Guest Post All in a Day’s Work From Edwina’s Episodes

What a thrill!  I have been able to snag the lovely and talented Judy Martin from Edwina’s Episodes to Guest Post on Nutsrok.  This is particularly apropos, since we share being nurses and messing up a lot.  I am so happy to have her here.  Be sure to check her blog!

I had only been on my new ward less than a month and nobody really knew what to make of me. I was training to do a new job that nobody had heard of, as it was just being introduced (a similar role to the State Enrolled Nurse which had been disbanded 10 years before)! I was very quiet as I was still getting to know people, and getting used to the way the ward worked.

Patient care was still top priority and I was working in a bay, looking after six elderly ladies, one of whom had been given some ‘prep’ ahead of her scheduled colonoscopy. It duly did its job, rather too well, as the poor woman had little time to react to the explosion that ensued. I cleaned her up as best as I could as well as the chair. Unfortunately liquid, molten poo has a habit of getting everywhere and I was slipping around in it, as it was also on the floor.

Eventually I got the lot cleaned up, but did not realise that I had some of it spattered on my uniform, which did not go unnoticed by a senior nurse, so I was sent off to theatres to get some scrubs to change into. Immediately! I dabbed at the mess with a cleansing wipe trying to get some of it off before I went, but succeeded in making it look worse.

I arrived at theatres where it seems, part of the criteria of working there is a snooty, not to mention snotty attitude. I asked politely if I could have some scrubs, which I was then made to repeat, When asked why I needed them I explained, and gestured to the poo for good measure, which was met with such a look of disdain that I commented huffily that it wasn’t my poo! I don’t know why I thought it sounded any better, but the scrubs were reluctantly handed over, and I was ordered to return them ASAP.

I went off to the loos and changed into the scrubs. Great, she had given me a ginormous top (I know I am not skinny but this was massive) and long trousers (I am only 5ft 2”). I trotted back to the ward looking ridiculous and noticed a couple of sympathetic smiles aimed my way.

I went to put my soiled uniform in my locker (most people didn’t bother with lockers but I was new so thought it a good idea) and went rummaged around my outsized shirt but I couldn’t find the key! Panic! I scrabbled about frantically searching my person for it. Nothing! I asked the Ward Clerk if she had a spare key. She didn’t.

I retraced my steps to the loos and back to the dreaded theatres, who looked at my wild-eyed red-faced demeanour and desperate to get rid of me, didn’t even bother looking, just said they hadn’t got it. I was really upset by now and more than a little het up. It was now coming up for break time and I was told to go on first break. I was glad of this as I thought I could relax, have a cigarette (or three) as I was smoking then, and start the search for me key afresh.

Wonderful except that my cigarettes were in my locker! Sod it! I was nearly on the verge of tears, but one of the other nurses was a smoker and I bit the bullet and asked her if I could please have one of hers (I have never done that in my life before and felt awful). She was great and let me have one.

Anyway, suffice it to say, the key was not found. Estates had to be called, and when they came onto the ward were moaning about people losing keys and that they should have to pay for it blah, blah. I stayed out the way! They had to break the bloody lock off in the end. What a day!

Link to my guest post on Edwina’s Episodes

http://edwinasepisodes.com/2015/06/04/check-it-out-guest-post-by-linda-bethea/#respond

Little Lost Indian Girl!

 

 It is such an honor to have Ritu from But I Smile Anyway do a guest post for me.  I love this delightful story and pictures from her childhood.  Thanks Ritu.

Indian weddings are big affairs, and in a Sikh temple the men sit on one side, and women on the other.  It was, and still is, the norm for young children to spend most of the 3 hours that the ceremony lasts, running from mummy to daddy, them back again. And then to do it all over again!

I was no different.  A child with far too much energy, and also far too much to say!

My mum told me a story of one wedding we had attended, where I was doing exactly this.  Sitting with Mummy, then getting bored and running over to Papa, then after exhausting his entertainment, running back to Mummy again.  They were used to this, and would glance over at each other periodically to make sure I was with the other.

At one such glance, they realised that Ritu was not with either of them!

A quick scan of the large prayer hall confirmed their fears; that I was not there…. They dashed downstairs to the main Langar (Food) hall and I was nowhere to be seen, not even in the kitchen.

Now this temple was on a busy main road, but I wouldn’t have gone out, would I?

They quickly rushed out and checked the car park, and surrounding area, but nope, I was well and truly gone.  Where would this little curly mop head of a girl have gone? I was possibly 2-3 years old at this time.

 

Little me!

Pops walked out of the gate to the main road, and they were scared by now. And lo and behold, there I was, coming back up the road, holding an English Man’s hand, happily chatting away!

The man saw my parent’s panic stricken faces and walked straight up to them.  He said “I assume this little one is yours. I saw her wondering down the road, all alone, and I had a feeling that as she was alone, she may have ventured from this her temple, so I was just bringing her back.” 

Obviously, my mum was almost delirious at this stage and grabbed me as my Pops profusely thanked the man.  I was still smiling, and chatting away to the man, to all intents and purposes.  I had found someone new to listen to my whittering on!

Had this been in the present day, what would have been the first thought?  Kidnap, child abduction, the poor man who returned me to my parents would have been called all manner of things like a pervert or a paedophile.

But he wasn’t.

He was just a genuinely good citizen, who, in all honesty, if he had wanted to take me, he could have…( but it was probably my chatting away that made him bring me back. I’d give anyone a headache!)

 

I’m still chatting away!

Hope you enjoyed my little story!

SOUTHERN FRIED CRAZY (Guest Post by Linda Bethea)

Reblogged my guest post from Cordelia’s Mom, Still. Please comment on her post.

Cordelia's Mom, Still

I am honored that Linda Bethea of Nutsrok  has agreed to guest post for me today.  Enjoy!

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Southern Fried Crazy

by Linda Bethea

We love our crazy folks down South.  Oh, we may not want them right up in the house with us, not that it doesn’t happen from time to time, but certainly we need them to brighten up our holidays and remind us of how dull life would be without them.

My perenially pregnant Cousin Carol waddled into the family reunion this year with her nine kids and current live-in. He’d look like Willie Nelson if she cleaned him up.  Excepting her penchant for living in sin, Cousin Carol is fanatically religious, devoting herself to the food kitchens, fellowship nights serving evening meals, and community closets of all the local churches, though not their morning services.  “It’s hard to git nine young’uns dressed that early.”…

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The Things We Do For Our Kids! Guest Post By Cordelia’s Mom

I am so proud to that Cordelia’s Mom did this Guest Post for Mother’s Day.  Please check out her lovely blog.  You will love it as well.

It was the mid-1950’s.  I was in first grade.

Mother’s Day was approaching, and my teacher decided to have us all make noodle necklaces for our moms.  She brought in a variety of dry noodles, along with string and water paints – and wrapping paper.  I was so proud of my creation!  Mom was going to love  it!

On Mother’s Day, I watched my mother open her precious gift. She oohed and aahed, and put the necklace around her neck.  I was so happy to see her wear it that day – I thought it was the most beautiful jewelry she ever had.

My mother didn’t work (back then, few did). Her only recreation was going bowling once a week in a league with other mothers.

Her annual bowling banquet was the week after Mother’s Day.  I watched my mother dress in her most beautiful (to me) outfit, high heels and all.  As she started to reach toward her jewelry chest, I told her she should wear the necklace I made because it was better than anything she had in that jewelry chest.  And she put that necklace on and left the house for her banquet.  I was so proud!

Fast forward approximately 25 years.  I was now a young mother whose girls often brought me hand made gifts.  One Sunday, I was visiting Mom, and we got to discussing little girls and how to raise them.  The subject of the noodle necklace came up.  I chuckled and told Mom that I was sorry I made her wear that necklace to her banquet, and that I now understood that she probably took it off as soon as she was out of eyesight.

There was a silence as my mother thought fondly back to that day.  Then, she told me:

“No, I didn’t.  I wore it all evening and told all the other mothers that my little girl made it for me.”

And that’s how I learned to be a mother. Mom was tough when it was called for, but she loved her kids and made sure that we all knew that.

Mom once read about a father who told his child, “You are my favorite, but don’t tell your brothers and sisters because it would hurt their feelings.”  After the old man died, the kids were comparing notes and discovered that he had made that statement to each and every one of them.  Mom thought that was a wonderful way to make a child feel special – and while neither she nor I ever tried it with our own kids, we both understood the philosophy behind it, and tried to love each child in the way that child needed to be loved.  I know she succeeded; I hope I did, too.

Happy Mother’s Day!  If you have children, give them hugs from me.  If your mother is still alive, give her a kiss on her aging cheek.  And if you are a mother, may you be showered hugs, kisses and homemade gifts from your own children.

Thanks, Linda, for allowing me to guest post for you today.  I will hold you to your promise to reciprocate on my blog!

I love to hear from my readers.  You may comment on this post, comment on my Facebook or Twitter pages, or email me at cordeliasmom2012@yahoo.com.

Image by Cordelia’s Mom

Grandpa and I /Guest Post from Erika Kind

I am so delighted that my friend Erika Kind agreed to do a guest post for me.  I have read and enjoyed hearing of the wonderful, warm relationship she had with her grandfather.  Wouldn’t it be a wonderful world if we all had a person with whom we share unconditional love and the bond that is never broken?

Grandpa and I

My grandfather was born 1927 as the only child of his parents. As far as I know he had a happy childhood. But his good times ended before he was even 20 years old when he was conscripted for WW II. He often told us about the war, his struggles in captivity and starving till he was just skin and bones. My grandfather was Austrian.   After Hitler invaded Austria they had to fight for Germany.  At the end of the war when all the horrible facts were revealed to the general public, he was shocked to no end to learn what he had been forced to fight for. Due to infections and lack of food, he developed cirrhosis of the liver which eventually killed him. My grandfather was a policeman all his life,. He was living and working in Vienna. Here is a photo of him with his father.

My “Opapa”, as we called him, was a tall, handsome man. He was married twice. His first wife was my mom’s mother. They got divorced when my mother (also an only child) was 11. When I was born, I was his pride and joy. I am sure that we are true soul mates. We had this certain connection. He was a young grandpa at the age of 43. When I was about 5 months old my parents moved with me to another part of the country about 600 km away from Vienna. Afterwards, I only saw my grandfather when he came for vacation for two weeks a year or when we went to Vienna for 3 weeks during the summer break. That’s me and grandpa. My grandfather did everything for me. He always knew how to cheer me up when I was mad or sad. I loved the way of making me laugh, imitating voices and roles of popular comedians. He loved music. We always sang as we walked through the woods. He also kept me entertained imitating instruments like drums and trumpets. He built a huge model railroad layout for me, though it took him years since he could only work on it during his two week vacation with us. Grandpa knew everything about the Austrian history, really EVERYTHING! Whenever we walked around Vienna, went to a museum, or visited a castle or burg, he was like a historic almanac. Of course he not only knew about the historic persons and how everybody was related, but all the data of all happenings. Naturally, I did not appreciate it a bit. As a child or teenager, I did not listen, finding it boring.  Only days after he had died, a question about history came up. I reflexively thought I could ask Opapa… and started crying the next moment. During my teenage times I pulled back and didn’t talk a lot. I was in a lot of pain and didn’t let anybody in, not even my grandfather. I know that I was not nice at times and even mean. Grandfather never ever said one single word. He never acted hurt or annoyed. Never! I guess he was the only person in my whole life who never made me feel guilty. He just let me be. Five days before he died he called my mother. I was planning a visit a week later and he wanted to catch up with data. He wasn’t well at that moment and I am pretty sure he knew what was coming. When he called I was waiting for my sister to get ready for our Volleyball practice. We were already late. I did not take the call and just told my mom what to tell him. In the end I could have taken the call because they ended it before I left.  I missed my last opportunity to hear his voice. It took me many years to forgive myself for missing this chance. My grandfather died in 1990 at the age of 62.  In my mind, I still see his smiling face and  his curly grey hair going weird in the wind.  I still see the way he was dressed, the way he walked and moved and hear his special laughter.   Most of all I still feel his loving spirit!        

Guest Post: Joe Writes His Wrongs

It is my pleasure to host Joe Writes his Wrongs as my first guest post,  Joe is working hard to get his life on track after a tumultuous period.  I congratulate Joe and admire the work he is doing.  Helping others is definitely the way to go.  Good luck, Joe.  I know you’ll do well.

Life after prison

As someone who has spent the last 6+ years in prison for non-violent drug offenses, finally there is a light at the end of the tunnel.