Many years ago, approximately 15 years, I was in charge of my Dad for a short time only. Mother and Tim had something planned while Tim was living in Bowie, Md. So I volunteered to keep Dad at my house so they could enjoy themselves.
You see my Dad had several strokes, he had trouble with his speech and sleeping at night. But I figured, what is one night, I can handle anything. Mother brought him to my home with his travel case which included his Dilantin and Phenobarbital-his seizure medications that he had to have regularly.
The next day I was to take Dad back to Bowie and then head to the hospital for my 3-11 shift. Sure I could do that, even though he kept me awake all night rearranging the bedroom and lifting furniture that only a fork-lift could move. So admittedly, I was a little edgy.
That morning I got the boys off to school, took my shower, gave Dad a bath and got him fed and packed to go to Bowie before I killed him. Dad was hard to move and his gait was not stable but I managed to get him in the car with minimal frustration.
And so our trip began. Dad sitting on the passenger side with his hat on crooked, like he preferred it that way. I was listening to the Beach Boys tape and very excited to get him back to Mother.
By the time I got to Owings Mills, I realized I had left his seizure medications home on the counter. Now time was precious. Mother needed that medicine to give him, so I admit I was in a panic.
I turned the car around and went busting back to Carroll County to get home and get the medicine. I had just crossed over the reservoir going downhill and in our old Jeep that loved to speed. As I was coming up hill, a trooper walked across the highway and pointed at me to pull over.
I immediately was agitated and started fussing out loud. Somehow Dad understood I had been pulled over and kept saying, "Aw baby, aw baby". I yelled at him, "Just shut up Dad."
When the trooper came over I rolled down the window and passed him my license and registration before he even asked. I was too annoyed to speak and never said a word.
The trooper said, "I stopped you for doing 72 in a 50 mile zone." Still I didn't talk. I sat there thinking as the trooper was sitting in his car writing me a $150 dollar fine, that maybe I should tell him about Dad and his strokes and my rush to get his meds. I decided I would do that.
When the trooper returned with my license, registration and the big fine, he commented on my good driving record. I thought to myself, you mean flawless. Then I was angry all over again. I was going to be late for work and my bowels were in an uproar.
The trooper looked at Dad and asked, "How are you sir." Dad turned to look at him with that side ways hat and said, "Just fine thank ye". Oh well there went my sick man story.
I pulled away and looked at Dad and said, "You know what, that does it, you are going in a nursing home. You haven't said a complete sentence in 15 years and when the cop appears you act all normal. This is all your fault. Completely." I kept fussing at him until I got home and realized I couldn't make it to work unless Mother picked him up. I called her and told her about the fine and time was passing, and she sweetly came to get him.
I watched them drive away with the medicines and felt so ashamed at yelling at Dad. It was not a good father daughter moment and I still think of it even though he is in Heaven.
When court day came, I dolled up to impress the judge and prayed I wouldn't get any points off and wouldn't you know it, I had a lady judge that could have passed for Judge Judy.
The good news is, I paid the fine and no points and yes I did slow down.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Thursday, June 2, 2011
A Long Way from Cherry Ames
After 32 years if Med-Surg nursing, I believe that I can be considered a reliable source. I am a veteran nurse, it seems, I can be getting old and now I am wise.
I have seen many changes in hospitals over the years. I have drifted through primary nursing, team nursing and whatever you call it that I am doing now. I am the everything nurse, whatever that is.
Over the past 5 years, agency and traveling nurses have come and gone. New graduates have done the same thing, but the old folks like me, well we stay. Perhaps because we have no where else to go or perhaps because we are comfortable where we are.
I have adjusted to the computer system for all documentation that does not save me any time at all. I am from the old school, the Cherry Ames world. I love to talk to my patients, get to know them, mind, body and soul. I try to embrace them and reassure them that they are in good hands.
Over the last few years, I have noticed a change in patients and families. They are more knowledgeable and inquisitive now, not as trusting as in the old days. They watch the news, where a hospital error is big news. Hospitals are not the perfect world folks, nurses are human beings, who are not perfect and mistakes will be made.
I would like to say that I have never made an error, but I have and it causes me days of unrest. I can not allow myself an error and I work hard to prevent them.
I have seen the new graduates and I am impressed with their ability to chart on their patients. They are computer literate and love this type of docmentation. The computer is their friend. The old nurses like me, thank God I can type, are still adjusting to the technology. But I knew it was coming and finally I stopped fighting the inevitable and went with the program.
I marvel how agency nurses and travelers with so little orientation can come to our busy med-surg unit and function at all. Yes, they ask questions, and I am glad they do. Yes I have to leave my needy group of patients to help them. I stop to realise that each time I help one of these nurses, I am actually helping a patient. I know that by having agency or travelers on my unit, this will help my patient nurse ratio.
After reading the JCAH article on documentation, I had to smile just a little. I invite them to come spend a day with me. I invite them to take all the phone calls coming in, the family issues, and many medications, that I am supposed to know everything about and then document right on time what I have done that day.
The rule, no documentation, not done. Well, I have one rule to live by, I have to live with myself. I know whatI have done for my patient that day and more importantly, my patient knows as well. You see, I am from the old school, and my documentation is never a priority. Yes, I know it must be done and it is carefully examined by our Nurse Manager. I do my best, but physically meeting my patient's needs are my first thought.
Hospitals are now a business, patients are customers, and nurses are now thinking the same way. Many of us shuttle from hospital to hospital to make the most money. Is it all about the money? Have we lost our true passion for nursing?
I just started reading my Cherry Ames books again, and they still hold my interest. Yes Cherry, there are still good nurses who love their work and their patients. I consider myself to be one of them. My work is not a business, it is a passion. Perhaps we all need to focus on why we went into nursing school in the first place.
I have seen many changes in hospitals over the years. I have drifted through primary nursing, team nursing and whatever you call it that I am doing now. I am the everything nurse, whatever that is.
Over the past 5 years, agency and traveling nurses have come and gone. New graduates have done the same thing, but the old folks like me, well we stay. Perhaps because we have no where else to go or perhaps because we are comfortable where we are.
I have adjusted to the computer system for all documentation that does not save me any time at all. I am from the old school, the Cherry Ames world. I love to talk to my patients, get to know them, mind, body and soul. I try to embrace them and reassure them that they are in good hands.
Over the last few years, I have noticed a change in patients and families. They are more knowledgeable and inquisitive now, not as trusting as in the old days. They watch the news, where a hospital error is big news. Hospitals are not the perfect world folks, nurses are human beings, who are not perfect and mistakes will be made.
I would like to say that I have never made an error, but I have and it causes me days of unrest. I can not allow myself an error and I work hard to prevent them.
I have seen the new graduates and I am impressed with their ability to chart on their patients. They are computer literate and love this type of docmentation. The computer is their friend. The old nurses like me, thank God I can type, are still adjusting to the technology. But I knew it was coming and finally I stopped fighting the inevitable and went with the program.
I marvel how agency nurses and travelers with so little orientation can come to our busy med-surg unit and function at all. Yes, they ask questions, and I am glad they do. Yes I have to leave my needy group of patients to help them. I stop to realise that each time I help one of these nurses, I am actually helping a patient. I know that by having agency or travelers on my unit, this will help my patient nurse ratio.
After reading the JCAH article on documentation, I had to smile just a little. I invite them to come spend a day with me. I invite them to take all the phone calls coming in, the family issues, and many medications, that I am supposed to know everything about and then document right on time what I have done that day.
The rule, no documentation, not done. Well, I have one rule to live by, I have to live with myself. I know whatI have done for my patient that day and more importantly, my patient knows as well. You see, I am from the old school, and my documentation is never a priority. Yes, I know it must be done and it is carefully examined by our Nurse Manager. I do my best, but physically meeting my patient's needs are my first thought.
Hospitals are now a business, patients are customers, and nurses are now thinking the same way. Many of us shuttle from hospital to hospital to make the most money. Is it all about the money? Have we lost our true passion for nursing?
I just started reading my Cherry Ames books again, and they still hold my interest. Yes Cherry, there are still good nurses who love their work and their patients. I consider myself to be one of them. My work is not a business, it is a passion. Perhaps we all need to focus on why we went into nursing school in the first place.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Excerpt From the Cradle to the Cyclone Fence
Introduction to the book:
There was a bloodless war, a secret war, in the house. There were invisible wounds inflicted by bullets of verbal combat. The battles were intense. There was an ambush on the family in the house as they were attacked with silent weapons by a dark world of deception and destruction. It was a spiritual war.
This book was written about that war, the one that everyone in the house tried to keep a secret. But the secret was much too massive to hide. The dark world of substance abuse exploded in the house, attacking just one member of the family while the others were sleeping, unprepared. But the others felt the shock with destruction leaving deep scars.
There was one that suffered the most, the one caught in the trap, the one in the spider's web. He was confused, being blinded by the lies in his own head. He was suspended between the good and the bad worlds. He was captive in an ugly world that sought to destroy him.
There was a bloodless war, a secret war, in the house. There were invisible wounds inflicted by bullets of verbal combat. The battles were intense. There was an ambush on the family in the house as they were attacked with silent weapons by a dark world of deception and destruction. It was a spiritual war.
This book was written about that war, the one that everyone in the house tried to keep a secret. But the secret was much too massive to hide. The dark world of substance abuse exploded in the house, attacking just one member of the family while the others were sleeping, unprepared. But the others felt the shock with destruction leaving deep scars.
There was one that suffered the most, the one caught in the trap, the one in the spider's web. He was confused, being blinded by the lies in his own head. He was suspended between the good and the bad worlds. He was captive in an ugly world that sought to destroy him.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Poem From the Cradle to the Cyclone Fence
CRADLED
Finely crafted, predestined, meticulously designed
Toiled and labored from the touch of the Potter's hand.
A small treasure with no imperfection to her eye,
Cradled in her arms and sheltered from the shifting sand.
Entrusted in her care, the task of molding the clay,
Too soon the darkness loomed to threaten the binding tie,
A fingering crack in the clay, seen only by her
To patch the flaw, too tiresome , the mending of a lie.
A raging storm cast shadows on the fading calm,
the sorrowing Potter had sent the gift as a loan,
The clay could not be mended; the hot sun's rays beat down,
No shade from the smoldering heat, her prayer a moan.
Still clinging to her possession, the time growing nigh,
The Potter would be returning, his gift to recall.
She knew the bloodless war, non relenting, had won.
Reclaiming her gift, powerless to prevent the fall.
Mending the crack, the Potter began his tedious work,
Never to return, He slowly concealed the defect.
He cradled the gift gently under His loving wing,
On her knees, she saw him, and the work He did perfect'.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Farewell to Pepe-A Dog Legend
Saying goodbye to a 16 yr old Chihuahua should have been a little easier than it was, after all, she wasn't the best of dogs. In fact, she was a hellion, whatever that is and everyone that ever met her, never forgot her. She had a way of sticking in your mind, sneaking in your heart, and getting on your nerves. She was like no other dog and there would never be one that could even come close to taking her place. Not ever.
She became a family member in Sept 1990, the same time that my Dad had a life threatening stroke, and the very week we brought her home. I had to go to Salisbury to see Dad, but what was I to do with the docile puppy. So I got a huge box that could comfortably hold a full grown Great Dane, threw some food in it with a bowl of water, and put the little dog in. I fully expected to return home with her in the box, which was 12 hrs later.
I walked into the kitchen where I had placed the box, all was quiet as I peered in, but there was no dog. I was puzzled how she managed to leap over a five foot box, not noticing the small hole she had chewed in the back part of the box. Then I heard her running around in the living room, where she had deposited 20 turds and 20 tablespoons of pee. She was so happy to see me and came running up to me, just like a little angel. How could anyone get mad at a 2 lb puppy?
This was the beginning of many adventures with the most high strung dog that could ever be. She was hyper, easily agitated, and hated pretty much everyone, except us. We had to buy a Beware of Dog sign, which made people laugh when they saw the little, white,fluff of a dog. She pretended to be friendly until someone would cross the line and attempt to pet her. She knew they would try, so she waited for them to put out their hand in good snapping distance and she would immediately try to sink her sharp teeth into the intruder, regardless of who it was. We could even say that she knew the difference between the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Let's start with the good. Often times she would warn the good, by a continuous, growling noise, but no one ever took the hint. One day she was sitting on Pop Pop's lap while he was rubbing her and saying, "nice kitty." My brother Tim, a saint of sorts, the good, crossed the line by walking up to Pop Pop while Pepe lay all cozy in his lap. Tim reached out his hand to pet her and he felt the breeze of her clamping jaws and was just barely out of her striking range.
She had a huge dislike for the ugly. Our oldest son had a friend who really wasn't ugly, but Pepe must have thought so. This friend lived next door. When he would go home, we would hold Pepe back from chasing him. As the boy attempted to climb over the fence, we turned Pepe loose. She knew the game well. She ran after him like a bat out of H___! It was a game to her.
We couldn't take her out of a lease, like a normal dog. Sadly I found this out the hard way. One day as I was walking her, she saw another dog being walked. He was a huge, lovable dog. So in getting acquainted, dogs sniff one anothers butts. The huge dog let Pepe sniff first. When it came Pepe's turn to be sniffed, she attacked the huge dog after she jumped 4 feet into the air. The lady owner of the huge dog was appalled and said,"What an evil little dog you have!" I thought to myself, well she just crossed the line so I hurriedly took Pepe home while she was almost choking herself to death trying to get at the huge dog.
She hated all repair men. She barked their whole visit and we had to put her in a cage until the stranger left. Then when he was safely in his truck we turned her loose and she ran all the house sniffing and barking for hours.
If someone knocked on the door, perhaps one of my oldest son's friends, maybe the bad, I would hold her up to the door while her back hair stood up with all her teeth showing, with her long claws exposed. She looked like a cat. She looked mean and dangerous. Any idiot knew better than to try to come in the house.
The kids played tricks on their friends by trying to get them to pet her. When the friend reached down to pet Pepe, she would snap at them like a turtle and growl like a huge bear.
One day, we planned a vacation and had to board her at the kennel for a whole week. When we came back, I went to get her, I was told that she interrupted the whole kennel and they had to isolate her. They were glad to see me. The next year when I called to board her, they preferred that I didn't. So we took her with us to Ocean City to stay in my Aunt and Uncle's camper in Fenwick. She loved it and was as good as could be, as if she was on vacation too. We would chain her to the picnic table and she sniffed the air and looked around. It was so cute!
She was a hunter, one of the best. She captured birds, rabbits, and moles. It was a game to her and the whole back yard was her territory, even though she chose to poop right by the deck steps.
She especially adored my husband. When he came home from work, he would sing,"Baby, Baby" over and over. She planted herself by the door and would howl to the tune. One day she got so excited, she fell over and peed herself.
She was also an athlete. If we wanted her to come in from the yard, we would yell,"milk bone!" She would turn and come flying out of no where, leap 4 feet in the air onto the deck entrance as if she had been shot out of a cannon. Her front paws barely hit the deck. It was all a game to her.
But sadly the day came when everything changed. She allowed an electrician to come and stay all day and she never barked, this was a sign. She allowed a painter to come and she never barked. She let the squirrels play on the deck. She was slowing down and getting older. I pretended not to notice.
She started to lose weight, and walked around the house moaning at times. Her ribs were showing, I knew she had to be put down. I brought her in our home, I would be the one to take her away.
The night before the scheduled execution, she followed me everywhere. She knew. The next day she cried all the way to the vets.
She was so anxious at the vets that they had to gas her with air anesthetic before giving her the lethal injection. They allowed me to be in the room with her. I touched her and talked to her while the injection did its job. She was just sleeping. It was no longer a game. I leaned close to her as the vet checked for a heart beat that was no longer there. "Go find Pop Pop girl. He is waiting for you." Then I kissed her.
I wrapped her in a blanket and took her home. I rocked her and cried hysterically for 40 minutes until her body warmth was gone, just like I did with my Dad five years earlier. I closed her eyes. Her ears were up straight as if she was already on a journey and she had to be alert.
I whispered to her again,"Keep looking girl, keep looking. He is there. I love you girl !"
Nothing will ever be the same again. We will miss her forever!
She became a family member in Sept 1990, the same time that my Dad had a life threatening stroke, and the very week we brought her home. I had to go to Salisbury to see Dad, but what was I to do with the docile puppy. So I got a huge box that could comfortably hold a full grown Great Dane, threw some food in it with a bowl of water, and put the little dog in. I fully expected to return home with her in the box, which was 12 hrs later.
I walked into the kitchen where I had placed the box, all was quiet as I peered in, but there was no dog. I was puzzled how she managed to leap over a five foot box, not noticing the small hole she had chewed in the back part of the box. Then I heard her running around in the living room, where she had deposited 20 turds and 20 tablespoons of pee. She was so happy to see me and came running up to me, just like a little angel. How could anyone get mad at a 2 lb puppy?
This was the beginning of many adventures with the most high strung dog that could ever be. She was hyper, easily agitated, and hated pretty much everyone, except us. We had to buy a Beware of Dog sign, which made people laugh when they saw the little, white,fluff of a dog. She pretended to be friendly until someone would cross the line and attempt to pet her. She knew they would try, so she waited for them to put out their hand in good snapping distance and she would immediately try to sink her sharp teeth into the intruder, regardless of who it was. We could even say that she knew the difference between the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Let's start with the good. Often times she would warn the good, by a continuous, growling noise, but no one ever took the hint. One day she was sitting on Pop Pop's lap while he was rubbing her and saying, "nice kitty." My brother Tim, a saint of sorts, the good, crossed the line by walking up to Pop Pop while Pepe lay all cozy in his lap. Tim reached out his hand to pet her and he felt the breeze of her clamping jaws and was just barely out of her striking range.
She had a huge dislike for the ugly. Our oldest son had a friend who really wasn't ugly, but Pepe must have thought so. This friend lived next door. When he would go home, we would hold Pepe back from chasing him. As the boy attempted to climb over the fence, we turned Pepe loose. She knew the game well. She ran after him like a bat out of H___! It was a game to her.
We couldn't take her out of a lease, like a normal dog. Sadly I found this out the hard way. One day as I was walking her, she saw another dog being walked. He was a huge, lovable dog. So in getting acquainted, dogs sniff one anothers butts. The huge dog let Pepe sniff first. When it came Pepe's turn to be sniffed, she attacked the huge dog after she jumped 4 feet into the air. The lady owner of the huge dog was appalled and said,"What an evil little dog you have!" I thought to myself, well she just crossed the line so I hurriedly took Pepe home while she was almost choking herself to death trying to get at the huge dog.
She hated all repair men. She barked their whole visit and we had to put her in a cage until the stranger left. Then when he was safely in his truck we turned her loose and she ran all the house sniffing and barking for hours.
If someone knocked on the door, perhaps one of my oldest son's friends, maybe the bad, I would hold her up to the door while her back hair stood up with all her teeth showing, with her long claws exposed. She looked like a cat. She looked mean and dangerous. Any idiot knew better than to try to come in the house.
The kids played tricks on their friends by trying to get them to pet her. When the friend reached down to pet Pepe, she would snap at them like a turtle and growl like a huge bear.
One day, we planned a vacation and had to board her at the kennel for a whole week. When we came back, I went to get her, I was told that she interrupted the whole kennel and they had to isolate her. They were glad to see me. The next year when I called to board her, they preferred that I didn't. So we took her with us to Ocean City to stay in my Aunt and Uncle's camper in Fenwick. She loved it and was as good as could be, as if she was on vacation too. We would chain her to the picnic table and she sniffed the air and looked around. It was so cute!
She was a hunter, one of the best. She captured birds, rabbits, and moles. It was a game to her and the whole back yard was her territory, even though she chose to poop right by the deck steps.
She especially adored my husband. When he came home from work, he would sing,"Baby, Baby" over and over. She planted herself by the door and would howl to the tune. One day she got so excited, she fell over and peed herself.
She was also an athlete. If we wanted her to come in from the yard, we would yell,"milk bone!" She would turn and come flying out of no where, leap 4 feet in the air onto the deck entrance as if she had been shot out of a cannon. Her front paws barely hit the deck. It was all a game to her.
But sadly the day came when everything changed. She allowed an electrician to come and stay all day and she never barked, this was a sign. She allowed a painter to come and she never barked. She let the squirrels play on the deck. She was slowing down and getting older. I pretended not to notice.
She started to lose weight, and walked around the house moaning at times. Her ribs were showing, I knew she had to be put down. I brought her in our home, I would be the one to take her away.
The night before the scheduled execution, she followed me everywhere. She knew. The next day she cried all the way to the vets.
She was so anxious at the vets that they had to gas her with air anesthetic before giving her the lethal injection. They allowed me to be in the room with her. I touched her and talked to her while the injection did its job. She was just sleeping. It was no longer a game. I leaned close to her as the vet checked for a heart beat that was no longer there. "Go find Pop Pop girl. He is waiting for you." Then I kissed her.
I wrapped her in a blanket and took her home. I rocked her and cried hysterically for 40 minutes until her body warmth was gone, just like I did with my Dad five years earlier. I closed her eyes. Her ears were up straight as if she was already on a journey and she had to be alert.
I whispered to her again,"Keep looking girl, keep looking. He is there. I love you girl !"
Nothing will ever be the same again. We will miss her forever!
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Only A Game
With the tension mounting in the smoldering heat, we were tied as we started the eleventh inning of the championship game. My 15 yr old son was on the mound. I felt a wave of nausea come over me as I squirmed on the bleacher.
I took a fleeting moment to search my son's face for some kind of expression, some indication of what he was thinking or feeling, but there was none. Perhaps he had ice flowing in his veins, but he knew he had a job to do and that keeping his cool was crucial in getting the team closer to winning the regional play-offs.
My thoughts were constantly interrupted by the parents of the opposing, heckling, up-state team. Perhaps they were feeling the stress of 3 days of baseball, but for sure, they were not having any fun. Neither were we. No one was telling their kid to "go out and have some fun." This was about winning or losing, not fun. T-ball days were fun, this was stressful nausea.
I continued to glance around, rather amused as several of the parents on the opposing team, had perched themselves behind the home plate fence, looking like toddlers in a play pen. I believe they must have founded the organization called "Let's Hassle the Ump." They were pacing and yelling strange words to their kids and ours as well. They appeared to be angry at someone and their pot was boiling over as we reached the last few minutes of the game.
I made every attempt to tune out their loud applause when my son threw a "ball" near the strike zone or when they noisily shouted their objection to a "strike" call. I felt sorry for the ump, who seemed oblivious to their jeers. Maybe he was used to it.
Finally the inning was over when we scored one run to win. Even though I was still feeling the urge to vomit, I turned my focus upon my son's face as he walked off the field. Still the same expressionless face, but he glanced over where I was sitting, only I was no longer sitting, I was standing up cheering for a well-played game.
Yes winning was fun, but it was short-lived, since the final game that could possibly send us to the Nationals in Ohio had to be played. We would either go to Ohio or home to shower away a long season of 65 games.
And so the final game began, intense heat and playing hard to win, but at least my son was not pitching. The nausea still hovered around though. We lost by one run, just one run away from sweet victory. I had already packed in my mind for Ohio. I felt like crying. Two of the players on our team were crying in the dug out. Perhaps this was a typical response of children in men's bodies, maybe the stress was under the surface just waited to be released. I saw a few parents crying too.
No this was not fun. This was travel baseball.
We all looked like we were in shock. I tried to speak, but a huge lump caught in my throat. What was there to say? I knew I had to get myself together so I could say some upbeat words to my son to life his spirts. I was rehearsing a few lines as I was engulfed in my private pity party. Then I saw him walk over to me.
I looked deep into his eyes wondering how he was coping with the loss. I spoke first.
"Tough game!" I said as I looked away so he didn't see me cry. I collected myself and looked back at him. He was smiling,"Mom,it's only a game!"
And so it was. How I wished I had that attitude during all the years my boys played sports, especially when they were younger. I have seen parents, grandparents, and coaches ordered out of the park by an ump. I have seen pitchers crying on the mound as their Dad called them a "cry baby." I have heard all kinds of negative comments. No it was never fun.
I'd like to say that I had always behaved maturely, but this would be a terrible lie. I could best be described as a recovering "Parent-fan-idiot-holic!" I invented this phrase hoping there was a pill I could take to cure me.
I came to terms with my conditon one rainy day when I made an utter fool of myself in the middle of a 6 yr old soccer game. There was a ridiculous confrontation over a hat that I insisted my son wear in the rainy game. I learned some hard rules. First, hats are against the rules. Secondly real men play in the rain, get their hair wet, and go to the pediatrician in a few days.
I do not recall how I ended up on the middle of that field that day. I was seeing red and my feet were out of control. The other coach had the game stopped to have my son remove his hat. I didn't even hear the chants from the parents of the other team yelling,"Get that idiot off the field?"
My son still recalls that day that keeps resurfacing like esophageal reflux. To add to the chaos, my husband was the coach. He fondly spoke of the D word when we got home if I ever did that again.
My son just finished college baseball and that was not fun either. But he kept the same attitude, even after his pitching arm needed surgery that sent his hopes of pitching in the majors to a screaming halt. He had been pitching for 17 years, perhaps too long for one arm to endure.
We have gotten over the loss of the pitching arm. As I have come to terms with the loss, I hear those same words," Mom, it's only a game!" And so it was.
I took a fleeting moment to search my son's face for some kind of expression, some indication of what he was thinking or feeling, but there was none. Perhaps he had ice flowing in his veins, but he knew he had a job to do and that keeping his cool was crucial in getting the team closer to winning the regional play-offs.
My thoughts were constantly interrupted by the parents of the opposing, heckling, up-state team. Perhaps they were feeling the stress of 3 days of baseball, but for sure, they were not having any fun. Neither were we. No one was telling their kid to "go out and have some fun." This was about winning or losing, not fun. T-ball days were fun, this was stressful nausea.
I continued to glance around, rather amused as several of the parents on the opposing team, had perched themselves behind the home plate fence, looking like toddlers in a play pen. I believe they must have founded the organization called "Let's Hassle the Ump." They were pacing and yelling strange words to their kids and ours as well. They appeared to be angry at someone and their pot was boiling over as we reached the last few minutes of the game.
I made every attempt to tune out their loud applause when my son threw a "ball" near the strike zone or when they noisily shouted their objection to a "strike" call. I felt sorry for the ump, who seemed oblivious to their jeers. Maybe he was used to it.
Finally the inning was over when we scored one run to win. Even though I was still feeling the urge to vomit, I turned my focus upon my son's face as he walked off the field. Still the same expressionless face, but he glanced over where I was sitting, only I was no longer sitting, I was standing up cheering for a well-played game.
Yes winning was fun, but it was short-lived, since the final game that could possibly send us to the Nationals in Ohio had to be played. We would either go to Ohio or home to shower away a long season of 65 games.
And so the final game began, intense heat and playing hard to win, but at least my son was not pitching. The nausea still hovered around though. We lost by one run, just one run away from sweet victory. I had already packed in my mind for Ohio. I felt like crying. Two of the players on our team were crying in the dug out. Perhaps this was a typical response of children in men's bodies, maybe the stress was under the surface just waited to be released. I saw a few parents crying too.
No this was not fun. This was travel baseball.
We all looked like we were in shock. I tried to speak, but a huge lump caught in my throat. What was there to say? I knew I had to get myself together so I could say some upbeat words to my son to life his spirts. I was rehearsing a few lines as I was engulfed in my private pity party. Then I saw him walk over to me.
I looked deep into his eyes wondering how he was coping with the loss. I spoke first.
"Tough game!" I said as I looked away so he didn't see me cry. I collected myself and looked back at him. He was smiling,"Mom,it's only a game!"
And so it was. How I wished I had that attitude during all the years my boys played sports, especially when they were younger. I have seen parents, grandparents, and coaches ordered out of the park by an ump. I have seen pitchers crying on the mound as their Dad called them a "cry baby." I have heard all kinds of negative comments. No it was never fun.
I'd like to say that I had always behaved maturely, but this would be a terrible lie. I could best be described as a recovering "Parent-fan-idiot-holic!" I invented this phrase hoping there was a pill I could take to cure me.
I came to terms with my conditon one rainy day when I made an utter fool of myself in the middle of a 6 yr old soccer game. There was a ridiculous confrontation over a hat that I insisted my son wear in the rainy game. I learned some hard rules. First, hats are against the rules. Secondly real men play in the rain, get their hair wet, and go to the pediatrician in a few days.
I do not recall how I ended up on the middle of that field that day. I was seeing red and my feet were out of control. The other coach had the game stopped to have my son remove his hat. I didn't even hear the chants from the parents of the other team yelling,"Get that idiot off the field?"
My son still recalls that day that keeps resurfacing like esophageal reflux. To add to the chaos, my husband was the coach. He fondly spoke of the D word when we got home if I ever did that again.
My son just finished college baseball and that was not fun either. But he kept the same attitude, even after his pitching arm needed surgery that sent his hopes of pitching in the majors to a screaming halt. He had been pitching for 17 years, perhaps too long for one arm to endure.
We have gotten over the loss of the pitching arm. As I have come to terms with the loss, I hear those same words," Mom, it's only a game!" And so it was.
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