You learn how tough you are...

when you have an 82 year old man punch you in the throat at three am. You learn how patient you are when you have a patient yelling "Nancy" down the hall at you...and your name ain't Nancy. You realize you have grown as a person when you can just stop saying hello and goodbye to people who really don't give a rats ass about you. Why ask "how are you" when you are not remotely interested in the answer? Love that. When people say how are you as they walk past you.

Bitch please. Stop that catwalk right there and you come talk to my ass, ya hear? Don't be asking me how I am and then walk past me. I have answers. You asked and now...you shall know.

Why do people do that?

Anyway, I Have been a bad blogger as of late. No recent updates. No reading other blogs. No commenting on other blogs. I have been blog neglectful...except my bipolar blog which needs constant updating depending on what personality I am experiencing that day.

I have this question to pose to all of you though. Seriously think about this. When someone is just joking around saying "Ha! That chick is crazy! She's seriously bipolar or schizophrenic or something..." do you think it would be alright if I knocked them the fuck out? I mean, I have those things. They are a constant struggle for me. Everyday I eat a box of medications for BPD and for schizophrenia. I take Prozac. The highest amount. 80 mgs. I take Lamictal. Again, highest amount, 400mgs. I take Geodon for my schizophrenia. 60 mgs. All this does not include the xanax, restoril, ativan and valium that I take to keep my not so well controlled mania under control.

I suffer with this shit every single day of my life and I am so fed up of hearing people throw around the word "bipolar" just to describe the antics of someone who might be a little loopy upstairs.

I am a proud card carrying member of crazy bitch anonymous. I worked hard for that notoreity. Not everyone gets diagnosed as bipolar with schizophrenia! Hell...I have two reputable doctors backing me up on this. Since when did it become chic to have a mental disorder? I think that is everyones lameass excuse for when things go wrong in their life. Right away they have a doctor throw them on a drug..."Here, suck on this and make the loop de loop go bye byes."

No.

I earned mine through years of torturing myself and others. You cannot wear this badge of honor of mine. There is a difference between being crazy and being psychologically fucked. I lay it on the line about my bipolar issues. Fuck. You think any less of me for them...fuck you. I will take a hacksaw to your left jugular. I don't care. I have an alibi. I'm schizophrenic. I can pretty much do whatever I want and just point to my medical file for back up. That's why it's so great to be diagnosed.

This post was heading somewhere...but I have forgotten where. Oh yeah. Blogging. So um, I'm gonna work on that and get a little better at updating. Working night shift is fucking up my entire world. But ahhhhhhhhh...to work at the hours where there are no administrative cunts running up and down your ass is soooooo worth it.

It's 8am. I just got home from work because the inconsiderate twat before me came in late. Not nice. I told her so. I think she got offended...

LOOK!!! Here's a picture of me not giving a flying fuck! Hooooooray!

Oh, btw...Sammi had a sonogram. Congratulate me. I'm having a blob. The stupid tech couldn't tell the sex of the baby. Fucking tard. I hope I am a better grandmother than I am a blogger. I used to be really good at this and now I find myself so burnt out. I mean, what can I tell all of you that I haven't spewed all over these pages in the past three years. Y'all know EVERYTHING about me.

This must mean my life is getting disinteresting. I will have to fix that.

Maybe I just need to use one of my other personalitities to blog from now on.

Rude Ass Mutha Fucka.

I don't get it. I just don't. I know there are bitchy women in this world. Hell, I fess to being one of them. I have attitude to spare and, if I weren't taking a ton of medication to keep me "normal", I would find myself in jail over and over again. However, I want to know...what is it about women who work in Human Resources that makes them such...dare I say? Cunts. God, I hate that word, but there is no other word for this twat that I work with.

I missed my insurance filing date at my new job by five days. I wasn't aware that they had a 45 day maximum on getting your insurance filed. So, on day 50, I was feeling pretty good about the fact that I got my paperwork in at what I thought would be a 60 day turn around time. Most companies are 60-90 days before you are offered benefits. BEEEEEEP! All except this company. 45 days. Okay. I get that. I done fucked up. Sweet. Now I have no insurance from my company and have to wait until open enrollment. October. Sucks. I get that too. I'm not a stupid woman, it was my error. Got it.

However, I called Human Resources to find out if I could do anything about it to fix the situation. No call back. I call again. No call back. So, I pick my happy fat ass up, on my day off mind you, and went over to talk to her. And yes, bitches, I did punch in first. Fuck that. You make me come in to talk to you it's gonna be on YOUR dime, you fucking piece of garbage. I walk into her office and said, "I need to talk to you." She says, "what's your name?" I got out the "C" part but before I could add the "P" part, the red haired flaming goat ass walks right out of her office past me and says "there's nothing I can do."

Bitch left me standing in the middle of her office. Standing there. Like a fucking douchebag who she just stepped over. Like I am some sort of piece of trash not worthy of a discussion.

She walked down the hall, turned the corner and was gone. My jaw was on the fucking floor.

Oh no she did NOT just do THAT.

Bitch did. She turned her back on me and walked the fuck away.

Ain't no thing, I thought to myself. I will just walk in to my administrator and let her know how I was being treated by human resources. I bring my happy ass over to administration to talk with them...and guess who is already there? Yes. Robyn Floss...Dog shit pile extraordinaire. I normally don't reveal peoples names, but this bitch...OY did she get my panties in a fucking knot! So, if you can hunt her down in the city of New Port Richey, Florida...fax bomb the twat. Please. I'll make it worth your while.

In the interim, I spoke to the administrator about possibly changing my date of hire OR allowing me to put in my two weeks notice and then have them hire me back at a later date. The admin was VERY receptive to me. Now mind you. I am not being a little brat who wants her way or no way at all. I GET that it was my issue. But, to not even show an ounce of empathy or to at least hear me out? No. Not gonna happen. I explained to the administrator how I was treated by Robyn the cunt. She apologized to me and said that Robyn was a "difficult personality" but in her position, she has to be.

Difficult personality? That's it? No, baby dolls. "I" have a difficult personality. I have rage and anger issues. I am not a pleasant person to have to deal with, at least prior to being on my medications. Now, I am a total lovebug. Yes. Me. Lovely person. Indeed.

Okay, so the situation didn't get handled to my liking. Alrighty then. However, I have been mulling over calling the twat all day just to tell her the following:

While I understand that there was nothing you could do for me in this particular situation...WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO WALK RIGHT PAST ME LIKE I DON'T EVEN EXIST?????

Alright, so I wouldn't put it that way. Not necessarily. I want to make it very clear to her that I am not pleased with the way she spoke to me. My husband tells me just to blow it off. I can't. I am sitting here fuming over this. My blood is boiling and I am considering taking a few days off of my meds just so I can give her my real thoughts. That would be sweet. Would I be putting my job in jeopardy? I don't know. Actually, I think that this post convinced me that I am going to call her right now. Yep. Right this second.

Be back shortly.

10 minutes later;

"Robyn? This is CP calling. I just wanted to let you know that this afternoon, when I came to discuss my situation with you that I feel you were extremely rude to me. You walked out of the office and didn't bother to listen to anything I had to say. You never returned my two phone calls. I had questions. I needed some answers and you weren't willing to hear me out."

"Well, I feel that you shouldn't be badgering me over something that was not my fault."

"Absolutely. And I understand that. I was just looking for options and to find out when the next open enrollment was. You picked yourself up, walked out of the office and and said 'there's nothing I can do about it'. I feel that was extremely rude and I didn't deserve that kind of behavior."

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way."

"Dont be sorry that I feel that way. That's not your burden. What you should feel sorry about is how incredibly rude you were to a co-worker. It was uncalled for and you might want to re-think how you handle things in the future."

*dead silence*

"Are we through," she asks.

"Yes. We are. I just wanted to get that off of my chest."

"Thank you very much."

"Goodbye," I said. "And I hope you have a better day."

I hung up.

Now, let me get this out of my system. Robyn Floss is a flaming red cooch that is loaded up with STD's and has a stank twat. She is scum of the earth and the lowest form of life. My dog's shit has more personality than she does. She is a cum bucket and a low life fucking bitch and I wish personal tragedy on the red haired slut. I hope that someone treats her as coldly and as rudely as I was treated. I hope someone reduces that cunt to tears and puts her in her place once and for all.

I just called the director of nursing and told her, in a voice mail, what had happened so that Robyn the cuntface couldn't say I said anything differently than what I have said. Okay. *whew* *deep breath*

I'm chilled out now.

MAN...do I feel so much fucking better right now! Now, I have no idea what the ramifications of this little conversation will be. Will I lose my job over it? I doubt it. But, if I do...it would be worth it to me to know I set the bitch straight.

Or, I could just be very passive/aggressive and key her new Escalade?

Whee! That sounds like fun!

What would you do???

The right to live...and die.

Her name was Darla Cummings*. She was a 52 year old African American woman who was in our nursing facility. Darla had multiple sclerosis and slowly, her muscular function was shutting down. Year after year, Darla suffered from spasms that would eventually leave certain muscles in her body paralyzed. Recently, she had had a total knee replacement and was at our facility for therapy, to help her get back to walking on her own.

Darla was a private woman who was fiercely indepedent. She would refuse her pain medications, despite the agony she was in, because she wanted to be able to get through her ordeal without becoming reliant on the opiates we were feeding her. She knew she was going home soon. She worked diligently, every single day, to overcome the obstacles in front of her. She did her best.

She died last night.

"I think I am having a spasm," she said as she gasped her last breath. We immediately started CPR on her. One of us did chest compressions while the other attempted to breath life back into her lungs. I called the next of kin, her sister, to inform her that we were sending her sister out to the hospital.

"NO," she exclaimed. "Darla is a DNR!! (Do not resuscitate). It is her wish to die if that is what is to happen to her. Do NOT resuscitate my sister!"

"Ma'am," I said. "We can't do that. She has no paperwork in her chart stating that she is a DNR. Without that paperwork, state law says we have to continute life preserving measures. I'm sorry."

"You can't do this," she wailed. "Darla wants to die. She doesn't want to come back just to suffer a more horrible death. Her organs are shutting down. Please. You have to stop CPR, you just have to."

"Let me call her doctor," I said. "Maybe he has her DNR on file. Let me hurry and call him so we can stop CPR on her."

"Please do that," she said, her voice in a panic. "please call me right back."

"I will," I assured her and got on the phone with the doctor.

"I don't have a record of her having a DNR. You have to continue life saving measures. It's state law. You keep doing what you have to do to save her life."

The paramedics arrived. They took over life saving procedure. They thumped her chest, placed a rebreather mask on her mouth and squeezed air into her resistant lungs. I called the sister back.

"There's nothing we can do," I told her. She sobbed erratically and made one last plea.

"Please. Please just let her go. It was her wish to die if this happened to her. Please. Please just let her die in peace."

And I cried. "We can't, Jane*. We can't let her go without trying to resuscitate. I am so, so very sorry. Please, I have to get back into her room. I will let you know if they are having any success."

"Will you call me?"

"I will call you. I promise I will call you."

We hung up and I ran back down the hall to see if there was any progress being made. There wasn't. She was gone despite the best of everyones intentions. By law, we have to continue life saving measures until the patient arrives at the hospital. As the paramedics wheeled her out of the building, they continued chest compressions and breathing for her. It was no use. She was gone.

I called back the sister and explained to her that we were taking her Darla to a nearby hospital, but reassured her that so far, the life preserving measures were a failure. Darla was gone...but the doctor has to officially declare her dead. I can't do that. All I could do was tell her that so far, her sister remained lifeless.

Later on that night, Darla's sister, Jane, showed up at our facility to gather her sisters personal effects. She hugged each one of us and thanked us for doing what we could. She said she understood our predicament. She held my hand as she talked to me about her baby sister.

"She was a fashion designer, did you know that?"

"No," I replied. "She didn't talk much about her past. It's odd to have someone under your care for nearly two months and you don't really get to know them at all, you know?"

"She was also an interpreter for the deaf. She flew all over the country. She was an amazing woman."

"Yes. She was. She was fiercely independent I said with a gentle laugh. "She always insisted on doing everything for herself no matter how long it took. She wouldn't take her pain medication because she knew she was going home soon and didn't want to become reliant on the pills."

"Fierce," Jane whispered. "Fiercely independent. I like that. That is a good way to describe her. She was fierce."

She continued to hold my hand as we sat in silence. She didn't cry. It was more a relieved soft smile on her face.

"She was my baby sister. I never recalled a time where she wasn't in my life. She did so much with her life. So much more than I did. This disease. It never crushed her spirit. Never."

I became teary eyed and patted Jane's hand. "She said she wanted to go home. She's home now."

"Yes," Jane said softly. "She is home now. She is with God."

We sat quietly alongside one another, taking comfort in each other. I was still so in awe of what had happened. All because of a piece of paper, this woman could not have her final wish. It got me thinking about my own mortality and how I don't have a living will in place. My wishes are known to my husband, of course, but they aren't on paper. For all intents and purposes, my life will be left in the hands of those who are responsible for keeping me alive, even if I prefer to die in peace. As though reading my mind, Jane spoke quietly.

"It was my fault," she said. "I should have brought in her paperwork. I didn't think to do it. She was getting better, you know? CP, make sure you have your final wishes in order. This should never happen to anyone. I just assumed that people would understand she was a DNR if I told them so. I was her power of attorney. I didn't know..."

Her voice trailed off.

"Did you get to see her," I asked.

"Yes. At the hospital. She looked so peaceful. She almost had a slight smile on her lips. She is finally free of the disease and she can go back to being the free spirit she always was."

"Fierce," I said. "She will always be fierce."

Her sister hugged me and thanked me again for supporting her. She told me when Darla's memorial service would be held and asked if I would come. I told her I would be honored to be there. We hugged at the front door of the facility. Then she got in her car, a full box of her sisters personal things on the front seat and drove away.

And again, I cried.

52 years old. That's all I could think about. 52 years old with a crippling disease that would eventually shut down all her organs. I can't blame her for wanting to die. I think I would too. Peacefully, with my wishes being accounted for. Wishes that I do not have on paper, but will make it a point of doing so. I learned a valuable lesson in the wake of this tragedy. You can't take for granted that people will know your final wishes. They won't. You have to have them down on paper, filed with your doctor and make sure that if you are hospitalized for any reason, that they are aware of whether you want your life preserved should anything detrimental happen to you while in their care. This week, I will get my living will in order. I would suggest to all of you that you do the same. No one wants to think about their death. It's a morbid thought. But if you don't make preparations for your final wants, no one else will know them either.

Fierce. That is what I will always think of Miss Cummings. Fierce until the last breath she took. She knew what she wanted and she wanted to be with God. She did what she wanted, despite all of us doing what we could to save her life. I wish I had gotten to know her better. She was a strong, beautiful woman. She was fierce.

And I will never forget her or the lesson she left in her wake.








*names changed to protect identity.

How rumors get started...

Myself and two co-workers were chatting in the late overnight hours two days ago. Nora, being a former veteranarian tech was talking to Melissa about a problem her Rotweiller was having. A few certified nursing assistants were mulling around the area, not giving much attention to what we were saying...so we thought.

"He keeps scratching his ass on the carpet," Melissa laments. "And this gross fluid comes out when he does it! It smells nasty!"

"Does he seem to be in any pain," Nora asks.

"Everytime my boyfriend or I try to pick Herman up, he cries. Something must be bothering him or hurting him. He keeps rubbing his ass on the carpet and whimpering."

"It sounds like it is his anal sac," says Nora. It's like an inverted hemmorrhoid for a dog."

"So, what do you do for that," I ask.

"Basically," Nora begins, "you have to reach inside the anus, pull the sac out and squeeze the fluids out of it."

I broke out into a fit of laughter. "Yeah, Melissa. Just stick your hand up his ass and squeeze. That should do the trick. Works for MY husband."

We all fall into a fit of laughter. Conversation over...so we thought.

Enter my friend Jaime. After being off for two days, she has the need to fill me in on all the local gossip going on in the nursing home.

"Did you hear what happened to Melissa? She's having some issues at home."

"Really," I ask, my ears perking up. "What's the problem?"

"Apparently, and I heard this from Patty...Melissa and her man are having trouble with stuff in the bedroom."

"What? What kind of stuff?"

"It seems that she wants to have anal sex, but everytime he gets hard, fluid comes out when it goes up and he cries."

*sigh*

"Jaime. Melissa has a dog, named Herman who is having trouble with his anal sac. It's leaking fluid and everytime they lift the dog up, he cries in pain."

*blank stare*

"Whatever," says Jaime. "I liked it my way better."

Because I love the drama...

you KNOW I had to go back to that job. Babies, be serious. This is me we are talking about. The drama goddess. I thrive on this shit. How could I possibly NOT go back to that other job and see how it would all turn out.

Turns out that I was SO right about going back. It seems that the office/clinical manager, the RN I was telling you about, has a bit of "history" with the God Complex Doc! *wink wink* Oh, yes. History. That kind. So, when he yelled at her, she broke down crying like a woman...with "history". Seems she doesn't like being yelled at by her EX! YES! Is this not delicious? Of course, I had to snuggle up to this woman and get the juicy deeeeetails. This is how he "fired" her. Apparently, they do this quite often. They fight like Junior High School kiddies and break up to make up!

And I get to live in the thick of this! Sweet! Blog fodder galore!

Back to my other job, you know, the one where I really done fucked up? I confessed. Yes, I did. I told the clinical supervisor what I did, what I did to cover it up and how freaking sorry I was for the entire incident. It felt good to get that burden off of my already cumbersome chest. Now, check this out.

She knew.

Yep. She told me that she realized I hadn't documented the medicine in the chart. When she went to go take a look at the medication, seems that I never opened the correct bottle. It still had its original cap on...so I didn't cover myself as well as I thought I did. She said she gathered, from all my administration of juices and supplements, that I gave the wrong insulin. She told me that she didn't write me up for a medication error because I went about the right way of getting the patients blood sugar back to normal limits. She did say she was disappointed in me that I felt I couldn't be honest about the situation.

Nothing like someone telling you they are "disappointed" in you to REALLY make you feel like human festering garbage, ya know? Like I wasn't feeling bad enough. Feh.

So there you go, boys and girls. One for the books. Can't say I necessarily feel better, but I feel like I could look myself in the mirror again. Very hard for me not to...because y'all know how vain I am. To not be able to look at myself is like me not being allowed to shop. It simply cannot happen.

In the meantime, I had another nurse, a new nurse call me in this evening because she was having trouble getting urine out of a catheter. I stepped in to help...and realized that this sweet young nurse was catheterizing the woman's asshole instead of her urethra. Oy. There are so many holes down there, but I don't know how you can mistake the pee hole for the ass hole, ya know? So I got busy and did my very first female catheter! Yay! I've done men before...they are easy...only one hole and not alot of room to fuck up.

I just thought it was damn funny that she was trying to get pee out of the shithole.

I guess I don't suck as much as I thought I did.

In the interim, I suppose all of you should stay away from this assisted living facility in the future. These are the kinds of fucked up nurses who are out there...taking care of your grandparents. I got an idea for a book. It's called "What You Don't Know Can Kill Your Parents" and it will be a compilation of nursing errors and things that nurses do to take shortcuts that could be detrimental to the health and welfare of your loved ones in nursing homes.

'Course, I may have to wait to retire before writing this book...since one of my flubs will be featured.

I figure I can bang the book out when I turn 60 or so. Then again, I may end up in one of these homes myself...but at least I will know what to watch out for!

Not so hospitable hospital...

I am at orientation for a new position at a local hospital. Not giving up the old job, mind you, just adding this one to my resume. A pool position, which means they call me in only when they are understaffed. Perfect fit for my graveyard shift at the other assisted living facility I work at.

The clinical manager is showing me around the workplace and how to do intake on new patients. The paperwork is clear enough and I dont feel the need for this to be a six hour review. However, I let the clinical manager, an RN, show me the proverbial ropes.

While I was there, one of the doctors made an abrupt and rude comment to the clinical manager. Doctors do this to their nurses all the time. You have to be pretty thick skinned to work for a doctor, especially in a hospital. His comment was along the lines of "If you can't get this work done, then find someone who can." I look at the clinical manager to see her expression.

She's crying.

*blink*

She goes into her office and I follow her. It's my job to shadow her. She puts her head down on the desk and starts to sob. "I'm only one person," she exclaims, looking in my direction. I shrug, not knowing what on earth I am supposed to say to this person that I have known for a hot 30 minutes. A receptionist walked into the RN's office and asked that I please excuse them so they may talk. I leave the office. I am standing outside the door, leaning against the wall, feeling a bit foolish. What the fuck am I supposed to do while she is in there sobbing and spilling her guts out to this receptionist?

"Are you new here," the doctor asks me gruffly.

"Um, yes. I am on orientation with Mary."

"Where is Mary?"

"She's in her office."

"And she just left you standing in the hallway doing nothing but taking up space?"

(Oh, do I want to let this douchebag have it with both barrels at this point)

"I am just waiting for her to finish up whatever it is she is doing and then get back to orientation."

"Well, you come with me. Have you ever done a surgery before?"

"Um, yeah, but..."

"No buts. You come assist me. I'll deal with her later."

Okay, so I follow the guy into the surgery room where they will be debriding a wound and prepping it for a skin graft. I have done these before, but never with this doctor. I don't know how he likes his set up and what role he prefers his nurses to play. Dude, I am on ORIENTATION and don't have a clue where anything is. He's asking me to pull out this material and that material. I am hunting in drawers and cabinets looking for whatever it is he is requiring. Naturally, I am not doing such a hot job because I don't know where a damn fucking thing is in this place.

"Forget it," he snaps at me. "I'll do it myself."

"Okay," I shrug and leave the room.

I walk back over to Mary's office in time to hear her say, "this new nurse is never going to stay here with the way he talks to us. That's why we never keep any nurses in this position." She's still crying. I am back to standing in the hallway feeling awkward. When she finally comes out of her office, wiping her eyes and her red nose, she apologizes to me.

"That's Dr. V. He's not a very nice person."

No shit. Really? I didn't gather that from our little get together 10 minutes ago. I told her what happened and she started to cry again. Hello? Am I in a psych ward or something? You are an RN and a clinical manager! Suck it up!

"I suppose you won't be back on Tuesday," she says.

"No, I'll be here," I said. "I just don't think I will react to this doctor in the same way you did. I'm not big on the whole crying thing. I think it empowers people too much."

"I won't blame you if you don't want to come back."

"Nah. I'll be here again on Tuesday. Eventually, I will straighten his ass out and let him know that he can't talk to people that way."

"Really??"

"yeah. And every time you drop a tear over him, he is only garnering more ammunition to use against you. You need to speak up to him and tell him you won't be talked down to in such a manner. If you don't respect yourself, he will never respect you."

"You're right," she said. "And I am going to tell him that right now."

"Um, he's in surgery right now."

"Good. I will have his undivided attention then."

She walks into the OR and starts clammoring about how she deserves more respect. In fact, she demands it or he can start working by himself. She is no longer going to take it and she demanded an apology.

Well, I will be damned if the fucker didn't pull off his gloves, right in the middle of surgery, drag her ass out of the door and read her the riot act...just before letting her go.

WTF?

"You," he says to me. "Get gloves on and scrub in."

I look to the RN and then back to the Doctor. I grab some sterile gloves and join in on the surgery. The RN is a sobbing mess by the front door of the OR. "Fine," she says. "Keep her. She doesnt even know what she is doing."

"Yes," he said. "But at least she can take a verbal beating."

Did you ever feel like evaporating into the floor where you were standing? How would you have handled this situation and more importantly, would you show up for this job again on Tuesday?

Okay. I'm back.

My husband asked me not to blog about what happened. He is convinced that someone, somewhere may hold it against me. I agree with him to a certain extent. The watered down version is I gave a patient the wrong medication which caused them to go into a diabetic shock. She survived, but only because I did my best to cover it up. I should have gone to the doctor with my error, but I didn't. I was too busy covering my own ass.

There is more to the story, but I have to let that go.

I need to thank all of you who commented below. I needed to read every last one of those posts. Thank you all for being so gracious with your words. I need to especially thank one female blogger who reached out to me via email. Your kindness was not lost on me. Thank you for your understanding and forgiveness. You said all the things I needed to hear and I am grateful to have you as a friend.

You are all phenomenal people and I am thankful to have you all in my life.

I promise to go back to the princessy posts after this. I have learned a very hard lesson. I am forgiving myself and chalking it up as something that will only make me a better nurse and human being from this day forward.

Again, I thank all of you for being there. Truly. I love you all.

CP.

Dear Friends...

I am in big trouble right now. Big trouble. I can't get into it right now and I hate being so vague. I want to pour my heart out to all of you in hopes of someone helping me to get it right, but I can't right now. I will. It will come out. It always does. I am ashamed of myself and despite that, I am not ready to be punished for my actions. No, I didn't kill anyone...but I might as well have. It is very hard to admit that you are disgusted with yourself. It's hard to look at my face in the mirror right now and find any semblance of a good person there. I know she exists...she just has bigger problems right now. I can't hurdle this one alone. I can't. I fucked up big time. (No, it has nothing to do with me and the hotband...my life is more perfect than it should be. I don't deserve it...or him.)

I have already reached out to God for some help or hope. I don't feel like He is giving it to me right now because I turned my back on Him as of late. I am struggling with something that is much bigger than I am...and if you have seen me, you know I am a damn big hunk of woman.

I am surviving by listening to Beatle's music. I am trying to let the words to certain songs, like "Let it Be" heal me. No one thus far is speaking words of wisdom to me. I am at war with myself right now.

I promise to open up about this problem before the end of the week. For right now, if you can find it within you to throw a prayer, some good vibes, some positive karma or whatever it is you do in my direction...I will be humbled and grateful.

I am completely lost right now. I am in need of saving...and fast.

Someone please say something. Anything. Please.

It's not always black and white.

I am back at work. I have been at my new place for a month and so far, I am enjoying the view from here. I work overnights, 11 pm until 7 am in the morning. This works for me. I'm a night owl so I put my insomnia to good use. I am making excellent money and the third shift allows me to be home for my son during the day. I can't be more thankful if I tried. (Yes, I will even thank the crack whore who stole my purse. She motivated me to get my job, despite having no ID. No clue? See "Dear Crack Whore" post below).

Anyway, one of the perks of going back to work is blog fodder. I had a run in this evening that angered me to the point of blowing a gasket. Now mind you, I have never made a secret of the fact that I am a diagnosed bipolar with mild schizophrenia. I embrace my disability enough to medicate myself so that my rages are few and far between. It takes a lot to get me angry since going on medication. For me to be this pissed off means that someone took me from the safety of my medication and made me sub-human again. I don't like that feeling.

I was getting report from another nurse. She was telling me about the patients and what sort of issues she had with them this evening. She made a request of a CNA (Certfied Nursing Assistant) to please take a patient back down to his room so he can use his urinal.

"He ain't my patient," she replies.

"No, he isn't," she countered. "But he is a patient and I am asking you to bring him down to his room so he may use his urinal."

"I'll go find his aide."

"No, you won't. I am giving you a direct order to move this patient or I will write you up."

I am watching this interaction and keeping silent. The nurse was in the right. However, I stayed out of it. I didn't feel the aide needed to be reprimanded by two nurses. When the aide stomped away, she said "I am so sick of these white bitches ordering me around."

White bitches? Was she referring to my uniform or to my skin color.

"Adrienne," I called after her. "Come back here please."

She came back to the desk, all attitude, eyes rolling and sucking on her teeth.

"If you don't want to take orders, I might suggest that you either find another field or perhaps, go to nursing school so that you may eventually give the orders. I don't think race has anything to do with this."

"'Course you don't" she said. "You white. I'm black."

The other nurse chimed in "We're educated. You're not."

Oy.

Adrienne walked away, pushing the patient down the hall, grumbling the entire way. The first nurse turns to me and says, "You know, not to be racist...because I'm not, but I find the black aides to be the worst aides. They never want to do anything."

"Theresa, you are making this a race issue the same way Adrienne is. I have a lot of black aides on my shift that do an amazing job. I have some white girls who are mouthy and obnoxious. This isn't a race thing, it's an individual thing."

And it got me thinking. When someone has to justify something they say or do with the race card, it gets me in the position of feeling less respectful of that person. I don't like it. I don't like to be around it. I am not one of those people who will not speak up when racism becomes an issue. I want no part of it, but to stay silent only condones the other persons actions, so I don't.

Later on, as I was leaving, I caught Adrienne in the hallway.

"You really don't think of me as a bitch, do you?"

"No. That other nurse. She's a bitch."

"I agree. She is a bitch. She could have handled it differently. But I have to ask. Why is she a white bitch? Why was that comment made?"

"You don't understand, CP. You have all the advantages. You went to nursing school, you got a high paying job. Y'all don't have to do a third of the shit we aides have to do. I don't like getting bitched at."

"No one does. I don't. But I really take exception to you calling me a white bitch. I think you have a poor attitude sometimes. You have issues with authority. If I was a black nurse, you would have referred to me as just a plain old run of the mill bitch. No color involved."

"You don't get it," she tells me. "I work hard and I don't get no appreciation."

"I work hard too. I was a CNA at one time. I know it's a hard job. That's why I went back to school. I wanted to be able to do a job where I earned more money and more respect. I didn't like the way the nurses treated me."

"Yeah," she says, "Cause most of y'all are bitches."

She walks away.

I left the building feeling a hole in my heart. Two incidents of racism. One from a black aide and the other from a white nurse. I tried to rationalize with both of them and now I become the pariah for speaking up and out. I don't mind being called a bitch. To me, that's foreplay. It means I am a strong woman who keeps her ideals lofty and has a terrific sense of self. I also don't see color. Perhaps that is because I was raised by parents who are bigots. Again, they justify it with "I have lots of black friends, but..."

This does not bode well with me.

My ex husband is dating a girl who is black. She is a beautiful girl with a kind heart who makes him happy. Yet, my ex is always quick to point out that she is black. Well, duh. I see her. I can see her skin color. I feel more like he is trying to sell her to others, trying to justify his love for a woman of another race. It bothers me to know that in this day and age, we are still drawing pie charts of black versus white. Yes, Adrienne is a shitty aide. She's cantankerous, foul mouthed and impatient. None of those things are characteristics of being black. That is just someone who is not happy with their life.

Theresa, the other nurse, stated that she was going to write Adrienne up and would I back her up on the report. I opted to say no because I don't feel the need to perpetuate this black/white thing any further. When Adrienne does something to endanger one of my patients, I will be the first in line to make sure her ass is out the door. I would do the same with Theresa, if I felt she was jeopardizing patient care.

In the interim, I feel like my happy little bubble has been busted wide open and spewing racial slime all over me.

I'm an assertive white girl. If this qualifies me as a bitch, so be it. Adrienne is an opinionated black girl. If this makes her a bitch, just as well. I only wonder why we can't just call each other names without the color identity.

If a dog shits on your lawn, do you say "Hey! That white dog just shit on my lawn." No identification is necessary. A dog took a dump. That's all anyone needs to know. It needs to be put on a leash and reprimanded.

I imagine that is what is in store for Adrienne in the near future. Black or white, she's a bitch. So is Theresa. So am I.

We have to make room for all the color in the spectrum of the bitchy rainbow.

Houston, we ALMOST had a problem...

Samantha calls my husband (I'm at work) very upset. She tells him that she went to the doctor again because she is bleeding. He tells me this (the next day, mind you, because men are a little stupid like that sometimes) and then explains to me that the doctor is going to do some bloodwork.

"What about a sonogram," I ask. "Did she mention a sonogram at all?"

"Yeah," he replies. "But they said they couldn't do it until next Tuesday."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah, supposedly, the guy who does the ultrasounds only comes into her office on Tuesdays."

"So you are going to tell me that she has to wait until Tuesday to find out if anything is wrong with the baby? Oh, I don't fucking THINK so."

I get on the phone with the doctors office. Mind you, this is the same doctor who delivered my boys. I am not a big fan of hers. She is pretty ice cold when it comes to bedside manner and on top of that, she is the size of a gnome with a face to match. She reminds me of those little troll dolls from back in the seventies. I get on the phone with the receptionist.

"Hello, Dr. Ramappa's office."

"Hello. This is CP. I am Samantha Stevensons mother. I am calling because she was told by the doctor that she couldn't have a sonogram until Tuesday. She is bleeding. I want a prescription written for her to have one done, STAT, at another facility."

Silence.

"Well, the guy only comes in on Tuesdays and..."

"Sh. Sh. Sh. No and. No but. No however. Prescription. Now. Stat."

"Um, okay. Tell her to come in and pick one up."

"Thank you."

See obviously, this shit is not going to fly with the mother of all grandmothers. I am ferocious when it comes to my kids and I expect to be worse as a grandmother. I am not exactly known for my patience and I know this will not be lost on Dr. Ramappa when she realizes whose kid this is having a baby. I must have let this bitch have it over a dozen times while she was my OB/GYN because I just didn't appreciate the way she spoke to people, namely, me.

Incidentally, her name is Renuka Ramappa, which makes me sing "Hakuna Matata" everytime. Try it. It's funny. And it fits.

Anyway, the sonogram was done. The baby who is eight weeks and three days along is fine. Little fluttering heartbeat. Strong fetal heart tones. A new and improved due date which is now October 31 instead of November 3. That means this baby will be born on Halloween, same as my sons were. I don't know if this is a good thing or not. My daughter is concerned about having a stillborn pregnancy like I did with one of my twins. I understand her concerns and try to remind her that pregnancy issues are not genetic for the most part. Just cause momma had trouble doesn't mean that she will.

I think there are going to be a lot more of these nerve wracking moments coming up. This morning, my babygirl puked all over the place. She looked in the toilet at some green blobby looking stuff and, while red-faced and in tears said..."Mom, I didn't even eat anything that looks like that!" I had to laugh.

The joys of motherhood are only beginning.