Everything is not Always Merry and Bright

The ICU can be such a strange place during the holidays.  We try to make the unit merrier, dressing it up with Christmas trees, ornaments, and other seasonal decorations.  The break room is filled with sugary treats.  We wear our festive scrubs and buzz with holiday energy.  Our chatter turns to shopping, gift-giving, party plans, and cookie baking.  It really is like any other workplace this time of year.  And yet, an ICU is nothing like any other workplace, so all of our merriment can almost seem out of place.

I mention this because I caught myself in this conundrum the other day.  There I was, on Christmas Eve morning, obsessing about what to make for the following day’s brunch.  Eggs Hollandaise?  A frittata?  I couldn’t decide.  It was going to be our first married Christmas together and I wanted everything to be perfect.  I bustled around the unit, lost in my own thoughts, weighing one menu option against the next. 

And then came my reality check.  I heard the wails coming from behind closed doors, each cry emanating unfathomable loss.  It took me aback, like a slap in the face, jolting me from my happy thoughts.  The reality of it all began to weigh heavily on me; my biggest worry was an egg dish, while this family was saying their final good-byes.  I felt trite for fretting about perfection, while their Christmases will never be the same.

This job can do that to you sometimes.  And by “that”, I mean give you a hard dose of reality that will set your priorities straight.  All of the death and suffering juxtaposed against frivolous holiday cheer only serves to remind how fragile life can be.  I can’t stop living, or being excited about the all of the silliness it entails, but I can appreciate the little details.  That’s what my job teaches me.

In a Haze

After working a couple of nights in a row, I wake up from my daytime slumber in somewhat of a fog.  My sleep cycle has been thoroughly turned upside down, and it’s difficult for my brain to kick itself into gear.  I feel like a slug, both inside and out.  These are the days when I want nothing more than to curl up under a blanket and zone out in front of the TV.  But these are the days it’s most important for me to run.

My runs are supposed to be refreshing.  They’re meant to wake me up, to sharpen my thinking.  And, on most days, they do just that.  With every step I take, my mood lightens and I bring myself just a smidge closer to reality.  But today’s run was different.  It did almost the exact opposite, more like a backslide into the stupor of my dreams. 

I blame it on the fog, which was already rolling in, thick and cold, as I took my first steps and began finding my stride.  Its density was impressive, blurring the lines between land, water, and sky.  My usual landmarks were obscured beyond recognition.  The entire beach seemed distant and muted.  It was disorienting, feeling so lost in what should be familiar territory.  That haziness and uncertainty settled into my psyche, just as the cold penetrated my skin.  I didn’t feel refreshed at all, but rather like I was being held in some sort of trance.  It wasn’t until I walked through our front door and into the welcoming warmth of our little beach bungalow that I knew for sure I was truly awake.  What a strange way to begin my day…

Brain Freeze

 I knew I was in trouble the moment I stepped into the water.  It was early Saturday morning, only minutes before the start of the Palm Springs triathlon.  I needed to warm up before the gun went off, but the waters of Lake Cahullia were breathtakingly cold, chilling me to the bone as soon as they made contact with my skin.  Who did I think I was kidding?  No matter how many strokes I got in pre-race, I wasn’t going to warm up.  If anything, every cell of my body was slowing to a complete halt every moment I spent in that water.  I’m pretty sure my well-worn wetsuit wasn’t doing me any favors, either.  I might as well have been treading naked in Artic waters for as much protection it was providing me.  The frigid water poured into each and every tear, giving me the sensation of being held down in an ice bath.  It was painful.  I was fighting back the panic.

I don’t remember many specifics from the swim, besides struggling to find a good breathing pattern and barely feeling my arms as they pushed through the water.  I do remember the relief I felt when I looked over to find my friend swimming next to me though.  And, of course, I remember feeling even more relief when I realized our swim was over.

I wish I could say that, after exiting the water, I was in the clear, but nothing could be further from the truth.  Now I had to deal with the aftermath of spending thirty-plus minutes in such bitter conditions.  If I’ve ever been close to hypothermia, this was it.  My body felt like a block of ice and my extremities took the form of foreign, frozen bodies.  There was a disconnect between what I wanted them to do and what they were actually doing.  Try as I might, I couldn’t get my wetsuit off.  I knew I needed to hook my thumbs around the fabric around my ankle, but all I could do was sit and shake.  It was like being caught in the middle of a really bad dream.  The world was coming at me in slow motion, and I couldn’t figure a way out of this dilemma.  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, my hands began to function again, and I was able to get out of my wetsuit, into my bike shoes, and out of the transition area.

The remainder of the race went by unremarkably, as the majority of races do.  At the time, I’m giving it my all, focused on pushing through the pain, and trying to bike/run as fast as I can.  Afterwards, I wonder if that was truly my best effort, or if I could have pushed just a little bit harder.  The only observation worth mentioning is that both the bike and run were personal records, coming in at significantly faster times than previous races.

Now I’m giving myself a couple of days off and nursing all of the muscles that are thoroughly fatigued from Saturday’s effort.  Of course, by “time off” I mean hiking Mt San Jacinto yesterday and yoga today, but relaxation is a relative term.   Right?