A Very Denver Christmas

What a difference a year makes.  Last year, I began my Christmas morning with a run along Newport Beach, the sun warming my shoulders, and the chilly, winter waves of the Pacific lapping at my ankles.  I wore shorty-shorts and a tank top, while Mouse sunned himself in a beach lounger, with nothing but swim-trunks in-situ, while he waited for me.  There was no puppy, and definitely no snow.   It was just the two of us living our California dream. We laughed at all of the suckers living in cold climates, smug in our fortune to live in such a temperate climate. It was a Christmas most people can only dream of.

Fast-forward 365 days.  This year, we woke to seeing our collective breath in the frigid air around us. A quick glance at my iPhone confirmed what we suspected; it was a bone-chilling 10 degrees outside that morning. Even the puppy looked cold. So, we did what any sane couple would do, and snuggled deep into our plush, down comforter, seeking out maximum warmth with each other.  There would be no running on the beach this morning, or bocce ball as the tide went out. With three inches of snow blanketing the city, and not much hope of the temperature rising, we were destined for a more traditional, North American Christmas, all bundled up and hunkered down around the fire. Now we were the suckers, living in a cold climate. We definitely lost our element of cool. Let the OC nostalgia begin.

But, even though much has changed from last year to the present, so much stayed the same. I love how we do Christmas. We kept our tradition of champagne and crab legs for breakfast. We still took full advantage of this being one of the rare days in which we get to be utterly and completely lazy. After living apart for the past few months, an entire day of uninterrupted "together" time felt like an exquisite luxury. And, of course, this year, we had the added bonus of being continuously entertained by our rambunctious puppy. So, plummeting temperatures and snow aside, this turned out to be a wonderful Christmas. It wasn't as glamorous as holidays of past, but that didn't matter. I guess this a perfect example of how it's not as important where you are for the holidays, as it is who you're with. And, as long as I'm with my Mouse, I'm exactly where I need to be.

Home for the Holidays

I did it. I'm done. My contract is over, and I'm back home in Colorado. Being back is like breathing a huge sigh of relief. Ahhh. It just feels SO good to be home. I don't care that I'm land-locked. I don't care that it's freezing cold this time of year. I don't even care that I've already had to battle one snowy day. Bring it on. I will gladly give up the ocean, and all of the other perks associated with my former SoCal lifestyle, to be back in my home with my boys.

Now that I'm back, I'm left to scramble to get things ready for the holidays. And there is soooo much to be done. Christmas cards, presents, wrapping. You name it, I still need to do it. It's my own fault, really. I totally slacked off so far this year, thanks to my extended absence. I guess it was unavoidable. But now I'm paying the time-crunch price, running around like a chicken with her head cut off. (Sigh!) At least the Christmas tree is now up, and I still have a few days to shop, so all is not at a loss. But, to be perfectly honest, I really don't care. This may not be the most perfect Christmas on record, but it's going to be amazing simply because I'm home to appreciate every last moment. And isn't that what truly matters?

Strange Days

It's a strange life I've been living these past few months.  Camping out in a cramped one-bedroom apartment with a friend and her neurotic dog.  Sleeping on a cot.  No television.  No Internet.   I may be living and working in The OC, but trust me, nothing about my current situation is glamourous.   At best, I feel like a broke college kid again, couch-surfing and partially living out of my car.   Although, even then, I lived more luxuriously than this.  The whole thing is so pitiful, it's almost funny.  I'm not sure what I thought life would be like when I signed up for this travel stint, but this certainly isn't it.

And yet, despite all of my whining, I have to admit, it's not really all that bad.  I'm making due.  Sure, the cot isn't doing my back any favors, and the whole situation is far from ideal, but it does remind me to be grateful for all I have back home.  It reminds me why I work so hard, and make the sacrifices I do.  It makes me appreciate the life I have temporarily left behind, and keeps me focussed on why I came out here in the first place.  Besides, at least I have a red wine buddy on my rare nights off.

Luckily, the countdown to the end of this nonsense has begun.  Nine days until Mouse arrives to bring me home.  Nine days and seven shifts, to be exact.  I'm so excited, I can barely contain myself.  Soon, all of this will be a thing of the past, a comical topic to bring up at dinner parties.  We'll all have a good laugh at my days sleeping on a cot, fending off a dog who likes to eat my underwear.  Soon, very soon, I will be back in my own house, with my own bed, and my own husband in my arms.  I guess that's another plus side to all of this, it's highlighted how the simple things are what truly make me happy.

Thanks, Thanksgiving

The turkey has been in the oven all day; its comforting scent wafting through the house, warming everything and everyone it touches. Our friends pop in, one by one, shaking off the Mile-High cold, to grab some food or a glass of red, maybe both. The football game plays in the background. Everyone is at ease, just happy to have a day off work and an excuse to over-indulge. It's perfect, really; one of those Thanksgivings they make commercials about.

At least, I'm pretty sure that's how the scene is playing out at our place in Denver. I wouldn't know, because I'm out here in SoCal, scarfing down a Healthy Choice meal, before heading back into work for Round Two. It's beyond depressing. I think I miss my boys more acutely today, than I have this entire travel stint. The holidays are so unkind that way.

I have to remind myself that this, too, shall pass. It's just another sacrifice that I must make to help build the future we want. Soon enough, I'll be home. This is the only holiday I will be spending alone.

Luckily, I don't really have the time to allow myself to wallow in the dumps. I'm off to work in a few, prepped for a busy night ahead. I can thank the holidays for the insanity about to commence, too. Sigh.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Grumpy Pants

Ok, Ok. It's time for me to stop my whining and take off my grumpy pants. I loathe to admit it, but this weekend was actually fun. (Who would have guessed?) I realize I did a tremendous amount of moaning and groaning as the weekend approached, as I truly did expect the worst, but I somehow proved myself wrong and managed to eke out a good time. Oddly enough I didn't even do anything special to change my mind; just being away from the hospital and with my husband and friends was enough to recharge my attitude and my soul. Besides, how many people get to celebrate their birthday by dancing the night away under the Eiffel Tower? (Never mind it was the Vegas version.) I guess life isn't so bad after all...

Vegas or Bust, I Guess

I'm probably the only person on Earth who dreads going to Vegas for her birthday. Most people look forward to a trip like this for weeks in advance. I constantly hear my coworkers excitedly planning what casinos they're going to hit and what clubs they'll dance in until dawn. Not me. Here I am, ready to hit the road at the break of dawn, sullenly wishing I was going anywhere but Sin City. I don't really expect anyone to feel sorry for me; it's just that I've been there (and done that) sooo many times before, and it's just not my scene.

Why go year after year, then? It's quite the conundrum. I could easily skip it, but if I want to spend my birthday weekend with my Mouse, I have no choice. This is a big work weekend for him; an event he can't afford to miss. And so, I begrudgingly tag along.

The sun hasn't even peaked out over the horizon yet, and I'm gassed up and ready to go. I'm headed east, through the suburban sprawl of inland California, into the Mojave Desert. Maybe my mood will lift along with the fog, and I'll be able to convince myself that this is going to be a good weekend, after all.

Cry If I Want To

It's my birthday and I'll cry if I want to. I know those aren't exactly the words to that old song, but it's where I'm at today. It IS my birthday and I really do feel like crying. I really, truly do. It has nothing to do with aging or wrinkles, either, I swear. I actually like being smack-dab in the middle of my thirties, after all; finally feeling like I'm growing into who I was meant to be. No, this melancholy has more to do with loneliness and disappointment than anything else, and I'm not even sure why.

The loneliness makes sense, I guess, as my husband is hundreds of miles away. It would have been nice to get more than a birthday-morning phone call. A cuddle or kiss would have meant the world. That's all a part of long-distance love, though, and I know better than to dwell on the maudlin. Besides, we're meeting up in Las Vegas tomorrow. Shouldn't that make me excited?

The disappointment is what really baffles me. I'm not even sure how high I've set my expectations to make me feel so deflated. I didn't even have plans for the day, and yet it turned out to be pleasant enough - wine lunch with the roomie, followed by a lax night with the bestie. And still, I'm left feeling thoroughly bummed, like there should have been something more...

Maybe my work-induced exhaustion is just getting to me. Maybe I'll feel better in the morning. In any event, I'm ready to sleep this birthday off, and forget it ever arrived. Humph.

Fat and Happy

I am one well-fed girl. I'm not kidding; there is a distinct possibility I may have packed on a few extra pounds over the weekend, thanks to the overabundance of amazing food at my fingertips (and lips.) That is the blessing and the curse of only being back in Denver for a long weekend. If I were there full-time, I'd have been much better at practicing moderation, but with only five days to cram in my favorite places, there was no time for prudence, of any sort. So this weekend became all about the food and drinks, and I dove right in. It started as soon as I hitched a ride from DIA, ceasing to end until my flight departed on Sunday evening. And despite feeling more than a little gross about myself right now, I am one (fat) happy girl. Belly rolls be damned, that was some good food. Thank heavens I'm active, because I ate enough to feed several grown adults over the course of my visit. But, believe me, it was all worth every extra crunch and extra mile I'm going to have to put in to make up for all of those extra calories.

All moaning and groaning aside, here's a synopsis of my dining escapades:

Pinche Taqueria - 1514 York Street -
Recognized as one of Denver's Top 25 Restaurants by 5280, and one of the 50 best new restaurants in the US by Bon Appetite, this small eatery completely won me over. So much so, I ended up eating there three times over the weekend; twice for happy hour and once for brunch. Yes - Their street tacos were that freakin' good.

Solera - 5410 East Colfax - This cozy eatery continues to be one of my favorite neighborhood joints. The ever-changing Mediterranean-influenced menu never disappoints. This visit, we stuck with a bottle of the house red and a big bowl of mussels nestled in a delicate tomato broth, the perfect remedy for a chilly, November night.

Parallel Seventeen - 1600 East 17th Avenue Parkway - I don't even like lychees as a fruit, but I'm obsessed with P17's lychee martini. Too bad it's not on their latest menu. Lucky for me, I was able to score the last one in the house that night. I imagine I won't be so lucky next time. The duck pot-stickers may just make up for that loss, though. I'm pretty sure they're my new Asian-fusion obsession.

Thin Man Tavern - 2015 East 17th Avenue Parkway - No visit to the Mile High City is complete without drinks at Thin Man. With its hipster crowd and low-key vibe, this Uptown bar is quintessential Denver. I've been bellying up to their bar since my early twenties and imbibing their infused-vodka martinis way before infused vodkas were the rage. I always give the bartenders creative license with my drinks, and have never been disappointed. This weekend's mixed berry vodka press was no exception - simple, effervescent, and perfectly un-sweet. Yum.

The Berkshire - 7352 East 29th Avenue - Every once in a while, Mouse totally surprises me and introduces me to a spot that is exactly my style. The Berkshire is just that place. Truth be told, he was drawn to this eatery for its unabashed love of swine, but I was taken in by their brunch menu. Any Sunday that begins with bottomless mimosas and lobster eggs Benedict is an excellent Sunday in my book. Delicious!

All That is Good

Ahhh... Being home is like breathing a long sigh of relief. I'm finally back in my own place, utterly at ease in my own space. I can sink into my own couch. Snuggle in my own bed. Chop with my own knives. Cook with my own stove. (Oh - and spend some much-needed face time with my own husband.) Silly, I know, but it's the little things that make me feel at home.

As nice as it is to be back, this long weekend is almost a conundrum. It's reminding me of how much I love Denver, and of everything I'm missing by being gone. It's five days of bittersweet, knowing I'll be back to SoCal, and my cot in a cramped apartment, before I know it.

I refuse to focus on the melancholy for now, though, rather choosing to savor all that is good. It's a weekend filled with good friends, good food, and good wine. We're hitting up some of my favorite restaurants, new and old. We're taking a day trip up to the hippie Mecca of The Republic of Boulder. (What could be more Colorado?) We're getting in a good hike to tire out the puppy and take in the autumn hues. And during our down time, I'll stretch my legs and enjoy the spaciousness of our house.

So instead of wasting any time being sad, I'm going to use this weekend as a reminder of the life I'm working so diligently for. It won't be long before this travel stint is over and my cot-sleeping days are nothing but a comical memory. And when my life returns to status quo, I'll appreciate it all that much more.

Broken Record

Here I am again, counting down the hours until my shift ends and I can catch a flight to see my man. It's tortuous. The hours seem to drag by, as if in complete defiance of my selfish desire to rush the evening along. I want nothing more than for this night to be over, the clock to strike seven, and my relief to arrive. It doesn't help that I'm mentally and physically exhausted, navigating this shift in a zombie-like state of utter indifference. It's been the same patients, with the same issues, and same medications for seven shifts in a row. It's the dreaded ICU treadmill, and, in truth, I'm just over it. All exhaustion aside, I'm ready to be home, to relax on MY couch, and fall into the arms of my long-distance husband.

After Australia, I thought I would be done with this nonsense. I really didn't foresee myself revisiting this scenario ever again, especially after returning to Denver. But life and the lure of travel-nursing happen, interfering with my love life, and forcing me into old habits. I remember counting down the hours, just like this, so many times during my stint Down-Under, and now I just feel like a broken record.

This is the life I continue to choose for myself, though, so I must take the bad along with the good. Every adventure has its price. I may miss my Mouse, and spend many nights pining for him, but I am also reaping the benefits of this latest assignment. (I must repeat this mantra over and over.)

Soon, the sun will peak over the horizon, and this dreaded shift will come to a close. I'll board the plane and wake to find myself descending into the Rockies. And then the real fun begins...

Shattered

"He passed away. I'm shattered."

That was the text I received from a friend the other morning. My stomach dropped and eyes welled just seeing the words. The he was her husband. Her world had just been turned upside down, smashed to pieces. Her pain resonated in each and every word. He had been in a motorcycle accident the night before; hit by an oncoming car right before her eyes. She was following a mere car-length behind. The medical team did their best, but it didn't matter. Even though they worked tirelessly for hours, his injuries were just too massive. He slipped away in the wee hours of the morning. He was only twenty-eight.

I've cried for days for her. The tears won't stop. The strange thing is, we aren't even that close. I've never even met him. Still, I was the one she called after they rolled him into the OR. I suppose it's because I'm the only nurse she knows. She needed to hear a voice of reason; someone to help her make sense of all the medical-speak. I'm OK with that. I'm just glad she thought to reach out, although I'm not sure how much help I actually was.

I was working that night, so we texted until nearly dawn. I did my best to reassure her. There wasn't much else for me to do, not being privy to the extent of his injuries. My experience made me think the worst, yet I hoped for the best, and I told her to do the same. When the texts stopped, I knew it wasn't good. As I drove home in the morning rush-hour, her heart-breaking text appeared on my phone. There was nothing more to say, no more hope to give. He was gone.

I'm not sure why this is hitting me so hard. I see accidents and tragedy every day. I've spent my career objectifying and de-humanizing death, making it clinical rather than emotional, in order to become more proficient at my job. I think all of us in the medical profession do, to a certain extent. We build up walls to get through our days, so we can maintain perspective and keep coming back for more. I've seen my share of families grieve, but I always do so with a sense of detached professionalism. If I didn't, I wouldn't be able to get anything done, and wouldn't do anyone any good. But this was different. All professionalism was set aside. There were no walls. I guess that's why it's affecting me so. His death and her grief caught me off guard, bursting my professional bubble. This time, I couldn't help but to feel her fear, her loss, her utter sorrow. Each emotion hit me like a ton of bricks. Everything hit so close to home. And that's when the waterworks began.

I'm not sure what lesson there is to be learned from all of this. Maybe that I am more human and susceptible to emotion than I'd like to believe. Or maybe just to be thankful for my family and all of our blessings, because everything can be taken in an instant. Either way, I'm going to give Mouse the biggest, longest hug possible when I get back to Denver next week.

Puzzle Pieces

It was, quite honestly, the perfect long weekend. We didn't go out for fancy dinners, or even do anything remotely romantic. We didn't book a room at a plush hotel, opting for more budget-friendly options instead. All of the schmancy stuff would have been nice, but it wasn't necessary. We both knew this weekend wasn't about the trappings of a typical vacation. Instead, it was about being together, about being us. And that is exactly what we did.

As soon as my boys arrived in town, all was right with the world. It only took a moment for my loneliness and apprehension to melt away. There they were - my husband, grinning the biggest grin I could fathom, and the puppy, wagging his tail so vigorously his body quaked. My own joy could barely be contained. After weeks apart, it was as if there had never been any distance between us. We were instantaneously a family again.

There's something to be said about our ability to fall right back into being us, about our ability to bounce back from long separations. I suppose the absence might make our hearts grow a teensy bit fonder, and help us appreciate each other a little more, but I swear that nothing truly changes. For better or worse (mostly better, I think), we land right smack dab in the middle of our old habits. We might bicker the same, as per our established patterns, but we also love the same, which overrides it all.

In retrospect, this weekend was, actually, a whole lot of nothing. We laughed by the campfire. We ribbed each other along our hike. We watched the puppy chase the waves along Newport Beach. Individually, each activity seems small and insignificant. But together, they help construct the puzzle of who we are. And after weeks of being apart, I realized that is exactly what I (and we) needed.

Lucky Me

There are times in my life when I'm overwhelmed with gratitude for the here and now, and can't help but feel so incredibly lucky for all of my blessings. Sorry for the sap, but this morning is one of those times. I woke up as the sun peaked over the horizon, snuggled in between my Mouse and my Butters (aka the puppy), to the sound of the waves crashing into the beach below us. It was so perfect, my heart just melted. I couldn't have dreamt a better start to my day.

My boys rolled into town yesterday afternoon, so we can spend a long weekend together. We've set up camp at the San Clemente State Beach campground, perched high above the Pacific Ocean. We spent last night around the campfire, making s'mores and drinking wine. Today we've got beach play and hiking on the schedule. My raging allergies aside, this is going to be an ideal day, and a well-deserved weekend together.

A Desert Oasis

One of the best things about being able to consider myself a Las Vegas semi-local is that there is always something new and exciting to discover.  And I'm not just talking about exclusive nightclubs or over-priced restaurants, either.  As I've mentioned before, my trips back to Vegas tend to be more low-key and usually include an outdoor element.  This weekend's trip was no different.  Saturday, of course, was dedicated to the Pumpkinman Triathlon.  Come Sunday, my tri buddy and I were too exhausted to do anything too crazy, but we definitely wanted to get outdoors and enjoy the beautiful autumn day.  This is how we stumbled upon Wetlands Park.

A wetland in the desert?  What??? The notion simply seems counterintuitive.  But, believe me, it exists.  (And I definitely had my doubts.)  This nature preserve, which is located just miles from the strip, off Tropicana, is proof that life can spring from the most barren of environments.  There are ponds with ducks, a rushing river (or run-off, whatever), and much more greenery than one ever gets to see naturally in Clark County.  It was a refreshing departure from the usual harsh landscape of the desert.  The "hiking" trails are more akin to nature walks, so exploring the park was cake, but we were okay with simply enjoying our laid-back day.

If you frequent Vegas, this park is worth checking out.  You can visit the Clark County Parks & Recreation page for more information.

Tri, Tri Again

I guess I shouldn't be surprised.  I really haven't been training.  It's been tough to get myself into any sort of groove since I took this travel assignment in SoCal, after all.  I've been able to (somewhat) keep up with my running, but my biking and swimming have definitely suffered.  If I had been logical, I would have expected my Pumpkinman time to correlate, but I had high hopes.  (Or delusions of grandeur.)  I had my newer, fancier, faster bike, and was (seemingly) getting stronger with every race.  Despite my usual pre-race self-doubts, I really thought I was going to beat last year's time by at least a few minutes.  No such luck.  I still set a PR, but only by 20 seconds.  How humbling.

Still, the 2013 Pumpkinman Olympic Triathlon will go down as a good race in my book.  The weather was perfect.  The water was calm.  The winds remained tranquil, and the often-blistering Vegas heat cut us some slack.  My swim was a little slow, but strong.  My ride was more of the same.  The bike course was brutal, but that's a given when racing at Lake Mead.  My run felt great, but I should have pushed my pace just a little more.  In truth, my only real criticism of my performance is that I didn't take enough chances, or push myself hard enough.  I guess that's a lesson I needed to learn.

All in all, it was a good day.  I got to race and hang out with friends on a picturesque fall day.  What could be better than sprawling in a park post-race, downing cold beers?  It was truly everything a race day should be, so, despite my lackluster performance, I really can't complain.

Tomorrow I make the long, hot drive back to the OC.  But I have more than work, work, and more work to look forward to this week.  Yup, at the end of my three, my husband and puppy will be in town to spend some time with me.  So I'm more than ready to tackle this week and the challenges it may bring, as there is an incredibly bright and comforting light at the end of this tunnel.  I guess this is when countdown begins...

Vegas Bound

After three long nights of work, and one really good night of sleep I'm off to Vegas. The Pumpkinman Triathlon is tomorrow, and, as is my tradition since living there, I'm competing in the Olympic distance. I'm praying for a cool, calm morning, but the desert weather can be unpredictable and unforgiving, so who knows what tomorrow will bring? Wish me luck!

All In a Day's Work

Have you ever left work convinced you smell like poo? That you've been around the offending substance for so many hours, and in such large quantities, that the stench has diffused into your pores and stubbornly clings to each and every strand of your hair? That, no matter what you do, you cannot get the rancid scent out of your nostrils?

Chances are, if you're not a nurse, you probably haven't. Lucky you.

I, on the other hand, am not so fortunate, and today is one of those mornings. Which, of course, means last night was one of those nights. I'll spare you the gory details, but it would be safe to assume there was an abundance of poo. Think overflowing rivers. (Sorry for the visual. I couldn't help myself.)

I'm not sharing this to complain or make anyone feel sorry for me. If anything, I hope it makes you laugh. Believe me, I laughed all night at the grotesque ridiculousness of the situation. I couldn't help myself, because, quite honestly, it was the only thing I could do. (That and clean my patient many, many times.) I couldn't get mad; it wasn't her fault. The poor dear wasn't even conscious to realize what was happening. Even if she was, it would have been out of her control. It was the perfect storm of tube feedings and bowel meds. Besides, as all nurses know, sometimes (and all too often), poo just happens.

So, now that my night in fecal hell has come to an end, I'm headed home to scrub myself from head to toe. I've never been so excited to step foot in my shower and wash away the evidence of my unfortunate night. Oh well - eventually I'm bound to come clean.

Kind of makes you reevaluate your definition of a "bad day", right?

Scarred for Life

**Disclaimer - If you are not a nurse, you may not want to read this. You could very well be scarred for life. No joke. You have been warned...**

It happened so quickly, I didn't have time to react. I stood there, as if frozen in time, unsure of what to do next. I couldn't just drop the patient and run for the hills, screaming in horror. He was my responsibility, after all. I was mortified and disgusted, but what could I do? So I held back a shriek, maintained my composure, and finished the task at hand, all the while fighting the urge to take steel wool to my face.

Seriously?!? This was how my work week was going to begin?

Up until that moment, I honestly thought I was ready to take on last week and all the craziness that comes with working in my hospital. After a few days off, and some much-needed pampering, I was recharged and rejuvenated. My head was clear. My outlook on life improved. I felt like a new woman, confident nothing could get me down. Ha. All that bravado went out the proverbial window almost as soon as I clocked in and hit the floor. No kidding, it took less than an hour to realize I was oh-so-very wrong. On this day, life, karma, whatever you want to call it, had other plans for me. I still haven't figured out what it wanted to teach me, but I am certain it wanted knock me down.

What could be so bad, you ask? I do work in an ICU, after all. I'm bound to run into some gnarly, stomach curdling stuff from time to time. And you're right, I do. I can stomach gunshot wounds, head traumas, and unbelievably gross abdominal wounds any day of the week. Bring them on. But this was much, much worse. I may even be scarred for life. That night, I was the one the other nurses were shaking their heads in sympathy for.

First off, let me set the stage for my drama. This was a comatose, end-stage renal failure patient. He was third-spacing and oozing from every inch of his skin. The little urine he was producing was thick, red, and smelled horrible. (See? I told you that you might not want to read this entry if you're not a nurse!) In short, he was really, really ill. He didn't have a good prognosis, so my goal was to keep him as clean as possible and as comfortable as possible during my shift. This is where the horror of all horrors comes into play.

I was cleaning him, with the assistance of my aid, getting him into a dry gown, and replacing the bodily-fluid-soaked linens with fresh ones. It happened when we turned him. It only took a second. There was really nothing I could have done to prevent it. As we rolled him to his side, there was a slight tug on his Foley catheter. Normally, this wouldn't mean a thing. But, this time, there was a defect in the catheter, and that one little tug led to disaster. The catheter came apart at the hub, allowing the concentrated urine to escape the tubing. Droplets of urine flew through the air, landing upon whatever surface was in their trajectory. Can you guess where they landed? Yup, quite unfortunately one of said surfaces was my lips. Yes, his blood-red, nasty, concentrated pee landed on my formerly clean, well-moisturized lips. It took a moment to register what had just happened. When it finally did, my eyes widened with shock and my stomach churned with disgust. But I couldn't just drop my patient. Doing so could harm him. So I wiped it off with the sleeve of my gown, finished caring for him, and then promptly scrubbed my lips with alcohol wipes. What else could I do? Sigh!

Bloody pee on my lips. That was a first. And, I pray to all that is holy, a last. Ugh. It's not blood or guts, but the thought of it makes me gag. And, even though I did my best to eradicate it from my skin, I'm convinced that it soaked in and I'm now contaminated. I'm going to live with this memory forever. Now do you see why I had such a bad night??? Thanks, karma.

Rainy Days and Thursdays

I know I've mentioned this before, but I cannot help but reiterate how much I love a nice, grey, rainy day. If I weren't working tonight, I might be a little disappointed by today's turn in the weather, but since my only goal until 5pm is to sleep, this dreary day is a welcome break from the usual nonstop sun. The pitter-patter of each rain drop lulls me to sleep, urging me to burrow deeper into my blankets and shut out the surrounding world. The rain is my own, personal "hall pass" to stop feeling guilty about slumbering away my entire day. So, I'm going to take full advantage of this lovely fall day and sleep like a champ. In fact, my eyelids are already heavy...

Away From the Grind

Ahhh... I feel like a new woman. Two days off was just what I needed. Yes - I know. My prior level of exhaustion was my own fault. No one forced me to work all of those consecutive shifts. I've been a woman on a mission these past few weeks; a mission to work as much as possible. I have my reasons, of course. The extra money is nice. (And that's why I'm out here, right?) But, more than anything, I need to keep working so I don't have time to think about how much I miss my Mouse and my life back in Denver. But even a workaholic like me needs a couple of days to relax and unwind, which is exactly what I did.

Working so many nights in a row has a way of making me feel horrible about myself. Most of it can be attributed to my lack of sleep and jacked-up circadian rhythm. And I'm sure the 2am junk food intake doesn't help, either. But I also start to feel utterly antisocial. When I'm working, there is no time for me to hang out or catch up with my friends. I work and sleep, and that's about it, disappearing into the strange and twisted world of ICU-land. So, when I finally grant myself a couple of days off, I make sure to take full advantage, which is exactly what I did these past couple of days.

Knowing these were going to be the only two days of respite in my foreseeable future, I went for broke. I primped and pampered, treating myself to a haircut, facial, and massage. I went shopping. I drank wine with friends. I ate street tacos at the Huntington Beach Tuesday night market. I even managed to squeeze in a decently long run along the San Clemente beach. I couldn't have planned this mini-break better if I tried. These last two days provided a much-needed recharge for my mind, body, and soul.

Now that I've squeezed in all of my R&R, it's time to get back to the grind. I'm looking at another four grueling nights of dealing with the aftermath of car accidents, gang activity, and unchecked infections. Such is the life of an ICU nurse. But, this week, I'm ready for it. Bring on the sickies!

Another Crazy Night

Uh oh. I knew last night was going to be trouble the moment I stepped onto the floor. The air was just charged with that frantic tension that always seems to precede complete and utter chaos. I could see it in the day-shift nurses' eyes. I could sense it in the way they franticly scurried around, responding to alarms and paging their respective docs, rather than waiting patiently to give the change-of-shift report. The phones were ringing off the hook. Someone was barking at me to talk to a doc regarding a patient about which I knew nothing. In the background, as if to emphasize the symphony of catastrophe that was threatening to erupt, were the high-pitched wails of two patients on the verge of psychosis. And, oh yeah, it smelled like poo. Ahh... Welcome to the ICU.

It's nights like this that make me want to walk away before my shift even begins. I've been around long enough to sniff out a pending night from hell. I know I'm going to spend the shift putting out one fire after the next, chasing my own tail, and doing my best to keep the insanity simmering at a manageable level. I'm never going to sit, eating a meal will be an impossibility, and I'll be catching up on my charting long after my shift is over. Yup - I could foresee my future before I even had a chance to glance at my patients. And once I did, I knew my fait was sealed.

Of course, I was right. It was a bad night. I ran. I put out fires. I kept our intensivist up all night. But, ultimately, it turned out to be a halfway decent shift. Partially, because we caught things in time. Even more so, because I work with a great team. Yet, I couldn't help but breathe a really long sigh of relief when it was finally time to go home.

One night down. Only three more to go...

All Work, No Play

Wow. I just powered through five twelve-hour night shifts, which is never an easy feat. I've felt like a zombie nearly the entire time, making my way through each night as if I'm one of the walking dead. I'm pretty sure, by the end of last night's shift, my eyes were glazed over from total lack of sleep; my pupils fixed and dilated just like a neuro case gone bad. My throat hurts. My back aches. Even more depressing is the way my feet and ankles have morphed into the ever-so-attractive tankle-ish look. But, despite the wear and tear on my body, and my complete and utter exhaustion, I feel good. I feel useful and accomplished. I finally did exactly what I came out here to do - work hard.

I knew this is what I needed, less play and more work. It's a rare occasion when I feel this way, but too much idle time can sometimes be my enemy. Early last week, I caught myself slipping into a deep funk. I just couldn't shake the loneliness of missing my Mouse and my life back in Denver. Self-doubt had set in, making me wonder if I had made the right decision in coming back to SoCal. Not that my feelings weren't valid, or my introspection absurd, but I definitely had way too much time to brood. So, I did the most logical thing I could. I threw myself into work.

One week later, here I am, exhausted but content. I'm too tired to worry about the "what ifs". And I'm actually relieved to have a bed all to myself. (And by bed, I mean either air mattress or camp cot, depending upon which friend I'm bunking with.)

So this is my new plan. I'm going to keep myself so busy I won't have time to think about all the negatives. I'm going to work. I'm going to run. And I'm definitely going to make sure I have things planned on my off days. (Oh - and I definitely have some fun husband-and-puppy-filled weekends in the works.) If I can keep that up, my thirteen weeks will be up before I know it. Yup, I can definitely do this.

The SoCal Blues

I have a sneaking suspicion the honeymoon is over.  Yes - It's quite possible the charm of my temporary move back to SoCal has already worn off.  I know it seems short-lived, but let's face it, my life was thrown into an uproar the minute I accepted this travel stint, and the chaos is finally catching up with me.  I toss and turn at night.  I'm (ever so slightly) moody and cranky.  I feel an internal state of funk beginning to build.  You'd think I'd be a little tougher, being the seasoned traveler I am.  It hasn't even been that long.  I've only been gone for two weeks, after all.  Besides, it's beautiful out here, I'm having fun catching up with friends, and I genuinely enjoy my job.

So why am I complaining?  Despite all of the upsides (and there are many), I can't but help miss my bed, my puppy, and my hubby.  I'm working on a serious case of homesickness right now, and am not sure how to cure what ails me.  Quitting is not an option (or really a desire).  And, thanks to our mixed-up schedules, neither is a quick visit home.  So, I'm just going to have to tough it out, waiting patiently for my angst to fade.

If memory serves me correctly, I felt this way the first months on my own in Australia.  I missed Mouse, and our life together, so acutely it hurt.  I pined for him in a way I didn't even know possible.  But, eventually the pain dissipated to a dull ache, until I was able to see the value of being on my own for a spell.  The same will happen here.  It won't be long before I'm so caught up in work and my own routine, that I won't even remember what all of my moping was about.  So, for now, I just need to power through these melancholy days and hold on to the simple things, like funny voice-mails and silly texts.  They may not bring me the creature-comforts of home, but they will help uplift my mood and sustain my soul.  (And that is more important than any memory-foam bed.)

My Home Away from Home

I wish I had the energy to write when I'm working. I wish I could muster the determination to sit at my computer for just a few minutes and jot down everything that's going on. There are always so many things I want to write about. I try to take mental note of them as they happen and keep them in the forefront of my brain, but it never seems to work. By the time I get home, I'm too exhausted to eat, let alone write. I use every last bit of energy I have left to shower and decontaminate before collapsing into bed, forgetting everything that means anything.

If I had remembered, I probably would have talked about how strange it was to go back to work here in Cali; how I felt like I was living in a state of deja vu, as I drove up the interstate on Monday. I'm back at a hospital I know well, but never thought I'd walk into again. I had happily said my good-byes, convinced my days at this facility were over. But fate had other plans for me, so there I sat in the parking lot, just prior to my shift, dumbfounded I was really about to start another assignment there.

If I could have summoned the energy, I also would have talked about how genuinely good it felt to be back. This is a busy trauma facility, not in the best of neighborhoods, but something about it resonates within me. It was satisfying to get my hands dirty again, and take on some tough cases. It was even better to be able to get back to working with such a talented (and bawdy) staff. I fell right back into my old routines, as though I had never left. Oddly enough, I really felt like I had returned home.

There are so many other things I could write about. It was a big week, for sure. But it's the little things that are standing out in my mind tonight. Who knows what the next few months will bring? I'm sure I'll have some great stories to tell. If I can only remember to write them down before I drift off to sleep...

Begging for Mercy

Uh, yeah.  How embarrassing.  This weekend definitely kicked my butt.  Two short runs, with a mini-brick thrown in for good measure, and I'm feeling it.  This is soooo not acceptable.  Even worse was all of the huffing and puffing it took me to barely maintain my snail's pace while running.  And my shorter-than-short ride?  I'm not even going there.  Ugh.  What has happened to me?  How did I go from Half-Iron shape last month to this?

Yes, I did intentionally take time off and tone down my training after the Steelhead 70.3.  I'd earned a little rest time, after all.  But I had no idea my fitness level would take such a nose-dive.  The whole thing is mortifying and humbling.  Less than a month ago, I would have breezed through said workouts, without a second thought.  This weekend, it took every last bit of determination I could muster to make it through that last mile.  Maybe this is my body's way of telling me it's time to scale back and give it more recovery time.  I'll be the first to admit, I've been pushing myself this year.  First, the Big Sur Marathon.  Then the training for the Boise 70.3, even though it ended up becoming my race that never was.  June was a blur of backpacking the Tetons and Yellowstone, putting in upwards of twelve miles a day with fifty-pound packs upon our backs.  Then I jumped right back into training for Steelhead.

Maybe my poor body has earned the right to rest a little longer, but the Pumpkinman Olympic Triathlon is quickly approaching, so I don't see that happening any time soon.  I wouldn't miss this race for the world, so I need my body to start cooperating.  Maybe I just need a new, more forgiving approach.  Maybe I need to start a little slower and allow my body to find it's groove.  Either way, I'm not giving up.  I'll just have to find a way to push through the pain.

Going Back to Cali...

Just when I thought life was beginning to settle down, that I'd finally have a moment to catch my breathe, this had to happen.  It's not necessarily a bad thing, it's just that it (i.e. the insanity) never seems to end.  I was happy to be in Denver, to re-visit my old haunts, to ease back into the life I left.  I enjoyed working for my new agency.  I loved reconnecting with old friends.  I had a puppy and a house I loved.  I was content.  But, for whatever reason, the Universe didn't see it that way.  I guess it had other plans for me.

It all started out as an innocent text from a friend, who also happens to be my recruiter.  At first I laughed at the offer, thinking it absurd.  There was no way I could actually consider going back to Cali right now.  I had just gotten back to Denver, and the logistics would be a nightmare.  I would need an affordable place to stay.  I would have to leave my puppy behind.  Plus, Mouse would never go for this.  I texted her "no".  She responded with the offer.  I faltered.  Hmm...

So, after a whirlwind week of Facebook inquiries, text messaging, and one VERY long drive, here I am in SoCal.  None of it seems real to me quite yet.  I left behind one incredibly rambunctious puppy and one incredibly understanding (and supportive) husband.  I can't believe we're back to doing the long-distance thing; I really thought we were done with that.  But, sometimes, life throws us curve-balls, and we have no choice but to play ball.  This is a great opportunity, both financially and career-wise, so I'm glad we're able to make it work.  I always say that life is an adventure; I guess this is just another example of me learning to embrace it.  Denver will still be there when this assignment it over, as will my house, my Mouse, and my puppy.  Welcome back to Cali.

Accident Prone

Seriously? Seriously?!? What is it about my car that makes it such an accident magnet here in Colorado?  I made it through two years of SoCal bumper-to-bumper insanity totally unscathed.  But it seems like my car is just begging to get hit now that I'm out here.  I don't get it.  It's not too flashy.  It's not too small.  It's an average, run-of-the-mill SUV, absolutely typical to Colorado, so it's not like the other drivers can't see it, or have any reason to target it.  Nevertheless, that's now twice in two months.  Twice!  Ugh!  And, for the record, neither were my fault; I wasn't even driving.  The first time, we were trying to find a parking spot downtown, when some girl just blew through a red light.  Minimal damage, with maximum annoyance.

Fast forward a few weeks.  This time, Mouse and I were on our way up to Nederland for a hike, stopped in a long line of Boulder traffic, when this guy rear-ended us at full speed.  I'm not kidding, he hit us HARD.  I don't even understand how he was driving that fast in such heavy traffic.  But, of course, he was, and the back end of my ill-fated Escape, as well as my neck, are now paying the price.  So, instead of playing with our puppy on the trails, we got to spend our Saturday afternoon in the ER.  That was definitely NOT how we had envisioned our weekend.

Luckily, we're all OK.  My neck and back are little worse for wear, but nothing some good muscle relaxers and chiropractic work can't fix.  And it looks like my jinxed SUV is headed back to the shop again.  Poor baby.  Will she ever catch a break?  One can only hope.

The Shame of the Game

Wow. That was painful, and not in a good way. All I can do now is hang my head in shame. Yup, yesterday was a lesson in utter, abject humiliation on the golf course. It was seriously agonizing. Sure, I had an idea it wasn't going to be pretty. It was the first golf tournament I've ever dared play, and the first time I'd even stepped foot on a course in years, after all. But it was for a good cause and I was among friends, so I figured it couldn't be too bad. Boy, was I ever wrong.

It's amazing how much trouble one little ball can cause. I topped it. I whiffed. I sliced. I hooked. I did anything but connect with it and make a straight shot. For someone who can hit the ball so solidly at the driving range, I was an out-of-control mess. Even the cocktails I consumed along the course were of no assistance. It was mortifying. I'm just thankful my friends were gracious enough to cut me some slack and refrain from teasing me too badly.

All humiliation and mortification aside, it was a good day with good friends, and a great way to wrap up our Michigan vacation. Now I just need to work on my game...

Pure Michigan

I don't know how many people have actually seen the "Pure Michigan" ad campaign, but this vacation is turning out to read like the story-board from those commercials. Seriously, I've had more than a few moments this past week when I've felt like I've stepped into the television and found my way into a cinematographic imagining of what a vacation in Michigan should look like. It's been amazing. First, the triathlon. Then, camping along the lakeshore in Warren Dunes, lazing on the beach during the day and gathering around the campfire at night. Now we're in the central portion of the state, golfing and hanging out with friends and family on sun-basked patios. The weather has been perfect. The white wine has been crisp and chilled to perfection. The microbrews (i.e. Bell's) have lived up to my memories. I've climbed sand dunes and caught fire-flies. Mouse reeled in his first big fish. I made s'mores with my nephews. I even baked a knock-out blueberry cobbler with local, Michigan blueberries last night. (Thanks, Bon Appetite, for the recipe.) I know this all sounds so mundane, especially when juxtaposed against our usual adventurous escapades, but I think we were due for a little boring. Dull or not, all of this has been a welcome respite from the insanity of this summer.

Now, we only have two days of vacation left. After that, we have a very loooong drive ahead of us; Twenty hours of navigating through the midwest monotony, to be exact. And, while I'm not looking forward to that tortuous drive, I am sooo glad we made the effort to make it out here. We've seen family and friends, the puppy has had a blast, and I've been reminded of how nice it can be to visit my childhood home.  Thanks, Michigan.  See you next time.

The Steelhead Challenge

Whew! I'm not going to lie; I'm really glad THAT (as in the Steelhead 70.3) is over. I love to compete and all, but the half-iron distance is no picnic. I don't care how tough you are, it hurts. So, it didn't come as any surprise when, as per usual, I found myself questioning my sanity (and fitness) around mile 6 of the run. That seems to be the magic number for me in a 70.3. I'm much too deep in to consider just giving up, yet I'm far enough away from the finish line to allow me to envision crossing it. I'm exhausted. My quads ache. My stomach is anything but happy. It never fails; this is my mental wall. Luckily, I always seem to summon enough determination to trust my training and push through it. And this is exactly what I was able to do on Sunday.

All of this being said, Steelhead was a great race. It was a personal best for me, with a finish time of 5:35. The weather was great. The water was calm. It was also a great course, starting on the sandy shores of Lake Michigan, winding through the lushly green countryside, and finishing at the same beach locale. After the Boise debacle, I needed this.

I'm always going to over-analyze my performance, wishing I did this or that differently, but I'm actually pleased with my effort this time. I probably could have taken my training a little more seriously, and could have benefitted from a few more long brick days, but that's all behind me now. What matters most is that I continue to push myself and improve. Steelhead proved to be a prime example of that.

Now that the race is done, my vacation can truly begin. Now, my only concerns are of lying on the beach, soaking up the rays, and what kind of wine I'm having at dinner. Now, I can focus on being on vacation. What a way to wrap up this sumner...

At It Again

Ugh. I definitely drank a bit too much wine last night. That was puh-robably not the best pre-race prep, but what's a girl to do when offered a glass of luscious Stag's Leap cab at dinner? I didn't want to be rude, after all. The same goes for the second and third glasses, as well. (I know, I know. I'm such a lush!) It was a good night with good friends we don't see often enough, though, so I don't regret one single drop of wine consumed. Oh well. Maybe I should be taking this race more seriously...

So now we're back on the road, heading from the 'burbs of Chicago to the shores of Benton Harbor. I'm downing Gatorade like a fish out of water, in my best attempt to rehydrate and atone for last night's sins. The Steelhead 70.3 will come early enough tomorrow morning, and I need to be ready to punish my body for a few hours or so.

It doesn't matter how often I do these triathlons, I never feel ready. No matter how much time and effort I've put into my training; it just never seems enough. I always feel like I should have done just one more swim, or one more brick. But there's no more time for training, so I guess I should stop my worrying. Now I need to rely upon the hope that I DID train enough, and that my body IS ready for this. At least this race is at sea-level...

In an hour or so, I'll be checking in, getting my body marked, and getting my gear all set up. Maybe then my confidence will kick in. A girl can dream!

The Long Road Home

And we're on the road again. This trip is not going to be nearly as epic or picturesque as our June road-trip to Grand Teton and Yellowstone, but it is a trip, nonetheless; A chance to be on the open road. At the moment, we're somewhere in the middle of Nebraska, where the most exciting thing we've seen is a lemon-yellow, single-prop, airplane crop-dusting a field along our route. (Yeah - it's that exciting.) We're hoping to make it to Des Moines tonight, and then on to Chicago tomorrow. Our final destination is the shores of Lake Michigan, on the Michigan side, where I'll be competing in the Steelhead 70.3 this Sunday. After that, some camping on the lakeshore with the fam, then off to a golf outing with Mouse's clan.

It's going to be a busy and exhausting vacation, but it should also be a load of fun. After more than a decade away, I miss my Michigan summers. I miss playing in the waves of the Great Lakes, with the sand between my toes. I miss climbing the sand dunes and catching fireflies at dusk. I miss all of those things that make a childhood memorable and magical. So, with a little luck and some good weather, I'll be able to relive a few of those small moments, and share them with my husband.

After this nonstop summer, I'm ready for all of this, plus some good, old-fashioned R&R. I'm ready to laze on the beach. I'm ready to savor an Oberon and worry about nothing more than what we're going to BBQ for dinner. I'm ready to sit around the campfire, sip wine, and just plain chill. I really can't think of a better way to spend these last days of summer.

Now, we just have to get through this grueling drive...

Home At Last

It just occurred to me the other night that we arrived back in Denver exactly five years to the day I initially moved away.  FIVE YEARS!  It doesn't seem possible.  I still remember the weeks and days leading up to that move like they were yesterday.  It was to be the beginning of an entirely new life, which was terrifying and exciting all at the same time.  I was a new grad and newly in love, making me idealistic in a way that only such an all-encompassing newbie can be.  Looking back, I should have had an inkling Las Vegas probably wasn't the best place to begin a career in nursing, or a new relationship.  The fast-paced, instant-gratification, check-your-common-sense-at-the-door culture that abounds there doesn't do much to foster either.  But I was naive and determined, so I dove right in and gave it my best shot.  Those early days were rough, both for our relationship and my career, but I (and we) survived.  Now, after years of living like a gypsy, I've returned to the city I love, the place where my adulthood began, and life has come back full circle.  Well, sort of.

As excited as I am to be back, things just aren't the same.  This isn't exactly the same city I left, and I'm certainly not exactly the same person I was so many years ago.  Favorite restaurants have closed, with new ones springing up in their place.  My old nursing school abandoned for a new campus east of the city (tear!); its windows boarded, the dilapidated, deserted buildings just waiting to be demolished.  There have been marriages and divorces.  Babies have been born.  Houses have been bought and sold.  Careers have blossomed.  Friendships have evolved and sometimes faded, with new ones to take their place.

And me, well... I'm no longer a scared new grad, but a somewhat seasoned nurse.  I've become tougher (and possibly more jaded) than I ever thought possible.  I'm no longer a single twenty-something, playing the dating game, either.  Now I'm a thirty-something married lady, with a fur-baby in tow.  I'm definitely older, possibly a little wiser (I hope), and most certainly more settled in myself and my life.

But just because this isn't the same Denver, and I'm not the same girl who left this city so many years ago, doesn't mean that I'm not excited to be back.  Because, let's face it, I'm ecstatic.  I'm happy to be back in a real city, where everything is so alive.  I'm happy to be back in a place that boasts such an amazing restaurant and bar scene.  I can't help but smile every time I catch a glimpse of the mountains, and am  downright euphoric with the knowledge that all of my favorite outdoor activities are a short car-ride away.  I love the trees.  I love the green.  I love being able to catch up with all of my friends, old and new.  It's true that this is not entirely the same city I left, but Denver is home to me, and I couldn't be happier to be back.

Perfectly Boring

Ahhh... It's been a long time since I've experienced the luxury of feeling "at home", but I think I finally hit the jackpot this past weekend. Yes, we've been in our new digs for over a month now, but this was the first time in an incredibly long while, that I've actually felt settled. I have to admit, it felt nice.

This was the first weekend we had time to laze around and do whatever we wanted. No parties. No out-of-town weddings. No obligations of any sort. This weekend was all about us.

So what did we do with a weekend to call our own? Nothing much. After maintaining such a hectic pace for the past few months, we were craving low-key. And we got our wish. Friday evening Happy Hour at Pasquinis. Sushi at Sushi Tazu. (Sadly, not my fave.) Cherry Creek Farmer's Market. A bottle of chilled, crisp Pinot Grigio while watching the Olympics. Pearl Street Farmer's Market. Puppy's first excursion to Wash Park. And what weekend would be complete these days without a little home-improvement thrown into the mix for good measure? Mundane? Yes. Nonetheless, these were the makings of my perfect weekend.

Maybe I'm going soft. Or maybe the insanity of this summer has finally worn me down. A few months ago, this probably would have equaled the most blasé weekend ever. But now, I'm grateful for the downtime. Everything about it was pure, borderline boring bliss. Whatever. I'm just thankful we finally found time to chill.

It's Good to be Back... I Think.

Oh. OK. So that's how it feels to work full time.  After eight weeks off, I'd nearly forgotten.  And, even though this was probably the easiest week of my nursing career, I'm absolutely exhausted.  After three seemingly endless nights on my feet, I'm dog tired.  (My eyelids are drooping as I'm trying to finish this entry.)  Let's face it, all this R&R has made me soft.  I can't even imagine attempting to pull a fourth shift right now.  At this point,  I want nothing more than to crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and shut the world out.  If Mouse would let me, I would gladly sleep the entire weekend away.  I'm sure the majority of said fatigue is simply related to the drastic change in my schedule, as my body is no longer accustomed to pulling all-nighters.  But my drawn-out vacation is a thing of the past, so I suppose it's time to reacquaint myself with the physical punishment inherent to working nights.  (Which is still far more attractive than the thought of getting up early enough to work the day shift.) 

All whining aside, it's good to be back.  It's nice to get out of the house, feel productive, and meet new people.  So far, all of my prior qualms and nerves have proven to be unfounded.  Sure, there are new things to learn, but getting back on the floor is kind of like riding a bike.  I may be a little shaky at the get-go, but it isn't taking long to find my rhythm.  Soon enough, I'll be back to my old self.  But first, I need to take a very, very long nap.

The End of My Lazy Days

I guess this is it.  My summer of freedom is over.  Oh - I realize there is still a good month of summer left to enjoy, but it won't be the same.  It's finally time for me to get out of vacation mode and re-enter reality.  Today is the day my extended vacation ends.  Tonight, I go back to work.

I really can't complain.  Initially, I had only planned (and budgeted) for a month off.  The extra four weeks were just a bonus.  Quite honestly, I'm ready to get back to work at this point.  Between the move, the backpacking trip, and the new puppy (more on that later), our lives have been in a tailspin.  I'm ready to get back to some sort of normalcy.  I'm ready for a schedule, a sense of purpose, and, most importantly, a paycheck.  (Decorating a new house isn't cheap, after all.)

Of course, my excitement is laced with a teensy bit of the jitters.  Starting a new job always does this to me.  One would think that, after more than a year of working agency, I would be an old pro at this.  I should be tougher than nails.  I am accustomed to going to different hospitals, after all.  But working in Colorado is foreign territory for me.  I may have gone to nursing school here, but I never worked in a professional capacity.  And anyone who has ever worked as a traveler knows that each state plays by its own rules.  I know how to play the game in Nevada, California, even Australia, but who knows what I'm walking into now?

Just like any other position, I have to approach this with an open mind and a positive attitude.  I've been dreaming about getting back to Colorado for years, and this is just another part of my transition into life out here.  So, I'm going to rest up and do my best to mentally prepare myself for my first night back in the unit.  Wish me luck...

Home on the Front Range

Well, here we are.  After months of planning, a month on the road, and the longest drive ever between Vegas and the Front Range, we have arrived in Denver.  We've actually been here for a couple of weeks, but life has been so absolutely insane that I haven't been able to steal away any time to write.  There's so much to do with the new house, new job, and re-establishing Mouse's business that I can barely keep my head screwed on straight.  (Of course, I'm preaching to the choir of anyone who has ever moved.)  Oh - and did I mention that we threw a party two days after moving in?  Yes - we're that crazy.  But even though life has been a mind-boggling whirlwind since we've been back, it's good to be home.

Down & Out In Yellowstone

Ugh. My head feels like it's going to explode. I have been dealing with a monster head cold for the past few days, and am sooo over it. I guess I should have expected something like this to happen, though. One doesn't spend multiple nights in the Yellowstone backcountry, with the temperatures consistently dropping down to 20, without experiencing some sort of ramification. It's not like we weren't prepared; we packed in more than enough cold-weather gear, and had fires every night, but I'm learning that my poor body can only take so much abuse. Five straight days of hiking 13 miles, with a 50-pound pack on my back, took its toll on my body and my immune system, leaving me exhausted and sick. So, we opted to end our expedition a tad early and seek the refuge of a hotel room. I'm going to be honest, I've never been so happy for a hot shower and comfortable bed. (It's amazing what a couple of weeks of roughing it can do for my appreciation of modern conveniences.)

Thus, we ended up spending the past couple of days recovering and relaxing in Bozeman, a quaint college town. Today, we head back down to Jackson Hole for a fun Saturday night. I'm just hoping this darn cold gives me a break long enough for me to enjoy myself...

Backcountry Bliss

There are certain times in my life when I look around and know that I am exactly where I want to be; no matter the minor blips, my life is just as I hoped it would become. Hiking the backcountry of Grand Teton National Park these past few days has afforded me many of those moments. Sure, I was dirty, tired, and sore, but I also felt so incredibly alive and enraptured with the absolute beauty around me.

Originally, we had planned for a 3-day, 30-mile loop through the backcountry. These plans were thwarted by the lingering snow pack, as we had no desire to mess with cramp-ons and ice axes. Luckily, the alternative we settled upon turned out just as spectacular. We ended up hiking a mere 3 miles in to Phelps Lake, where we set up camp and were able to reach both Death Canyon and Open Canyon as day hikes. The scenery was breathtaking. The waterfalls flowed freely. The wildflowers were just beginning their summer bloom. We saw black bear, moose, and deer. And - most importantly - we rarely came into contact with other people. (In fact, the most contact with had with anything living was the button buck who hung out at our camp each night.) This excursion proved to be an ideal trek into the wild.

Tonight, we're recharging in Jackson Hole. Tomorrow, we're headed up to Yellowstone, where we're going to embark on an epic 7-day, 70-mile expedition into to the northeast portion of the park. Wish us luck!

Outdoor Therapy

There's nothing like being in the great outdoors to wash all of my worries away. We arrived in Grand Teton National Park last night, and the Boise debacle already seems lifetimes away. It's chilly up here, but also stunningly beautiful. It's just what I need to recharge my body and soul. We're taking it easy for the next couple of days. We car-camped at Jenny Lake last night and are in search if some hidden sites at the northern edge of the park today. Tomorrow, we're headed into the backcountry for some solitude. I can't wait.

A Lesson Hard Learned

I'll be the first to admit, triathletes are a crazy group of people, doubly so for those of us who enjoy the longer distances. We take pleasure in punishing our bodies with insane workouts, trading lazy weekend mornings for grueling training sessions. We don't have the luxury of being fair-weather athletes, either, so we learn to tough it out, rain or shine, blistering heat or freezing cold. Thus, I like to think triathlons have turned me into one tough chick. I've trained and raced in some pretty rough conditions. But yesterday, I learned even I have limits.

We knew the weather come race time wasn't going to be ideal. Even though Boise had been enjoying clear skies and temperatures in the mid-70s for days on end, we were well aware we weren't going to be so lucky Saturday. Nevertheless, I stayed positive as the day approached. I refused to give in to negative thoughts and continued to hope for the best. Besides, I thought I was prepared, both mentally and attire-wise, for the imminent inclement weather. Boy was I wrong.

Yesterday, I learned that sometimes no amount of preparation can ready a person for certain situations. It didn't matter how many hours of training I had logged, how much gear I invested in, or how tough I thought I was. Sometimes, you just have to know when to say when.

It was a hard pill to swallow, but yesterday's race was that moment for me. After suffering for hours in 43 degree weather at the Lucky Peak Reservoir, bracing ourselves against high winds and sleet, my racing partner and I had to make the call. It was gut-wrentching, all of that training and travel expenses gone to waste, but we knew we had to walk away. The risk of severe hypothermia was just too great for us chance it. I sobbed tears of frustration as we turned in our timing chips, my pride and self-identity taking a massive blow. Even now, I feel sick about it.

Still, I know we did the right thing. I would have been risking my well-being if I had stubbornly insisted on getting in that water. I was already frozen to the core, my body wracked with violent shivering. I never would have been able to recover after the swim. Even though the officials had already cut down the bike course to 15 miles (rather than the usual 56), due to the dangerous conditions, I knew this just wasn't my day to race. So, I forfeited. It's my first DNF and, I hope, my last.

Sure, there were people who went ahead and competed, and I am impressed with their persistence. Maybe they can withstand colder temperatures better than I can. Maybe they're just made from tougher stock. None of that matters. I have to keep my chin up, knowing I made the right decision for me.

I'm still searching for a silver-lining in all of this. I'm doing my best to come away with some valuable lessons, other than recognizing my own physical limitations. And slowly, I'm recognizing there are things I could have done differently, mainly in respects to my cold-weather gear. I also think the race organization, itself, could have done more for the athletes (a rain tent, perhaps?), but those decisions are out of my control. So, now I need to let this entire debacle go and start looking forward to the next race. Because, there is no doubt that there WILL be a next race...

Another Day, Another Tri

Well, here I am, the night before another big race.  Wasn't I in this exact position a little while ago?  It seems like just yesterday I was stressing out about Big Sur.  And yet, here I am in Boise, only six weeks since the marathon, contemplating the Half Iron Man I am about to throw myself into.  Just like Big Sur, I don't feel ready.  And just like Big Sur, I'm seriously doubting myself right now.  I'm nervous about the weather.  I'm nervous about the ride.  I'm nervous I'm going to disappoint myself.  But it's too late to back out now.  The race fees have been paid.  I made the long trip up here.  My bike is sitting in the transition area.  So all I can do is remind myself that I have put in the time and training, and I just have to give myself and my body a little credit.  Wish me luck.  I think to tomorrow just might hurt a tad...

Kayaking the Colorado

As if we hadn't pushed ourselves enough on  Saturday, Mouse and I decided to add a little more excitement to the weekend.  That's how we found ourselves paddling fiercely up the Colorado River  as the sun was setting behind the Arizona canyons, desperately hoping our riverside campsite would show itself before darkness enveloped us. (Yes - we actually were headed upstream.) We had made this trip before, and knew we were close, but were becoming slightly more nervous with every stroke.

We hadn't intended to push our luck like this.  We had had every intention of getting an earlier start. As soon as we got back to Vegas on Sunday afternoon, we switched out our gear, grabbed our kayaks, and headed past the Nevada border to kayak the portion of the Colorado River just south of the Hoover Dam.  But, of course, one thing always leads to another, and we ended up putting in at Willow Beach Marina much later than we had intended.

Initially, I was thrilled we had launched at the later time.  The heat of the day had passed, making our paddling much more comfortable.  After battling the blistering climate of Zion the day before, I welcomed the lower temperatures afforded by the shaded protection of the canyon walls.  Even better, the upstream current was almost negligible, making our paddling a breeze.  But my excitement faded as the daylight diminished, and we passed mile marker after mile marker with no campground in site.

True to form, we spotted our intended destination as night was quickly closing in, and skimmed our kayaks up along the sandy shore just as the last tidbits of light vanished from the sky.  If we had been a moment later, we would have had to navigate the river in complete darkness.  Leave it to us to arrive just in the nick of time.

The Arizona hot springs is one of our favorite little hideaways.   The only way to reach this semi-remote camping area is either by boat, or a fairly long hike from the highway, so it often feels like our own private getaway.  Unfortunately, we weren't so lucky this trip.  A very large, loud, and boisterous group of girls had already set up camp by the time we had arrived, their music and shrieks of laughter dashing our hopes of a peaceful night.  Fortunately, we were still able to find a secluded spot tucked back into the canyon, which allowed for a little solitude and some sense of tranquility.  We sipped our wine, chilled by the fire, and welcomed this chance to relax after such a strenuous weekend.  It's moments like this that remind me how lucky I am to live the life I do.

Tumbling Through Telephone Canyon

I know I've been saying this quite often lately, but I truly am beginning to question my sanity.  I found myself doing it again early Saturday evening, as a group of us trudged up the steep slickrock in Zion National Park.  We were all exhausted and incredibly sore after a full day of tackling Telephone Canyon, but there we were in the 100+ degree blistering heat, trying to find the trail that would lead us back to civilization.  We all moaned and groaned as we climbed further and further up the massive rock formation, but we had no choice but to continue on.  This is when I began questioning myself.  My feet ached, my quads burned, and my mouth felt like cotton.  The lukewarm water in my Camelback had ceased being refreshing hours ago.  I wanted nothing more than to be sitting at camp with a cold beer in my hand.  I could almost taste the bitter effervescence...

Dehydrated and spent, I had no one to blame but myself for this one.  It was definitely my fault we were here, after all.  Mouse would have been content spending the weekend by the pool.  I was the one who had pushed for this trip to Zion and for a day of canyoneering.  It had been way too long since we had visited Zion, and I had been craving a good day in the canyons for months.  I'm no newbie to the trials and tribulations of the canyons; I knew what I was getting myself into.  So, I did my best to keep my mouth shut and soldier on.

As we traipsed through the backcountry and I thought about the day, I had to admit it had been pretty good, despite my current state of fatigue.  There's just something about being in Zion that makes me feel alive.  And there's something about completing a canyon that makes me feel like I can conquer the world.  We descend into the unknown depths of unforgiving rock and hope for the best.  Sometimes, we swim through icy cold pools.  Sometimes, we wade through muck.  We didn't have to do either on Saturday, as Telephone is bone-dry this time of year, but we did have to contend with a series of incredibly awkward and challenging rappels.  I knocked myself around quite badly on a few of them, and am now sporting the scrapes and bruises to prove it.  But I also found myself in awe of the magnificent views as we delved further into the heart of the canyon.

Eventually we found the trail leading us back to the main part of the park.  Not long after, we found ourselves sitting at the campsite, knocking back ice cold beers, and trading war stories with our friends who had tackled other canyons that day.  Crazy or not, I can't think of a better way to spend my weekend.

Back in Vegas, But Not For Long

We rolled into Vegas yesterday, as the sun was dipping down into the horizon. We thought that by arriving later in the day, we could avoid the worst of the heat.  We couldn't have been more wrong; even without the sun beating down on us, it was still a blistering 103 degrees. The heat radiated off the blacktop in waves, magnifying our exhaustion. At that moment, unloading our things sounded like the worst idea in the world, but we didn't have a choice.

We may have said good-bye to Newport, but we're not quite ready to say hello to Denver yet. First, a road trip of epic proportions, with many nights spent in the back-country. So, for now, our possessions must reside in a storage unit in Vegas, while we roam the West.

Tonight, we head out to Zion. Tomorrow, we will hit a canyon. So hiking, rappelling, and slot-canyon swimming are in my near future. It's going to be hot, dirty, and exhausting, but it's also going to be exhilarating. Let the fun begin...

Good-bye Newport, You Will Be Missed

Our place is stripped bare. Our trucks are fully loaded with all of our earthly possessions. It's really hard to believe, but Moving Day is finally here. We watched our last sunset at the beach last night, and I felt a slight twinge in my heart. This has been one of my favorite places to live. I'm truly going to miss it. But now it's time for us to move on and re-establish ourselves in Denver. But, first, a little adventure...

California Dreams

Tonight is my last night of work in the OC. Unbelievable. It seems like just yesterday I was still in Australia, coordinating with my recruiter to get myself up and running out here. (Or was yesterday the day I was freaking out about glitches in my wedding plans? I can't seem to remember now.) Life is pitching forward at such a disconcerting speed that it makes my head spin, setting me slightly off kilter. None of this seems real. I am in utter disbelief that I'm wrapping up my life here. But yet, it is happening. Soon, very soon, my California life will be nothing more than a dream; a whisper of nostalgia bringing a secret smile to my lips. Tonight is just one more "last" in the upcoming week of finalities, as I say good-bye to SoCal and all I've grown to love. This would be the appropriate time to shed a proverbial tear, but I'm too excited for such nonsense. Tonight's going to be great, as is everything that's waiting for us on the other side of the door, so let's get to it...

It's Really Happening, Isn't It?

I can't believe it's really happening. Everything is coming at me so fast, my head is spinning.  I have so much to do, and a very short time to do it.  But, in all reality, I shouldn't be surprised.  We've been planning this for months, after all. We started laying the groundwork back in January when Mouse relocated his business, condemning him to an out-of-state commute every week.  But since my life went on as per usual, I was lulled into a sense of complacency.  Now, the end of our time in the OC is upon us.  Our beach bungalow is half-empty and in shambles.  Boxes are piled up everywhere.  The walls are stripped bare.  More than half of our furniture already sits in a storage unit, waiting for its counterparts to join.   The future tenant has even moved her stuff into our spare bedroom.  Reality is truly beginning to set in.  We really are moving back to Denver.

Even though this is something I've been wanting since the day I left, this move is not without stress.  I still have had to get all of my nursing credentials in order, and am in the process of finding a new job.  Applications, exams, and interviews are always so nerve-wracking.  Packing has not been a picnic, either.  It might be easier, if I would share some of the responsibility, but I don't trust anyone other than myself.  But most importantly, as our move-out date approaches, I have to admit I'm beginning to feel quite bittersweet about the whole thing.  Yes - I'm ecstatic to move back to Denver, but I'm going to miss this place, too.  I might not always love my boisterous neighbors, but I love living by the ocean.  I love waking up to the ocean breeze and jogging along the beach.  I love riding my cruiser along the boardwalk and grabbing drinks at a beachside bar.

Most importantly, I've appreciated the chance to live so near my best friend for the past year and a half.  It isn't often one finds such a good friend in adulthood, and the prospect of being separated by so many miles is sad.  I'm going to miss our jogs around the Back Bay, and breakfast at Cafe Panini.  Of course we're going to remain friends; it's just that doing so is going to require a little more effort after the move.

I just need to remind myself that we've bounced around enough the past several years to be pros at this whole moving thing.  We've learned to take all of the roadblocks and annoyances in stride, and roll with the punches.  This is just another chapter in our crazy lives, and I really am looking forward to all of the adventures it will bring.  So I need to stop being so sappy and start getting excited about our life outside of the OC.  Because Denver is calling, and I can barely wait for the fun to begin.

ICU Exam-aphobia

I'm not sure why I was so scared.  I'm a smart cookie and a solid nurse.  But, for whatever reason, the thought of taking this ICU exam sent me into a panic.  I had flash-backs of nursing school, cramming for exams until my mind was numb, and the dreaded NCLEX.  The thought of sitting down and taking the test actually sent me into palpitations.  Ridiculous, I know, but I couldn't help myself.  So, I procrastinated.  I should have bitten the proverbial bullet and taken the test long ago.  I shouldn't have waited until the very last minute when I'm overwhelmed with packing, plus all of the other stuff one tries to squeeze in before moving to another city.  But, of course, that's exactly what I did.  So, tonight, I finally forced my own hand.  It won't be long before we're out of here and I'll be needing that new job, so I knew I couldn't wait any longer.  It wasn't fun.  It certainly wasn't a practical assessment of my knowledge, either, but it wasn't all that bad.  Over the years, I've grown accustomed to being tested on sh** that doesn't matter.  Besides, the built-in Mulligan provided me with the safety net I needed.  (And I DID need it.)  So, I passed.  It's another box I can tick off my list of pre-moving "to-dos".  Whew!

P.S. - For those of you studying for the HCS ICU exam, it's totally eclectic and random.  It includes basic stuff like ABG interpretation, ICU drips, and common signs/symptoms/complications of conditions that will land a person in the ICU, but it also includes stuff I haven't thought about since nursing school, and have never encountered working in the unit.  Nothing on hemodynamic monitoring or Swans.  And I'm pretty sure a couple of the answers were wrong.  I emailed my recruiter with my educated fact-based protests.  Feel free to comment if you have specific questions.

Tri Crazy

I think I'm ready to admit that I'm completely out of my mind. It's not like people haven't been telling me this for years, it's just that I've been in complete denial. But it hit me the other morning during my ride. There I was, only a week after running a marathon, my quads burning as I cranked away, pushing myself up one of the many hills that comprise the PCH, when it dawned on me that instead of doing this, I should be resting. A marathon is fairly tough on the human body, after all. Most people use the weeks immediately post-race to recover. Not me. Nope - I brilliantly signed up for a Half Ironman June 9, which means I don't have the luxury of recovery time. Instead, I have to immediately throw myself into swimming, biking, and brick training. I'm taking the old adage, "No rest for the wicked" to a completely new level, and my poor body isn't sure what to make of this abuse. My hunger has kicked into overdrive and I'm definitely more fatigued than usual. Despite all this, I love the training process. I love pushing myself and learning what I'm capable of. (I also love being able to eat anything and everything I want.) Besides, it will all be over in a few weeks. Afterwards, I can truly let myself rest. So, for now, all I can do is embrace my newfound craziness and see this through to the end.

One of Those Nights

Last night was one of those nights all nurses dread. It was one of those nights that chews you up, spits you out, and puts you in your place. It's been a long time since I've felt so helpless, lost, and brow-beaten. Last night definitely took its toll on me. One thing after another went awry, in a never-ending cascade of complications. It wasn't anything I hadn't dealt with before, but there was no relief, not even a moment to catch my breath or my thoughts. And to top it off, I was at a new facility, with a foreign charting system, and no one familiar to rely upon. I was a little fish floundering in a sea of computerized confusion and mental disorganization. It left my head spinning, my body aching, and my spirit crushed. It isn't often that I have to fight back tears of frustration, but that's exactly what I found myself doing in the wee hours of the morning. After twelve hours of chasing my tail, and never getting caught up, I was ready to throw in the towel. But that's not really an option when your patient stubbornly refuses to stop coding, now is it? So I kept stubbornly plodding along, too, doing my best to put out the fires that continuously sprung up. It wasn't how I like to do my job, constantly being on the defensive, rather than the offensive, but it was the best I could do. Miraculously, I made it through. The clock struck seven and my relief arrived. No one died and I had managed to hold on to my sanity, even if only by a precarious thread. Like I said, it was one of THOSE nights...

Big Sur Conquered

I thought I knew what I was getting myself into when I signed up for Big Sur. This wasn't my first rodeo, after all. I knew what it took to run a marathon. I remembered the fatigue and emotional drain that even the easiest course can produce. And, yes, I even knew that Big Sur was known for being one of the most gnarly courses around. And still, I fooled myself into thinking I was prepared. After training at Red Rocks and countless hill repeats, I thought I would conquer this course without a problem. In short, I was cocky.

All of that swagger went right out the door, though, as soon as I saw the course up close and personal. My confidence dropped even faster than my stomach. I knew right then this was NOT going to be good...

Cut to race day. I started the race fast and strong, falling into an easy pace. Unfortunately, that easy pace became steadily slower as the route's elevation began to rise. By the time the killer hill presented itself around mile 10, my quads were begging for mercy, and my pace resembled that of a snail. But I kept on going, one foot after the other, until I conquered that hill.

Then came the frigid winds, descending over the cliff edges and into the never-ending stream of runners with such force that we had to huddle in packs, using each other as human shields against the hostile elements. When the winds finally died down and the frozen mist dissipated to reveal the breathtaking coastline, another hill was waiting in plain site, almost certainly to torture us. As my legs threatened to buckle, I began to wonder if this course was ever going to cut me a break.

Despite all of this, I actually felt fairly good until mile 20. But I guess this is fairly common among marathoners, considering they do call 20 "The Wall", after all. My wall was decidedly more mental than physical. I had stuck to my nutrition plan and hydrated well, so my body held together, despite its fervent protests. My mind, on the other hand, was beginning to fall apart. Mile 20 brought another daunting hill along with it, which only managed to plunge me into a pit of despair. At that weakened and vulnerable state, I could only think of how totally unfair that hill was. (Completely logical, right?) But I forced myself to take it one mile at a time, which was the only distance my feeble mind could digest at that point.  And so I pushed on, ticking of one slow mile after another, until I could finally see the finish line.  At that moment, nothing in this world had ever felt so rewarding, or so absolutely necessary.

Even though I felt as though I had run at the slowest snail pace ever, my time turned out to be fairly respectable at 3 hours, 41 minutes.  That landed my the number 15 spot (out of 284) in my division (women 30-34), and 79th overall for women (out of 1586).  So, even though I finished more than an hour later than the winner, I'm happy with my results.  I set out to conquer Big Sur and I did.  Now on to my next challenge...