Categories Everyday Life

If this is what working the weekends is like…

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I’d be glad to work every Saturday!

Just imagine it with me.

It’s a busy day. I have half a dozen follow-ups, half a dozen new admits. Nonetheless, I don’t have to jockey for charts; I don’t have to fight for a computer. I just grab the chart and jot down a few notes, see my patients and write down a few more notes, sit down at a computer and write my official “note”.

I’ve got a lot of patients–enough to keep me busy all day–but without all the people that are around on weekdays, I’m twice as efficient. I eat lunch when I’m hungry, and enjoy a book while I eat–I can actually spend time alone at work. It’s amazing.

Then there’s the interaction with patients and staff. Weekends are a whole different game. Instead of a hundred assortedly garbed health care workers busily running about, anxiously buzzing, a skeleton staff does their work with quiet efficiency–but not so much efficiency that they can’t be decent to each other.

They say, “Did I hear you say you’re with dietary? Do you mind stopping in to see so-and-so? She was asking to talk with a dietitian.” A doctor, a nurse, and I confer briefly about a troublesome patient. Another nurse reassures me that she’s taking a tray in right now for the fellow I just saw, who was anxious because he hadn’t eaten yet. I chat comfortably with one of the environmental services workers as we walk the same hallway together.

It’s a nice change of pace. Comfortable, efficient, friendly. I really would love to work every weekend, if this is what weekends are like.

Categories Thankfulness

For this and so much more, O Lord, I give You thanks

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Busy, caught up in her own life, rushed about her business. The only time she comes to Him is when she has a problem. He solves her problem and she skips away, busy about the business of doing whatever she was at first–before He touched her.

I have been that girl too many times to count. But yesterday, I was reminded to be thankful through the story of the ten lepers healed by Christ. He healed ten, but only one, only ONE, returned to thank Him. And what a shame, that ONE was a samaritan. How shameful that the nine others, presumably of the chosen people, failed to thank the Chosen One, their long-awaited Messiah.

So, for once, I’m going to not complain about the weather or my back or whatever I might complain about. I’m going to take a while to return thanks.

Thank You, Lord…
…that I never lost my voice
…that my voice is almost back to normal
…that I was able to work consistently throughout this little cold
…for sunshine and wind and a ceiling fan for my room
…for roommates who cook and a friend who comes to quilt
…for dozens of pairs of shoes and opportunity to wear them
…for thirteen flights of stairs and the comfortable joy of feeling my body grow stronger
…for a mind to read charts, an ear to hear my patient’s needs, and a gentle reminder to offer more than just physical food
For these things and so much more, O Lord, I give You thanks.

Categories Family & Friends

A History of Hair: The Long and the Short

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Many who have known me in my past ten or so years would have a hard time believing that my hair has ever truly been short. But it has. I offer you compelling photographic proof:

Exhibit A: I am born bald

Rebekah a few days old--and completely bald

Exhibit B: I am one–and still bald

Rebekah as a one year old--and still bald

Exhibits C and D: I begin to grow hair in my second and third years of life.

Rebekah at 2--with the beginnings of hair

Rebekah at 3--she almost has a whole head of hair

Exhibit E: I am bald

Rebekah at 3 1/2--and completely bald

My older sister, then almost five, began her haircutting career with a bang. She cut my hair and her own. No doubt she was excited to debut our ‘do’s at my uncle’s upcoming wedding (2 weeks away).

We were driven off to the barber’s to get our first non-Mom cuts. When we were done, we looked a little better, but still like little boys. I suppose I was lucky–at least they could get mine all even. Anna’s hair was clipped to about half an inch–but still had gashes all about. The only way they could have completely fixed her hair was to shave it all off and start over.

My cousin tells us of looking in her birthday party photos from about 6 months later and asking her mom why there were two little boys at her party with the rest of the girls. Anna remembers being mortified at having to wear a big floppy bow over her head at my uncle’s wedding. I don’t really remember the event that much. I guess it wasn’t that big of a deal to me (or something).

At any rate, I did get over it eventually–and my hair did grow back. It took a year and a half–but I would look like a girl yet again.

Exhibit F: My hair grows back

Rebekah's 5th birthday--she has hair again

Lest you get the wrong impression about my sister’s hair-cutting skills, I will clarify. She and Mom now tie as the most adept hair-cutter’s in our family. Both are highly in demand. I, on the other hand, rank a distant third after almost cutting off my brother John’s ear (never try to cut the hair of a squirrelly eight year old, no matter how hard he begs). Now, I can cut a half-way decent crew, and can operate the clippers with no problem–but it’s probably just as quick to do it yourself.

Categories None

Hair Days

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I’ll bet you (Becky) thought I’d forgotten about answering those blog-o-versary questions. If so, you’re only partially correct. I’ve been preoccupied with my new clinical rotation and with redesigning bekahcubed and with fixing my hair each and every morning.

At the beginning of March, I wrote in my journal (yes, I keep a paper one as well):

Sometimes hair’s more trouble than it’s worth.

Every couple of uses or so, my vacuum stops working–and I have to perform an emergency operation to remove the hair that’s wound around the beater.

If I don’t catch it quickly enough, I’ll end up with the problem I had yesterday–arriving at work to discover that my hem had electrostatically attracted the excess hair from my floors at home–and that said hairs were refusing to let go.

It’s bad enough that I have to clean my bathtub drain after every use–but today I stuck my hand in the slow-draining kitchen disposal–and discovered a wad of hair.

I’ve got hair so long that when my stomach lurches at the entrance of a lost hair into its caverns, I still have enough left hanging out of my mouth to pull the whole strand out.

I’ve got hair long enough I can wind it around my knuckles to use as dental floss–24″ regulation–and still have more to spare.

I envy the olden days ladies who figured out how to straighten their fallen hairs and use them to make something useful. I’m thinking I could braid a few clumps to use as a belt–or maybe I could make my own line of wigs. Even better, I could unwind the vacuum-spun hanks and market them as an indestructible yarn. Likewise, the mats of drain stoppers could be billed as naturally-felted coasters.

The possibilities are limitless–really–the list longer than my hair. But until I’ve started up my single-woman hair business, I think it’s almost more trouble than it’s worth.

Which begs Becky’s question: “Why is your hair long?” (Or the less kindly put, “If it causes you so much trouble, why on earth do you keep it long?)

Good question.

One, I don’t really mind it that much. I like it as long as it stays on my head–it’s just the limitless strands that shed everywhere that bother me.

Second, I sort of made a vow.

Okay, there’s no “sorta” about it.

As a incredibly romantically minded fourteen year old, I decided that my hair would belong to my husband. I haven’t cut it since.

I’ve made some discoveries throughout my long-haired journey. 1) I’ve discovered that this is as long as my hair gets. 2) I’ve discovered that long hair often evokes the question “What religion are you?” 3) I’ve discovered that long-haired individuals CANNOT take chances when it comes to cooking with an uncovered head. (Face it, it’s pretty easy to figure out whose hair is in the food if said hair is two feet long.) 4) I’ve discovered that I go through shampoo quite a bit faster than my short-haired peers.

But I still look at my hair in the shadows I cast on the pavement walking and think “Man, if only I had that gorgeous of hair in real life.” And I still look behind me to see who someone’s talking to when they comment about long hair. And I still gasp a bit when I pull out a hair, just for curiosity sake and hold it up to a yardstick. Twenty-six inches. It sure doesn’t feel that long. But I like it. So I keep it.

A little schoolgirl romance, a little longing for the eighteen-hundreds, a little (penny-wise, pound foolish) laziness thrown in, and I’ve got long hair.

Categories Technology

The new and improved bekahcubed

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Despite spending almost every non-working waking hour on my computer, I have not posted since Monday.

That’s because I’ve been working on the newest version of bekahcubed: version 7. New features include a fresh new site design, more easily updatable links, and better compatibility with Internet Explorer (hopefully).

I began to see the need for a change when I viewed my site on someone else’s Internet Explorer. The main page worked fine, but higher up files were all out of whack.

I’m something of a nerd–and I do all my own html (hypertext markup language), css (cascading style sheets), and rss (rich site summary or really simple syndication). But I don’t have endless time to design and my knowledge is fairly limited (although expanding all the time.)

I worked up version 6 after I’d switched to Mozilla Firefox as my web browser. While I checked the main page once or twice on IE, I didn’t pay too much attention to trying to solve the IE bugs.

But, having seen the results in IE, I see the need for a change. So Internet Explorer is a buggy, decrepit browser that doesn’t even attempt to follow the W3C standards for web browsers–but just because someone has not taken advantage of the amazing, free Mozilla Firefox doesn’t mean I should exclude them from my site.

The new version has some additional properties that will make it easier for me to make changes quickly without having to open up half a dozen hundred files and meticulously add, delete, or rewrite code. That should decrease my stress quite a bit–and hopefully enable you to enjoy an even higher quality site.

Categories Faith

Rated “R” for…

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The family watched The Passion of the Christ last night and whiled away our intermission by speculating on why exactly it was rated “R”.

Our conclusion was that it must have been rated “R” because it is a:

Realistic* Retelling of the death of the Righteous Christ, through whom we are saved from wRath, are Redeemed, Reborn, Ransomed, Reconciled, and brought into Relationship with God.

* Additionally, some segments contain visuals of the Raw, Reddened Christ wRithing as Romans Repetitively Rip open His body to the Rabid Roar of the Raging crowd.

Categories Reflections

Girl Talk (by Which I mean “Boys”)

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At the DMV

Imagine the scene: A girl has just finished registering her car at the DMV. She turns aside to leave, “inadvertently” dropping her pen on the floor. She bends down to retrieve the pen. So does the guy at the booth next to her. They both look up, see one another, and walk off together to the lobby to talk for a while.

Sounds like a penny-dreadful, doesn’t it? And the girl seems ridiculously coy.

But it wasn’t like that at all. I mean, it looks like that–but that’s not how it really happened. I didn’t intend to drop the pen. And I never expected someone else to pick it up. And I didn’t expect the person who picked it up to be one of my former employees and a fellow grad student. What choice did I have but to briefly catch up with a former employee I haven’t seen or talked to since I resigned last December?

At the Hospital

Hospitals can be teaming with attractive men. That’s just the simple truth. Even my menopausal preceptor agrees–much to her daughter’s chagrin. The dietitian told me today that she responds to her daughter’s comments with “I can look, as long as I don’t taste.”

We were heading out onto the floor when a man walked out of the dining room. “That’s the one I told you about,” my dietitian whispered to me. And he was attractive, to say the least. He looked to be heading toward the elevators, so she directed us towards the elevators too. But he walked past the elevators and turned the corner (probably going to the stairs instead.) I couldn’t tell if she really was disappointed–but I could tell that I was relieved. It’s uncomfortable enough that she tells me she finds him attractive. It would be even more uncomfortable if I found myself stuck in the elevator (which makes me woozy anyway) with a rather good looking YOUNG man (I didn’t catch whether he was a doctor or a physical therapist) AND a slightly stalkerish older woman.

Unfortunately, they’re everywhere. Fortunately, we steer a WIDE berth around the doctors–meaning that I would consider myself VERY silly to go cuckoo over any of them. And I would NEVER be silly!

At the Grocery Store?

To answer Becky’s question, I have not seen the hot grocery guy since I first blogged about him. But having read her (Becky’s) insightful suggestions, I know just what to say should I run into him again. (I’m personally partial to “Boy, it sure is cold outside–and you are so HOT!” That one had me laughing for a week or so.)

Categories Everyday Life, Technology

Women aren’t supposed to forget…

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Forgetting anniversaries is popularly reckoned as man’s domain. Women aren’t supposed to forget. But, in my case, I’m not sure I remembered in the first place.

I’m talking about my “blog-o-versary”–the day that marks the beginning of my blog. Of course, discovering the exact day that I started blogging is somewhat difficult since “bekahcubed” has existed in some incarnation or another for five or more years.

However, while participating in Becky’s Birthday Carnival, I discovered that it was a year and a day ago that I began posting on a regular basis.

So, in honor of my forgotten “blog-o-versary”, I would like to share a few fun facts about myself–and invite you to ask me some questions that I shall attempt to answer over the next month.

Fact: Paul Menter is my father, not my husband.
We were talking just yesterday about how people look at us strangely when we go shopping together–undoubtedly assuming that I am the “trophy wife.” Then my new preceptor assumed today that the “Paul Menter” on my emergency contact information must be my husband–since it was just a male name instead of two names together. So, just to clear up any confusion: I am unmarried, and my dad is happily married to my mom.

Fact: I do not believe in any such thing as bad food.
The first thing people say when they hear that I’m becoming a dietitian is some variant on, “Oh, I know I eat all kinds of bad foods.” I disagree. Food is good–and that means all of it. That means carrots and celery and fresh baked muffins and white bread and bananas and swiss cake rolls and potato chips. That means juice and fruit drinks and soda pop made with (gasp) high fructose corn syrup. I despise the kind of “nutrition” that puts endless rules on what people can and cannot eat and completely zaps the fun out of food. I abhor the philosophy that “food is just fuel for my body.” Food is not a moral issue–food is food. It’s something that fuels our bodies, soothes our minds, brings us together, imparts meaning into our rituals. Food is integral to early socialization, to language development, to family togetherness. Jesus’ first miracle was at a feast–and he chose a feast to forever commemorate His crucifixion. Food is not bad–it’s good. The question isn’t whether a food is good or bad, but whether we use it in an appropriate way.

Fact: I like sardines…but only if they’re packed in mustard sauce.
My family calls them fish tails in mustard. They’re a great source of calcium and Omega 3 fatty acids–in addition to tasting fantastic. One time, I accidentally bought sardines packed in olive oil. I took one bite and gagged. They were disgusting! I couldn’t eat more. I did learn, however, that uneaten sardines in olive oil should be disposed of in an outdoor trashcan rather than left in the kitchen. EEEEWWW!

And now that I’ve shared a bit about myself, what else would you like to know?

Categories Health

True Story: No Fooling

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Once upon a time there was a girl who had a depressive episode. It wasn’t the first time she’d experienced depression–in fact, she’d experienced it many times before. But this time was different than all the rest. Every other time, the depressive episode occurred in the autumn as the days were growing shorter. This time, the depressive episode occurred in the spring as the days were growing longer.

Because this time was so different than all the other times she’d had a depressive episode, this girl didn’t realize that was what she was experiencing. She just knew that something was wrong with her.

She went to the doctor and told him all about her symptoms: extreme fatigue that persisted regardless of how much sleep she was getting, unexplained bruising on her legs, very dry skin, itchy scalp, acute colds that came on suddenly almost every week and lasted for a day or two, and persistent chest pain.

She explained to the doctor that she’d experienced most of these symptoms before–but that they seemed extraordinarily severe this time around, and right as circumstances had changed in ways that should CORRECT the problems rather than worsening them.

She’d had dry skin before–a combination of allergic reaction and having to wash her hands constantly in her position in food service management. But just as she switched from the food service management position to a desk job, her skin grew worse.

She’d had colds before–well, actually, she has chronic allergies. But the allergies have been under great control for quite a while. And now suddenly, just as she left her hospital rotation (in which she was regularly exposed to sick people), she was experiencing multiple short-term colds.

She’d been tired before. But she hadn’t been tired at all while she was waking up at 4:30 to be at work by 6:30am–and now, just as she was switching to a more moderate 6:00 wake up call, she was exhausted.

She’d had chest pain before–and she’d attributed it to stress. After all, the chest pain was occurring while she was going to school full-time and working three different jobs and volunteering for a total of 70 hours a week of commitments at more than five different locations. Why would chest pain like that be occurring right as she was switching to a cushy 42 hour a week desk job with practically NO additional commitments?

The doctor listened to her complaints with half an ear and gave the girl some advice that stressed her out even more. But at least he agreed to run the blood tests she wanted.

Trouble is, her blood test results came back with “Within Normal Limits” written on almost every value. She wasn’t hypothyroid. She wasn’t anemic. She didn’t have mononucleosis. Her glucose was normal. The trail was dead. The girl had nowhere to turn. What was wrong with her?

Then one day, the girl was sitting at her computer, typing on Facebook that she was “sick and tired of being sick and tired” when a germ of an idea hit her. “You know, I used to feel that way all the time,” she thought.

She mulled on the idea on her way to work–so much so that she missed her usual turn and had to go the long way ’round. But the result of her musing was that she had a direction to investigate. When was the last time she’d had chest pain like that? It was right before she’d started taking antidepressants to treat Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). When was the last time she’d slept for days on end and still been exhausted? It was right before she’d started taking antidepressants for SAD. Ditto on always having “colds” and other unexplained symptoms.

After she got home, she took a depression self-assessment and discovered that she most likely was depressed–even more so then she had been during her SAD episodes. From there, everything began to fall into place. She hadn’t recognized it because the normal seasonal cues weren’t there, but many of the symptoms were there. She hadn’t thought of it because she was still taking the antidepressant for SAD. But it made sense. The onset of symptoms coincided with three medium stressors that combined to pack a big precipitating whomp: a car accident that totaled her car, a need to buy a new car placing her in financial stress, and a job change (from what she’d been doing for almost three years to something COMPLETELY different.) It made sense.

Since the girl was still taking an antidepressant, she didn’t want to run back to the doctor for more drugs. And she didn’t really want to do psychotherapy either. Her insurance would demand a certain provider for counseling–and she didn’t think they would be able to give her any help. If lies needed to be replaced, she would much rather make sure they were being replaced with truth–instead of being replaced with different (humanist) lies. She didn’t feel that the insured providers could provide truth. So instead, the girl embarked upon a self-treatment program.

The first step in her program was to begin writing down her symptoms. She wrote down when she went to sleep and when she woke up and when she ate and what she ate and when she had chest pain. She discovered some interesting things. Every time she looked at her planner, she experienced chest pain. Every time she looked at her checkbook, she experienced chest pain. Every time she thought about money or time constraints, she experienced chest pain. If someone else mentioned time or money, she experienced chest pain. She discovered her triggers–and started working on decreasing them.

Since her planner is integral to her relatively fast-paced life, she knew that she would have to train herself not to have chest pain every time she looked at her planner. So as her first step, she placed some personal limits. She allowed herself five “to-dos” per day–three of which were firmly set. While she could do more in a day, she could not plan on or insist on more than that. That meant she could have two additional things to work on each day. Period.

The girl’s doctor had encouraged her with some sleep hygiene suggestions, which she’d initially blown off. The girl was unhappy with the doctor for not taking her fatigue seriously. She thought the doctor was blaming her fatigue on her own habits (she still kind of thinks so.) But encouraged by her roommate who happens to be a PA student, the girl began to put some of the sleep hygiene habits into practice. Two of the three set items on the girl’s list were 1) turn off the computer by 8:30 pm and 2) turn off the light by 11 pm. Slowly but surely, she began to be able to wake up to her alarm again in the morning.

The third set item on the girl’s list was “word washing”. She knew that since depression often involves inaccurate perceptions of the world, she needed to have some way of seeing the world clearly. While she felt sure that the counselors insured under her plan would be unable to provide her with truth, she was even more sure that the Word of God could provide her with truth. So she set a goal of spending time in the Bible every day.

As the girl followed these few simple steps, she discovered some amazing things. She was able to identify when she was being anxious–and was encouraged to cast her cares on Christ. She was able to relax her expectations of herself and stop living in false guilt (over things like failing to update her blog regularly.) And now, the hope that once seemed dead is alive again.