before the day was over.  School was always as simple as that for me…  sit, listen, then do something else.  Learning was easy, provided math calculations were not involved.

 I was 19 when I started Nursing School, but I already felt as old as some of the residents in that Nursing Home where Irene was sentenced to spend her last days on Earth.  St. Vincent’s Nursing Home.  It used to be a Hospital, in it‘s former Glory Days.  I think it may have been where my brother was born… or my father was born… I’m not sure. Details like that have lost meaning to me.  All I know is the Nursing Home was not very unusual, in comparison to the many other nursing homes I had been “invited“ to perform one of those God-awful wretched piano recitals I had to endure for the sake of My Mother.  Did I mention how much I hated those damn bloody piano lessons?

I can understand why people misinterpret my ambiguious personality as being simply "mixed-up", irrational and proof that I do not know WHAT I want in and out of Life.

I require - yes, demand - a rigid rule of "Say what you mean, and mean what you say" when relating to me. I am forever in search of the person who CAN do just that. Perhaps I will die a Lady in Waiting since the single most important need I have is related to my wanting to trust a person's Word. [Gee, there's a shock, eh?]

I live in this delusional world where I, myself, follow my own policy, as my Example to others. But I know I don't really operate that way! I forget the plain truth about my inability to stick to a decision or mind-set. I become so frustrated & hurt when someone violates my Code, because in MY mind, it's a complete dismissal and rejection of something that's critical to my well-being. I SAY I am understanding , empathetic and supportive, but in truth, that is only when it fits MY ability to cope.

If I'm feeling relatively good, because I'm being true to Myself, I can take on the world. I can allow myself the permission to create grand visions and make master plans for which I can realistically follow through and have reason to expect nothing but great success. [I make short-term AND long-term plans...not irrational, unrealistic ones, because that would be futile and downright retarded.]

At the time of such Plan-Making, I truly, deeply, and completely believe not only in myself, but have the confidence in my ability to MAKE my Dream Happen. I'm In The Moment, saying what I mean, and I really mean what I'm saying. Right NOW, at that very moment. When I feel like I have Hope fighting within me, I can be True to my own words. Then I have a set-back. A critical remark; an unresponsive friend; a broken promise I was relying on... and all bets are off.

I was born in St. John's, Newfoundland, Canada. I became a U.S. citizen at the age of 5. I have no birth certificate, no visa, no documentation of any kind. To my disposal, that is. I cannot remember a time when I did NOT know I was adopted. My grandparents were kind enough to remind me far too often how I'm not "one of them".

Every child loves to hear the story of his/her birth. I was no exception. I would ask my Amother if she knew ANYTHING about my birth. Not to belabor the subject, (pun intended), she would go into great detail and effort making sure I knew few details, but was fully-aware of the many less favorable facts and aspects of the circumstances surrounding my conception and rejection. Briefly, she told me I was the result of an adulterous, drunken night between a Local woman, and an Ukrainian marine biologist. It just so happens, he sailed into-port, met Local Female Drunk, had his way, and because she was Catholic, she was "made" to keep the pregnancy. Romantic, isn't it? Each time I asked my second-mother about my first, I would be told (in not so many words) I would have been an abortion, if not for the Catholic Church. [Hold the applause for The Pope...]

Immediately after the Church Ordained birth, the miracle of life was wisked away to the local orphange. According to some, my "Mother" (can you all hear the pinched, strained ennunciation of that name?) wished to have nothing to do with me. I was left to live among many, many other unwanted bastards. Because of the very poor nature of Newfoundland, the babies of the orphanage were grossly neglected.

My Amother took great pride in telling her story.... how, upon bringing home her newly purchased baby, SHE discovered how poorly developed I was. My muscle-tone, and physical development was that of the newborn she truly wished to get. I was "the best of both worlds." I was an older baby, not too fragile and small; but small and petitie, with the same rudamentary skills and abilities of a newborn.

There was a neighbor who had a baby boy 1 month before I was born. Legend has it my Amother would spend much time with him, and watch carefully how that baby was growing and thriving. She had expected much of the same skills and size  from me. "I could not believe how shocked I was when I held you." (Her words; her story.) Upon first meeting, I was a disappointment. "ALL you did was scream. Your skin was a mess with this terrible-looking rash. You would NOT eat, and your head was flat on one side. The pediatrician warned me, due to the neglect, you would most likely be retarded. I wanted to prove him wrong. Six months later, the dr could not believe his eyes... the dramatic change that took place. You had caught-up to, and even exceeded (the neighbor's boy) in gross & fine motor skills. Your appetite was insatiable, and you would go to person to person, just loving any bit of attention you could get."