Saturday, October 26, 2013


John 14:2

I miss you

Thursday, August 22, 2013

I Wish I Knew How To Tell You

 This can pretty much sum it up for me.  As much as I'd like to take credit for this, I can't.  It's extremely difficult to express the details of my job, but the person who wrote this excerpt does an amazing job.  The poem is about the career of a pediatric respiratory therapist. 
On Being a Pediatric Respiratory Therapist: I Wish I Knew How To Tell You...

I wish that when asked how my day was, I knew how to give a truthful answer. I wish I could really express what a shift is like, and know I would be understood.

If I really answered truthfully, I might start off with how many times I saw a child smile. I might tell you about the tears I wiped. I could tell stories about the kids I made laugh. I could tell you about the kids I made cry.

I might tell you about the parents I consoled, reassured, encouraged.

I might tell you about the family that thanked me, and the family that pushed me away.

I might tell you how many times I grew frustrated. Or how many times I felt annoyed. I might tell you about how many times I thought my headache couldn't get any worse.

I might tell you how I taught a new RT, and how I learned from an old colleague.

Maybe I would tell you about the stickers I stuck, the pages I colored, and the toys played with to entertain.

I could tell you about the call bells that rang; the Vents that beeped; the IPV’s that chugged, The Cough Assists that clicked.

I could tell you all about High EtCo2, the worrisome lung compliance, or the child who was fine, and then suddenly, wasn't.

I could tell you how many gloves I put on, airways I suctioned, and trachs that where changed.

I could tell you about the tricks I use to sneak in an assessment on a three-year-old; the games we play so they will take their meds; and how in order to auscultate a five-year-old's chest, I have to pretend I'm listening for monsters.

If I were to tell you what my day was like, I might tell you that my hands will always feel sticky from hand sanitizer, and no matter how much I wash, "that smell" won't seem to go away.

I could tell you how funny it is to hear a two-year-old say "stethoscope," and how heart breaking it is to hear a child whisper, "I just want to go home."

I might tell you that today I heard a child's first word. Or saw his first steps. Or watched a premie finish her first whole bottle. I might tell you about the father who fed her, who took this small victory as a sign of hope.

I might tell you how the bravest person I know is an eight-year-old. Or the happiest person I know is a two-year-old with a medical history as old as she is.

I might tell you about a moment of joy, shared with a family, a patient, a colleague.

I might tell you how many times I felt my heart break.

I can tell you about the steps I walked; the hands I held; the songs I sang to put them to sleep.

If I could really talk about how my day was, I might tell you about the decisions I made. The priorities I set. Or about my "RT intuition" that told me when I should start being concerned.

I could tell you about the orders I questioned. The orders I should have questioned. The split second decision I made. The carefully calculated words I chose.

I could tell you how I fought for my patient. I could tell you how my patient fought me.

I could talk about how I taught a parent to be the RT to their child that they never wanted to have to be.

I could tell you how that parent taught me about hope.

I could tell you about the moments of panic. The moments of empowered confidence. How smoothly our team functioned. How resourceful we can be.

I'd want to tell you about the breaths we gave; the lives we saved; the lives we couldn't save.

I might share with you those moments when I just didn't know what to say. Or the times I realized there was nothing I could say.

I could tell you how often we see a child and family suffering and think that maybe enough is enough. I could tell you about all the times we think that everything will never be enough. I would struggle to tell you how hard it is to say goodbye; I'd have a harder time telling you how sometimes saying goodbye can be a relief.

I might tell you how many times I thought, "This isn't easy."

I could tell you how hard it is to be a pediatric respiratory therapist. I could tell you how rewarding it is.

I could talk about these things, if I thought I might be understood. Instead, I'll say, "It was good."

Tuesday, June 4, 2013



I bow my head to pray, I don't know what to say
I'm not sure how to fix the things I'm dealing with
I'm in a desperate place, I need to share the weight
But I just don't know how, to let it all pour out

Though I'm silent, my heart is crying
‘Cause I was made to come to You

So I pray
God I need You more than words can say
Right here in this moment
You know my heart, You know my need
You know every part of me
So even if it's just to speak Your name
I'm gonna pray

I failed to find the time, but You've been calling out
I let the days go by as if I could live without
But it's gotta be here now, I won't be pulled away
Cause it's just You and I, so let the world around us fade

As I pray
God I need You more than words can say
Right here in this moment
You know my heart, You know my need
You know every part of me
So even if it's just to speak Your name
I'm gonna pray
I'm gonna pray

Father, I'm in a desperate place
Father, I know You can bear the weight
Father, Take me in Your arms as I speak Your name
I lift my hands and pray
I lift my hands and pray

You know my heart, You know my need
And every single part of me
So even if it's just to speak Your name
I'm gonna pray
I'm gonna pray

You know my heart, You know my need
You know every part of me
More than words, You want my life
Take it as an offering

~Sanctus Real~

I think this is a good way to describe how I've been feeling for the past 17 months

Thursday, May 16, 2013

One Year of Jake

Epic Mommy Fails

It's been almost one year since I have written a post.  In the past, I've usually apologized and promised to write more...I'll be upfront, I can't make promises that I'll write more frequently.  Please don't judge me.  I hate talking about my feelings...I'm much better at writing about them.  So maybe this blog will become my therapeutic way of expressing myself.  So here it goes...

Have you ever had a week where you feel like a complete failure as a mother?  I had one of those last week.  Frankly, I'm surprised CPS hasn't knocked on my doorstep and slapped me with a 310 yet.  On Monday I was attempting to make dinner for my family.  I had some food on the stove simmering with a lid on top of the pan.  When I took the lid off of the pan to stir the food, the hot water that was on the lid dripped onto my 16 month old baby and burned him.  Mommy Fail #1.  Jake, my son, was not a fan.  The water had hit his forehead, his chest, and his back.  The water wasn't hot enough to leave blisters, just a few red spots and lots of tears from my son and myself.  I called his pediatrician and was told to bring him in to their office.  By this time, Jake was perfectly fine and all of the red spots were gone.  The only thing that had not disappeared were my tears and feelings of guilt that I burned my sweet baby.  Jake's pediatrician checked him out and said he was fine.  To be honest, I think she was more worried about me because I could not stop crying.  Crazy Mommy Moment #1.

The very next day Jake was in my room while I was getting dressed, and he started running towards my night stand, tripped and fell, and hit his head on the corner of my night stand.  Mommy Fail #2 for not having the corners of my night stand padded.  As you can imagine, lots of tears ensued (from myself and Jake), and a nice goose egg and cut appeared right in the middle of my baby's forehead.  I immediately placed an ice pack on Jake's forehead and tried my best to keep it there, but Jake was way too squirmy for that.  I found a flashlight and shined it in his eyes to make sure his pupils reacted, which they did.  They both constricted at the same time which was a huge relief for me.  I called his pediatrician AGAIN for the second day in a row to see if I needed to bring him in.  This is how the conversation went when I spoke with his doctor's nurse:

Nurse: Now, what is the child's name?
Me: Jacob Hubbard
Nurse: Ok, Jac--- Wait, weren't you here yesterday?
Me: Yes, I burned him yesterday.  Now he has a huge goose egg on his head but his pupils constrict when I shine a light into his eyes.  And he is currently playing and acting fine.  Do you think I should bring him in?  (Note: this would be considered Crazy Mommy Moment #2)
Nurse: Umm... it sounds like he's fine; however, you are more than welcome to bring him in if you want if that will give you a peace of mind...
Me: No thank you.  I think I've humiliated myself enough at your office.  I appreciate your time.

Before I had a child I would always wonder why mothers were completely beside themselves when they brought their kids to the ER whether it be for a broken bone, stitches, etc.  I mistakenly passed judgement and thought to myself, I will never ever act that way when I have  my kids.  Don't these mothers know that what their child is going through is not that big of a deal?  It's not like they have tubes coming out of every orifice of their body.  These women are insane, I will never do that.  Oh how karma has a way of coming back to you.  I've found that I am just as "crazy" as some of those mothers that come through the ER at work.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, that accidents happen to kids...especially to toddlers because they are every where and into everything.  My husband said it best: you can't keep him in a plastic bubble and protect him from every little things.  Accidents are bound to happen.  They happen to every child.  It doesn't make you a horrible mother.

I should really learn to listen to him...he would be so pleased.  Anyway, those are my epic mommy fails for the week.  I'm sure there will be more....