Formalities

I'm counting...okay, this is the 9th Presidential year I've been around for...and the 7th I remember with some clarity. (I don't remember either of Reagan's - was only an infant in 1980 and too interested in Mary Lou Retton in 1984 to care who was President.) But I very clearly remember being at Wal-mart with my dad in 1988 and handing out things so people would vote for George Bush. My interest in politics has grown since I was eight, but not to the point I have ever watched a convention. This was the first I ever heard role call - and only because my boss had it on in his office. And in all honesty? I could have skipped it.

Why? Because everyone in the world already knew Mitt Romney would win the nomination with Paul Ryan as his running mate. Why we even have delegates or role call is anyone's guess. Tradition? Because ever since primaries began, there's no reason for conventions to send delegates or call roles. (Unless they want to determine all 50 states are still in the Union - and the territories, I discovered - and, in case you're wondering, all are present and accounted for.) Because who gets the nomination is already determined months before conventions start. And in my opinion, that ruins it.

I didn't keep up, I confess. What the whole fiasco over rule changes was truly about, I don't know. And maybe it was important if it had to do with the platform and how it's determined. But as far as a candidate goes, that was already settled. And, honestly, platforms aren't written in concrete either. What president - Democrat or Republican - has ever kept their party's platform once they're President? To my knowledge, none.

No, conventions are no longer interesting in my opinion. I'd much rather live a hundred years ago when conventions really did determine who the candidates would be (before primaries). Like James Garfield. He went to the Republican convention as a delegate in 1880 where he was to introduce the man everyone thought would be the candidate of the year. And he did his duty. Only the first role call didn't garner the man enough delegates. Nor did the second. Or the third. There was a deadlock between several major candidates and also a few other names tossed in there. On the 34th ballot, a a majority of a state took up the cry of what had been a single man's vote: James Garfield. A man who had no intention of becoming the Republican candidate, let alone President. Two ballots later, James Garfield was declared the Republican candidate for US President, an office he would achieve five months later.

Now that's a convention I would watch.

Countdown...

So I'm counting down. Even thinking about making one of those chains I used to put together for Christmas. You know: every day you tear off one of the rings until you reach the top and then it's CHRISTMAS!!!  Well, this time it will be the NORTHEAST!!!!

18 days. That's how many days I have left of heat, and work, and ringing phones (like, ringing so much I can hardly get this blog typed...). Then I head to the beautiful Northeast for 12 WHOLE DAYS!!! Well, not whole. You can't count the last one since my flight leaves at 6:30 in the morning. But that's okay. Cool breezes, the leaves changing color, no work that has to be done, and the six most wonderful children in the world - not to mention their amazing mother!

So, yes, I am counting down. And hoping a miracle will happen so I can just stay...

Office Hospice

Yesterday, the staff had an inservice on Hospice Philosophy: Myths vs. Realities. I didn't hear all of it.  Most of it I know by now. Namely, there are a lot of myths about hospice out there. As one of our aides said, "I hear all the time, 'I put my loved one on hospice, and they died! Hospice is terrible.' I want to say to them, 'Do you realize what you just said?'"

And it's true. I've heard hospice nurses called "Grim Reapers" and "Angels of Death". Like they come into a home and shoot lethal drugs into a person's blood stream. You go on hospice - you DIE. And that is, perhaps, the biggest myth of all.

I'm not saying it's not true. Or, in a crude sense, that it's hospice's purpose. For you do have to be terminally ill to be a hospice patient. And 90% of hospice patients die, roughly 60% of those within six months. (Those are my figures, not a statisticians.) But there are 10% who we discharge because they gain strength and are no longer hospice appropriate. And 30-40% who live on past six months, even up to four or more years on hospice. The purpose of hospice is comfort, trying to aid a person's disease ridden body into death with some dignity and care. Our nurses are not somehow angels of euthanasia. Anymore than nurses on a battlefield. They provide as much healing as they can and, when that fails, all the comfort that can be found.

I don't envy them their job, but some days I feel like a hospice nurse in another line of work. For in my office, if anything that plugs into a wall is not working I'm suppose to fix it. (Note the "suppose" for I failed with the fax machine this morning and had to call the professionals.) And typically that means I'm fighting with one of three machines: two computers probably four or five years old and our copier/printer/fax/scanner nearly five years of age. The last time I had to fix one of them, I told its user I'm about done with the thing. It's been on "hospice" for nearly a year, it has about all the "comfort meds" I can give it (a.k.a.: fixes from the internet), and once it starts turning yellow with blue around the fingernails, there's nothing more I can do but pronounce it when it breathes it's last breath. As for our all-in-one, the "lorazepam" I've been giving it (namely, shutting it off and unplugging everything for a few minutes before reviving it) is going to turn into "morphine" soon. Or a sledge hammer. (Okay, that's not very hospice...)

I don't think the nurses would exchange jobs with me, either. They would much prefer dealing with living souls. For one, the pay is much better. The rewards, too. After all, touching a soul is a special gift. My computer doesn't care if I ever touch it again or not. But, as always, someone has to keep everything organized. Just call me the "Angel of Records".

Happy 19^th Birthday, Charlie!

Friday!!!!

I had hoped I would never be one of those people who lived for the weekends, but I'm afraid it gets worse every week. Not because I have anything fun planned for my weekends. Actually, I hardly do anything and try to go nowhere. I love them simply because I don't have to go to work.

It's been an up and down week...and so shall it continue to be until, well, the unforeseeable future. Now that I think about it, maybe that's why I've been organizing this office like a fiend the last two days: it's my way of dealing with stress.

Most people would say my office is organized enough. And in that I know where to find everything with my eyes closed, that is correct. But I'm in the business of the dying. That means I tear down medical charts almost as quickly as I put them together. Which means lots of dead charts. And, before I know it, my shelves are full again. So yesterday I spent an hour or more pulling every dead chart from 2009 from the shelves and packing them away in boxes. I have a feeling a psychologist would say I have a problem: I like packing boxes.

Today I cleaned out a file drawer because my billing files are eating away my space. It was time to move 2009 and 2010 to the attic. Packing those away led to cleaning up the attic. I don't get up there but once every few months, but if I have to find something I want to know where to look without shoving things everywhere. So after climbing up and down the ladder, swinging from the rafters and crawling around; all the boxes are in neat stacks so they can be easily obtained. And I was sweating like a pig...

Apparently not knowing when to stop, I decided the insurance billing files in that same drawer need to be sorted too. I mean, they are sorted. But insurance patients are few and far between in hospice, so when I need to find how I dealt with an insurance company last time or what my passwords were I have to rely on my memory to pull the right file. Usually, that's not a problem but there have been a few times. So we will make that system more efficient, too.

Of course, I nearly always end my Fridays by charting all the weekly paperwork, building the new charts and tearing down the old ones. Not my favorite organizing task, but I can't stand leaving paperwork undone over the weekend. As long as I don't get any more calls from nurses with questions I'm suppose to be able to answer (e.g.: do I know a good oncologist in Plano; will this medication still be covered by Medicare), it should all be put away before 5.

All of this leaves me with only one dilemma: if I organize everything in the office this week, what will I have to do next week to relieve my stress? Maybe I can sort my pens by height...

The Smoky Mountains

Well, while I'm sure my absence from the blogging world went unnoticed, it has been a week since I posted. I was on vacation...and we didn't have the internet. So, I'll catch you up on what the Sturm clan was up to their week in the Smokies.

Not a lot. We went bike riding:

We saw bears:

We played mini golf:

And, my favorite, we went tubing down the river. I don't have any pictures of that. Even if I possessed a water-proof camera, I don't think it would have survived the trip. Thanks to my "little" brother (like, 6 foot 2 or 3 little), I ended up in the water a whole lot more than planned. As my dad remarked after we got back to the cabin, "You did notice that all the other families on the river stayed in their tubes?" "What fun is that?" Caleb replied. He was right...

In an Adult World

My “baby” sister Abby remarked that this year’s family vacation will be our last one as children. She meant that next year my “baby” brother will be eighteen and so we will all be “adults”. I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not. For, apparently, it will take me thirty-three years to reach adulthood. Not sure what that says. But I will say this: I’m the only one, besides our parents, who can drive the rental car this year. Because I am the only one over twenty-five. Hah.

But, I’ve learned yet again this week, that it takes some people the entirety of their lives to reach adulthood. Regardless of the fact that they may hold a job, be married and even have kids (whom, I assume, they hope will grow up to be mature adults despite the bad example). And just for the record, I am not talking about men.

You know, my parents raised me to grow into a kind, mature adult who would go out into the world in whatever capacity God had for me and get along in life, despite all it’s ups and downs. I guess some parents don’t expect that of their kids. Which is why I have been thrown back into elementary school this week – just as I have often in this job I hold. I hate it.

I wasn’t homeschooled until I was in 5^th grade, so I went to elementary school. For the most part, I enjoyed it and have no horrible scars remaining. Except one. I guess you could call it bullying, but it was just girls being girls. You know, you didn’t know going into the school that day if your “friends” would be your “friends” because they had decided to take a dislike to, well, blue eyes. And so for the rest of the week you’re given the cold shoulder and ignored because they don’t like blue eyes. They whisper behind your back, making the other girls in class not like you either. And if you’re within a two mile radius when they get into trouble, it’s your fault. That addition problem they missed? You’re fault – you blinked at them. The sentence they couldn’t find a noun in? Your fault – you dropped your pencil. Didn’t know the capital of the US? Your fault again – you sneezed.

I gladly left behind that part of being eight years old, but I know someone who didn’t. And she’s back – like a boomerang. She leaves our company, she returns. She leaves, she returns. Now we’re on round three and this time I am seriously considering beating her to the punch and leaving myself. Because I don’t do eight years old anymore. I don’t do being treated like I’m a little better than her dog. Or being blamed for saying “no” when, in her opinion, I should have said “yes” – and then being tattled on. Or watching her do the same to the nurses, the social worker, the other marketer: namely, everyone but herself. Why? I don’t think she likes blue eyes. Well, that was so yesterday. Today she doesn’t like brown hair. Really? Did we not grow up?

I realize that the public school education is seriously lacking. If God ever gives me children, they will NOT be subjected to it. But I have to say that it does, apparently, prepare you for the real world. Which, I guess, means I will never get out of elementary school.

In just 4 days...

...I will be on my way to the beautiful Smoky Mountains of Tennessee!

I can't wait.

Green grass, green trees, mountains!!!!

Everything Texas does not have.

It will be like going to heaven.

And after this week, I may forget to catch my flight back to this place...and fail to find another.