I wrote this as a part of a reflective writing experience at the medical conference in San Diego we went to this fall. It's a snapshot into a small part of my job as an Ob/Gyn RN. One of my favorite duties is the "COB" or Complete OB visit. It's each OB patient's first visit for the pregnancy and is quite comprehensive. As the RN I sit with the patient, get a complete medical history and bombard them with education, etc. I really enjoy it. It is one of the few times in my job where I be one-on-one with a patient, really hear their story and offer them something in return - information, encouragement, congratulations and sometimes just a listening ear. Here's a vignette:

At my first view of her the lightness of a COB visit vanished. She looked unwashed, a little stinky - although I couldn't smell her - and rough. I picked up the clean new chart that belonged to her and shuffled through the paperwork, organizing it as best I could so as to focus on her in the interview,  not my many forms. She would need it. 

After a decade in healthcare it's hard for a patient's story to surprise me, but I'm often surprised by how much I still connect with any patient whom I can sit with and listen to. I'm a slow interviewer. I lose track of my prenatal form flow and listen: To her grief at the pregnancy,  some poor choices, the consequences she was working through. To a resolution to do better and an oblique request for absolution. I also listened for what I didn't hear: excitement about the life growing inside her. I doubt she sees much in this world to be excited about.

But I left the room and passed her off to the OB with a sense of hope - and admiration. She came. She told me as much as she did and she listened to my response. That's where she's at, and I hope I met her there.

PS I don't see many patients after this first visit. I haven't seen this woman again and, sadly, I can't even remember her name. But I think of her from time to time and I hope for her and her baby.

Walking home in the dusk today, Sam told me that he's lost the magic light in his eyes.
The magic light is how he used to be able to see in the dark.
And now, since it's gone, he can't see in the dark anymore.

He's sad about it; he doesn't know where it went and wishes it would come back. But philosophical and not too distressed. I was glad to be kept in the loop.

In typical Sam fashion, the conversation soon turned to other things.

And parenting had suddenly regained some of the magic that had been lost in the daily grind.

It's been so long

I appreciate the encouragement to keep this blog going. I do love keeping in touch with people this way but life priorities shifted and the blog got left in the dust.
Now it's time to pick it up and brush it off - see what I can glean and share from my life. And in doing so the goal is to be in closer touch with you my friends, old and new, as well.

My wild and crazy girl, hamming it up at a party

Natty and Sam are well - growing up amazing. Sam was insisting last night that he was bigger than Natty and almost as big as me. But he's not. He's still my little man. Natty is chugging away through 2nd grade. She's learning a lot about math, reading and all that, but the real lessons this year have been more on the social front. Her struggles with friends, and questions about how to handle relationships have been hard for me to watch and healthy to engage in.

Sam with his best girl, Hattie

We've finally taken the sledgehammer to the walls and are well into our kitchen remodel. It's going to be great when it's finished.

And now the children are up, the day is beginning  and I'm going to post this now or it will never get done!