So, at long last, I am using this blog to post not something profound or meaningful, or even humorous. No, this time I am going to gripe about my pet peeves. I haven't made an exhaustive list, so I'm sure this will be less than comprehensive, but they come easily to mind (plus, I wrote some of them down in the usual spot so I could remember them for this post). So, without further ado, and not necessarily in order of how strongly I would like them abolished and their perpetrators jailed until they learn better, here are some of the things that bother me most:
1. The rampant abuse of the poor apostrophe. Those of you who know me well are familiar with my reaction to this one. Examples include the omnipresent "The dog chases it's tail" abuse. Nobody would say "The dog chases it is tail," and yet I see it's and its used almost interchangeably, as if one were not clearly a contraction. Let's get one thing straight, since it's my blog: IT'S. ONLY. EVER. MEANS. IT IS. Just wanted to get that off my chest.
2. Similar to number 1 is the use of "they're" for "their" and vice versa. "The students watched they're teacher as he/she did not adequately correct grammatical errors" or "I wonder what their doing today...clearly not studying grammar" are two examples that spring to mind.
3. A common variant of number 1 (and sometimes even more annoying) is adding "'s" to any word to make it a plural. Only works with abbreviations, people. Trust me when I say that "Dogs and squirrels chased cats in parks" is not improved when rendered "Dog's and squirrel's chased cat's in park's."
The worst thing is seeing mistakes 1-3 on professional materials such as signs and company newsletters.
4. Speaking of signs, at my workplace there is a sign which reads (in part) "Please insure cell phones are turned off." I don't know about you, but I never signed up for the cell phone deactivation insurance. The premiums were just too high. "Ensure" means to make certain of something. "Insure" means to protect with insurance.
5. The misuse of compound words for two separate words. The best example I can think of is the two-separate-word "every day," commonly substituted by the compound adjective "everyday." A fine example of this peeve sauntered into our email in-box the other day as part of a forwarded email:
"At Home:
1st baby: You spend a good bit of every day just gazing at the baby.
2nd baby: You spend a bit of everyday watching to be sure your older child
isn't squeezing, poking, or hitting the baby.
3rd baby: You spend a little bit of every day hiding from the children."
Numbers 1 and 3 are great. I spend part of each day both gazing at a baby and hiding from a child. "Everyday" is only an adjective. I'm petting my peeve now, and it's purring at me in a somewhat menacing manner.
These last three are not grammatical in nature, but they bother me a whole lot more.
6. Well, I guess this one doesn't bother me a WHOLE lot more, but it is bothersome to anyone with musical training. When we sing "The Day Dawn Is Breaking," at least half the time the person playing the piano/organ skips an eighth rest between "Beautiful day of peace and rest" and "Bright be thy dawn..." So, I am just taking a breath to begin singing at the correct moment and the organ and at least half of the congregation begins singing a half-count early. I fly into a rage when that happens, let me tell you. A rage.
7. People who leave shopping carts sitting in parking lots drive me CRAZY. What is it about the way these people's poor mothers raised them that leads them to believe that it is all right not to clean up after yourself? People who leave shopping carts scattered everywhere - in parking stalls where they block other drivers from parking, sitting on the grass, on the sidewalk - are the same type of people who urinate all over the toilet seat and don't clean it up, throw their cigarette butts all over, and litter when they are camping or hiking. I'm convinced it is a symptom of our entitlement society, in which every person is convinced that they are owed happiness and wealth, that people are fine with leaving shopping carts where some poor soul has to collect them. Don't tell me, either, that it is fine because someone is paid to do it. That's the worst sort of cop-out. Accept responsibility for your actions, starting today, by returning that cart to the cart corral. I can't tell you how many times I have unrighteously wished I could be there at the moment when someone gets in the car without returning the shopping cart so I could ask him/her where his/her mother went wrong.
8. This one is the worst, and I wish I could take a lot of time and rant about it. I don't want any defensive comments about this one either, because I'm well aware of the converse example. There is a prevalent tendency in our culture to denigrate manhood. Commercials abound in which the poor, hapless man futilely attempts to wash the laundry, do the dishes, change a diaper, clean anything, watch the children, or make dinner. Inevitably, things go terribly wrong. Then the woman arrives and, with a knowing smile, she says, "You silly man. Of COURSE you couldn't do it. You're incompetent! Why do you even try these things?" At least that's how it sounds to me. And forget about asking for - or following - directions. Two double standards exist within this arrangement. The first is that if the media even thought about portraying another whole class of people - whether women, minorities, or whatever - the same way, they would never get away with it. You may respond with (for example) accusations of the media's physical portrayal of women and its elusive standard, but I consider that a separate sort of issue (for reasons I could go into later). My point is that if you attack the male's character, ability, or competency it is fine. If you try to defend the man, you are considered a chauvinist. The second double standard regards society's expectation of men. On the one hand, we are always portrayed as either bumbling idiots, egomaniacs, or murderers. On the other hand, we are told that we must help out around the house, help raise the children, be compassionate with our wives and families, and serve others. Am I the only one who thinks that women's expectations for their husbands are just a little bit colored by what they see on television and in movies? Why should my wife expect me to be able to do anything right? After all, aren't all men unable to do anything right? It must be true because we see it on t.v.
I am only somewhat apologetic for the ranting-ness of this last part of the post. This is an issue which deeply offends me. I will close with one example of peeve #8. I was at the distribution center purchasing some items of clothing. The woman ahead of me in line was exchanging some items of the same sort, and explained to the other store-goers (all women) that her husband had bought the wrong size, so now she had to bring them back and exchange them. The tone of the woman's voice, and the knowing smiles exchanged between these sisters - isn't that just like a man? What are we going to do with these husbands - drove me absolutely up the wall. This attitude is pervasive and cankerous, and I am convinced that Satan is behind it 100%. What better way to minimize the power of the Priesthood than to convince the sisters of the church that its bearers are deserving of neither confidence nor respect?
Anyway, that's all.
10 July 2008
23 June 2008
Humility
So, I felt compelled to read Ezra Taft Benson's Seminole work "Beware of Pride" on Monday for our FHE. It was kind of weird, because we had to translate from Seminole...oh, wait, I think I meant seminal work, in the sense that the reading thereof germinated in me a whole slew of study tangents, lines of thought, and so forth. Anyway, humor aside, we read the talk on Monday because I felt like that was what we needed at the time, and then at the end we made a goal to pray twice daily on a personal basis and once daily on a couple basis for that virtue, especially as pertaining to our relationship as spouses.
The reason I bring this up is because of a realization I had at the end, when I was saying why I thought it was such a great talk: when the Lord inspired Ezra Taft Benson to compose and deliver that address in 1989 he knew that I, personally, would read it more than a decade later and be changed by it. I am convinced that he had me (and, yes, others as well) specifically in mind and loved me enough to inspire a prophet to deliver those words. That is a cool thought, and it had never occurred to me before this last Monday.
As a postscript, I think the goal is working.
The reason I bring this up is because of a realization I had at the end, when I was saying why I thought it was such a great talk: when the Lord inspired Ezra Taft Benson to compose and deliver that address in 1989 he knew that I, personally, would read it more than a decade later and be changed by it. I am convinced that he had me (and, yes, others as well) specifically in mind and loved me enough to inspire a prophet to deliver those words. That is a cool thought, and it had never occurred to me before this last Monday.
As a postscript, I think the goal is working.
02 June 2008
Death
Disclaimer: So...this entry is about death. Specifically, this entry deals with my experiences with death. I'm not sure if it will be comfortable for everyone to read, but I write this blog primarily for myself and I want to get these thoughts out sometime. So, here goes.
Josh and I found a couple baby birds on the ground once when we were kids, no more than ten or eleven years old. We took them home, made them a nest in a Tupperware container, and tried to nurse them back to health. One died fairly soon, as I recall. We fed them about the opposite of what baby birds really need; instead of digested protein, mashed-up worms and things, I think we fed them white rice dissolved in water. I kick myself about it now, but that was the best we knew. We took one of the birds to Wolf Creek Condominiums with us and it died while we were there. I was heartbroken; it seemed unfair that something so small and helpless should need to die so young. I was inconsolable. We buried the bird next to the parking lot, and if we ever returned to Wolf Creek after that I don't remember it.
The first person in my life that I lost to death was my great-grandmother, Bertha Wyler Roberts. I had seen her only infrequently; she was the oldest person I personally knew. She lived in Idaho, a world away, and I saw her a few times a year. She would make me toast and we kids would play with the decorations in her house. As she grew older and more infirm, she entered a nursing home and I drew her pictures to put on her wall. It didn't really make any sort of real impact when I learned she had died. I was twelve. At her viewing, she looked different in the way bodies do: too much makeup, hands crossed over her chest in a way I had never seen her in life. My Aunt Nancy told her life sketch at the funeral, and my emotions flooded up only as she mentioned my great-grandmother's toast. It hit me that I would never have that toast again and I cried then for the first time since she had passed away. I still have her toaster; it is from an era when appliances were made to last and has only recently stopped working well as we have jammed too many bagels into its too-small slots. I did not know GG Roberts well enough to really miss her now; she is just somewhere far away, just as she always was growing up, and I'll see her again sometime.
When my son died he took a piece of me with him. His sickness and death were life-changing in a way only those who have experienced the loss of a child can understand. I won't comment more on Caleb here, not because I don't think it important or relevant but because it belongs in an entirely different category in my mind. Caleb is the reason why I am a nurse now, and without him I would not have much to write about in this blog entry.
I became a CNA in the summer of 2005 and took my first job at a local assisted living center later that year. As I have gained experience in the health care field, many people that I have personally known have passed away. Most of the time I have noted their passing with a sense neither of melancholy nor of grief; they simply left between one shift and the next. I had not yet taken care of anyone who had been actively dying at the time, and someone new always moved in to take the place of the recently departed. However, one death at Apple Village stands out in my mind for a couple reasons. One is that it was the mother of someone in my parents' ward. Another is that I had taken care of her many times. As her death approached she stopped getting out of bed, then she stopped waking up and lay in bed breathing through her mouth, small gurgling sounds occasionally escaping through her lips. Her daughter, a woman of whom I was fond , visited her often and I had the opportunity to be her aide several times as her death approached just after the New Year. I remember one evening at work when I was in the room with her daughter, offering what support I could. Her daughter left, and I had the impulse to lean in close and talk to her. We follow the same religion, her and I, so I didn't feel it too great an imposition on her to speak of spiritual matters. I asked her if she knew who I was and felt that she did. I told her that it had been a great privilege to have known her and cared for her. I told her I thought she was a great lady and that if she decided it was time to go meet her husband, she should go; her family would be all right. I thought she smiled just a bit, and the next time I went to work she was gone.
At that same facility my favorite resident was a woman who had been left weak and unable to speak from a stroke. She had lost most of the use of half her body. She tried very hard to be independent, which I could appreciate but which caused some others frustration. Once when I responded after she had fallen trying to take herself to her chair, we had a talk (so to speak) about how frustrating it must be for her to have to depend on others for so much, how humiliating to have someone else pick you up off the floor. She nodded and we looked into each other's eyes and she knew I didn't look down on her for her position, and I knew she appreciated my understanding. We talked about how great it will be when we can meet after this life and have a good conversation.
Most of my patient deaths occurred the shift after I left, a fact that occasionally provokes amused comments from those I tell. I have regretted that fact, not because I have any particular fascination with death in and of itself but because helping someone pass on is such a great privilege. The last moments of a person's life can occur in any number of ways, and as a health care worker I consider it my responsibility to make those moments as comfortable as possible for the patient as well as for his or her family members. There is something almost sacred to the process, and there is a special feeling in the room as the end nears, a palpable sort of silence which invites reverent tones. Just one of the deaths I have personally witnessed has been otherwise, and the business of CPR and IV access and AEDs seems to me a rude sort of invasion when a person is in a state where death comes as a welcome friend.
I took care of a woman at Avalon Care Center for over eight months. I was her nurse almost every day I worked, and I got to know her and care for her in the special way that only service can bring. I was very fond of her. She was full of fiery spirit even as her body refused to let her move normally, and she swore a lot and made me smile. She always remembered me, even if she called me Gordon or Justin most of the time. After I left Avalon and moved to South Davis Community Hospital, I gradually forgot about her. I was scheduled on the first floor one day (which had become a rare occurrence by that time) and a new patient had just been admitted who was on hospice and not expected to live long. It was her, and it didn't seem like coincidence that I was her nurse. Her family was glad when I told them about our history, and I was happy that she would not be in the care of a stranger at the end. I did my best to make her comfortable. This may sound a bit macabre to some of you out there, but I took a moment and prayed that, if it were the Lord's will, I could be the nurse taking care of her when she passed on. I wanted it for her and for me, because I couldn't stand the thought of someone else taking care of her when she died, someone who would know her as just another hospice patient passing away. She died while I was on my lunch break, which I thought was amusing given her sense of humor, and I helped prepare her body for the mortuary.
One of our residents played a last joke on his family when he died; he was a stubborn old man with a strong will and was in the hospital after losing a fight with a train that had been built over his ranch land. His body was shutting down, and the family came to the difficult decision to remove him from the mechanical ventilator which was helping him breathe. The family was all gathered in the room, and one of my coworkers who knew him well injected morphine and lorazepam into his IV as the respiratory therapist turned the ventilator off. After two minutes, his color paled and the nurse listened to his heart and lungs, turned to the family and slowly shook his head. The mood was somber but relieved. We left the room to give the family time alone, and a few minutes later his daughter came to tell us that he had started breathing again, his heart rate was up and his oxygen saturation was in the 80's. When we entered the room the whole family was laughing about their father's last practical joke. Two hours later, he left.
Both my grandfathers have passed away, one from complications of Parkinson's and one from complications of being old. In both cases I saw men I had known and loved change into frail and quiet men, very unlike those I had known as a child. Watching my parents and grandparents struggle with the trials of age and disease and caring has been at once cause for reflection and cause for worry. The question of what old age will bring to each of us is one to which we never know the answer until that time comes, although we may catch glimpses of it. I have thought about what I would need to do to cope with the death of a parent or my wife, and I have not come up with any good answers. I have filled out an advance directives form (and encourage everyone else to do the same: I work with too many people who have no quality of life and no way out) for myself, but beyond that I do what I suppose most other people do: ignore my own mortality and hope for something quick and relatively painless, at a point when my passing will not be a financial burden on my family. My perspective is perhaps a bit different than some others' would be, because I know that if I or my wife dies there will be someone waiting for us. There would be sweetness with the bitterness of parting because one of us at least would be reunited with Caleb. I'm sure that thought would console me or her if one of us were to be taken early.
So, I have dwelled on the topic of death perhaps longer than is seemly, but I have had cause to think about the topic lately. How wonderful it is that death and Hell have been overcome, that all of us will be separated only for a time from our physical selves. How amazing it is that this gift of resurrection and reuniting is ours for free, just for coming to earth and its attendant sufferings and sorrows. How wonderful it is to think of the joy of meeting once again our dear departed friends.
Josh and I found a couple baby birds on the ground once when we were kids, no more than ten or eleven years old. We took them home, made them a nest in a Tupperware container, and tried to nurse them back to health. One died fairly soon, as I recall. We fed them about the opposite of what baby birds really need; instead of digested protein, mashed-up worms and things, I think we fed them white rice dissolved in water. I kick myself about it now, but that was the best we knew. We took one of the birds to Wolf Creek Condominiums with us and it died while we were there. I was heartbroken; it seemed unfair that something so small and helpless should need to die so young. I was inconsolable. We buried the bird next to the parking lot, and if we ever returned to Wolf Creek after that I don't remember it.
The first person in my life that I lost to death was my great-grandmother, Bertha Wyler Roberts. I had seen her only infrequently; she was the oldest person I personally knew. She lived in Idaho, a world away, and I saw her a few times a year. She would make me toast and we kids would play with the decorations in her house. As she grew older and more infirm, she entered a nursing home and I drew her pictures to put on her wall. It didn't really make any sort of real impact when I learned she had died. I was twelve. At her viewing, she looked different in the way bodies do: too much makeup, hands crossed over her chest in a way I had never seen her in life. My Aunt Nancy told her life sketch at the funeral, and my emotions flooded up only as she mentioned my great-grandmother's toast. It hit me that I would never have that toast again and I cried then for the first time since she had passed away. I still have her toaster; it is from an era when appliances were made to last and has only recently stopped working well as we have jammed too many bagels into its too-small slots. I did not know GG Roberts well enough to really miss her now; she is just somewhere far away, just as she always was growing up, and I'll see her again sometime.
When my son died he took a piece of me with him. His sickness and death were life-changing in a way only those who have experienced the loss of a child can understand. I won't comment more on Caleb here, not because I don't think it important or relevant but because it belongs in an entirely different category in my mind. Caleb is the reason why I am a nurse now, and without him I would not have much to write about in this blog entry.
I became a CNA in the summer of 2005 and took my first job at a local assisted living center later that year. As I have gained experience in the health care field, many people that I have personally known have passed away. Most of the time I have noted their passing with a sense neither of melancholy nor of grief; they simply left between one shift and the next. I had not yet taken care of anyone who had been actively dying at the time, and someone new always moved in to take the place of the recently departed. However, one death at Apple Village stands out in my mind for a couple reasons. One is that it was the mother of someone in my parents' ward. Another is that I had taken care of her many times. As her death approached she stopped getting out of bed, then she stopped waking up and lay in bed breathing through her mouth, small gurgling sounds occasionally escaping through her lips. Her daughter, a woman of whom I was fond , visited her often and I had the opportunity to be her aide several times as her death approached just after the New Year. I remember one evening at work when I was in the room with her daughter, offering what support I could. Her daughter left, and I had the impulse to lean in close and talk to her. We follow the same religion, her and I, so I didn't feel it too great an imposition on her to speak of spiritual matters. I asked her if she knew who I was and felt that she did. I told her that it had been a great privilege to have known her and cared for her. I told her I thought she was a great lady and that if she decided it was time to go meet her husband, she should go; her family would be all right. I thought she smiled just a bit, and the next time I went to work she was gone.
At that same facility my favorite resident was a woman who had been left weak and unable to speak from a stroke. She had lost most of the use of half her body. She tried very hard to be independent, which I could appreciate but which caused some others frustration. Once when I responded after she had fallen trying to take herself to her chair, we had a talk (so to speak) about how frustrating it must be for her to have to depend on others for so much, how humiliating to have someone else pick you up off the floor. She nodded and we looked into each other's eyes and she knew I didn't look down on her for her position, and I knew she appreciated my understanding. We talked about how great it will be when we can meet after this life and have a good conversation.
Most of my patient deaths occurred the shift after I left, a fact that occasionally provokes amused comments from those I tell. I have regretted that fact, not because I have any particular fascination with death in and of itself but because helping someone pass on is such a great privilege. The last moments of a person's life can occur in any number of ways, and as a health care worker I consider it my responsibility to make those moments as comfortable as possible for the patient as well as for his or her family members. There is something almost sacred to the process, and there is a special feeling in the room as the end nears, a palpable sort of silence which invites reverent tones. Just one of the deaths I have personally witnessed has been otherwise, and the business of CPR and IV access and AEDs seems to me a rude sort of invasion when a person is in a state where death comes as a welcome friend.
I took care of a woman at Avalon Care Center for over eight months. I was her nurse almost every day I worked, and I got to know her and care for her in the special way that only service can bring. I was very fond of her. She was full of fiery spirit even as her body refused to let her move normally, and she swore a lot and made me smile. She always remembered me, even if she called me Gordon or Justin most of the time. After I left Avalon and moved to South Davis Community Hospital, I gradually forgot about her. I was scheduled on the first floor one day (which had become a rare occurrence by that time) and a new patient had just been admitted who was on hospice and not expected to live long. It was her, and it didn't seem like coincidence that I was her nurse. Her family was glad when I told them about our history, and I was happy that she would not be in the care of a stranger at the end. I did my best to make her comfortable. This may sound a bit macabre to some of you out there, but I took a moment and prayed that, if it were the Lord's will, I could be the nurse taking care of her when she passed on. I wanted it for her and for me, because I couldn't stand the thought of someone else taking care of her when she died, someone who would know her as just another hospice patient passing away. She died while I was on my lunch break, which I thought was amusing given her sense of humor, and I helped prepare her body for the mortuary.
One of our residents played a last joke on his family when he died; he was a stubborn old man with a strong will and was in the hospital after losing a fight with a train that had been built over his ranch land. His body was shutting down, and the family came to the difficult decision to remove him from the mechanical ventilator which was helping him breathe. The family was all gathered in the room, and one of my coworkers who knew him well injected morphine and lorazepam into his IV as the respiratory therapist turned the ventilator off. After two minutes, his color paled and the nurse listened to his heart and lungs, turned to the family and slowly shook his head. The mood was somber but relieved. We left the room to give the family time alone, and a few minutes later his daughter came to tell us that he had started breathing again, his heart rate was up and his oxygen saturation was in the 80's. When we entered the room the whole family was laughing about their father's last practical joke. Two hours later, he left.
Both my grandfathers have passed away, one from complications of Parkinson's and one from complications of being old. In both cases I saw men I had known and loved change into frail and quiet men, very unlike those I had known as a child. Watching my parents and grandparents struggle with the trials of age and disease and caring has been at once cause for reflection and cause for worry. The question of what old age will bring to each of us is one to which we never know the answer until that time comes, although we may catch glimpses of it. I have thought about what I would need to do to cope with the death of a parent or my wife, and I have not come up with any good answers. I have filled out an advance directives form (and encourage everyone else to do the same: I work with too many people who have no quality of life and no way out) for myself, but beyond that I do what I suppose most other people do: ignore my own mortality and hope for something quick and relatively painless, at a point when my passing will not be a financial burden on my family. My perspective is perhaps a bit different than some others' would be, because I know that if I or my wife dies there will be someone waiting for us. There would be sweetness with the bitterness of parting because one of us at least would be reunited with Caleb. I'm sure that thought would console me or her if one of us were to be taken early.
So, I have dwelled on the topic of death perhaps longer than is seemly, but I have had cause to think about the topic lately. How wonderful it is that death and Hell have been overcome, that all of us will be separated only for a time from our physical selves. How amazing it is that this gift of resurrection and reuniting is ours for free, just for coming to earth and its attendant sufferings and sorrows. How wonderful it is to think of the joy of meeting once again our dear departed friends.
31 January 2008
A Moment of Indecision
So, I had to go into Ogden to take a drug test for my BSN clinical. As any of you who have donated urine know, there are very rigid protocols for how this sort of thing works so that the possibility of tampering is minimized. I was ushered into a small room and the Receiver of Urine (RU) placed two specimen cups, sealed with plastic and identical in every visible way, before me on the desk. She then instructed me to pick one.
Some of you may be aware of my problems choosing between equally enticing alternatives. I stood there, eyes moving back and forth between the cups, my hand moving slowly right and left, for a good five seconds before I asked, "Can't you pick one for me?" The prospect of choosing either the right or left cup, and the creation of the asymmetry which would result, was too much for me to face. I had to pick either both or neither, which clearly wasn't going to be an option, and the RU was going to be no help at all. Talk about a Sophie's choice! In the end I asked the RU to add a third cup to the table, following which I immediately chose the center cup with a sigh of relief.
Also, OCD has to impair function in order to qualify for official diagnosis.
Some of you may be aware of my problems choosing between equally enticing alternatives. I stood there, eyes moving back and forth between the cups, my hand moving slowly right and left, for a good five seconds before I asked, "Can't you pick one for me?" The prospect of choosing either the right or left cup, and the creation of the asymmetry which would result, was too much for me to face. I had to pick either both or neither, which clearly wasn't going to be an option, and the RU was going to be no help at all. Talk about a Sophie's choice! In the end I asked the RU to add a third cup to the table, following which I immediately chose the center cup with a sigh of relief.
Also, OCD has to impair function in order to qualify for official diagnosis.
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