What's Victoria's Secret?

I don't know if other mere mortals with XX chromosomes feel this.  But my husband yet again recorded the annual Victoria's Secret fashion show.  Is it wrong to feel small?  Is it wrong to feel like it's a punch to the gut?

BEFORE:  Under construction

 Is this just because my period is coming in six days so my hormones are turning me into a super nova of emotions?

AFTER: Worship meeeee!  Wish you were meeeee!

This is one of those instances where I wish I were a man.  All they suffer from is penis envy.  Females of the species on the other hand, have to suffer quietly every time their boyfriend / husband / significant other of the moment gives a walking (or God forbid, JOGGING) Barbie the head-to-toe-and-toe-to-head drinking-it-all-in gaze.  

Yes, I know, Christina Aguilera.  We're beautiful no matter what they say et cetera, et cetera.  And I'm really thankful for the more than adequate endowments the Almighty gave me.

But seriously, whoever didn't feel like booger watching the Victoria's Secret Fashion show is either:
a) Heidi Klum, or
b) a heterosexual man

Case closed.  ...And now, to start saving for a boob job.  HAHAHAHAHAHA.

No, seriously.

Doctor Condescending and Nurse Presumptuous

I was peacefully drifting off to sleep one night when out of the blue (or in that case...black), my heart started pounding a hole through my chest.  It was like someone was sitting on my sternum and an invisible force was directly suffocating my heart from the inside at the same time.  Every breath seemed like it wasn't enough.  

If you are having severe pain, crushing, squeezing, or pressure in your chest that lasts more than a few minutes, or if the pain moves into your neck, left shoulder, arm, or jaw, go immediately to a hospital emergency department. Do not drive yourself. Call 911 for emergency transport.

But all through it, I was calm and calculating.  I summoned all the things I learned from medical-surgical nursing, and emergency nursing.  I looked at the clock:  12:20AM.  Tried to rest, do easy breathing, focused and located my the phone.  Crap.  The telephone wasn't on the nightstand and my cellphone was downstairs.  


Took my BP.  Crap, once again.  130/80 mmHg.  I'm usually 90/60mmHg.

12:30AM.  Still painful.  Really painful.  I had to alert my husband.


I was in the bedroom, the third level of the house, while my husband was in the tv room in the basement with the boxing documentary turned up loud.  I called out to him.  No reply, the voice of a referee boomed from downstairs.


Rest, rest.  Heck, I was resting when this happened.  12:35AM.  Not good.  I began to feel light headed and dizzy.  So gripping the hand rails, I wobbled to the basement.  Off to the hospital, my son, my husband and I went.

After four hours of ECGs, cardiac enzyme analysis, coagulation & electrolyte studies and vital signs monitoring, I was discharged with a diagnosis of "Anxiety Attack" and "Chest Pain Unspecified".  

I don't know how they came up with "Anxiety Attack" .  First, the doctor who made the assessment was a doctor of Internal Medicine.  Second, he did no psychological assessment to warrant such a diagnosis.   The only abnormal things they saw was my BP shot up to 140/90mmHg, my potassium was low and my calcium was high.  Anyway, he recommended I see my primary care physician and a cardiologist.

So I went to my PCP.  I did not  show them the ER discharge sheet at first.  I wanted to see how they would react to a three decade old woman with reported chest pains.

A nurse took my vitals and said, "You know, it could be an anxiety attack.  Are you under stress?"  No I'm not.  "Well, then maybe it was something from childhood.  Sometimes anxiety or panic come up without warning during adulthood."   I nodded politely.

What is this, some kind of go-to diagnosis??? 

I don't know if I'm right but I do not think that kind of response would be acceptable at the National Council Licensure Examination for Registered Nurses as Therapeutic Communication.  To be fair to her, her tone was not dismissive.  It was in fact, motherly.  But perhaps that would make it worse for other people.  (Are you trying to say my parents abused me?!?!)

Out goes the nurse, in comes the doctor.  It was even worse.  "What time did you eat and what time did your chest pain occur?", she asked.  7PM, I had cereal.  12:20PM, my chest was being crushed.  "AH!", she exclaimed with a self-satisfied smile, "You probably had reflux".  Then she pulled out her prescription pad, "20mg of Omeprazole for two weeks, and you'll fell better."

Are you kidding me??? I finished my light meal by 7:30PM.  FIVE HOURS later, I'm supposed to have experienced reflux?  You're telling me that after FIVE HOURS, there is still mashed, disintegrated SIMPLE CARBS in my stomach, refluxing to my esophagus???  It takes FIVE HOURS to digest CORN FLAKES?  REALLY?  REALLYYYY?  REEEEEEEALLLLYYYY?


If I didn't have a panic attack before, this doctor might give me one down the road.  I am so pulling out of this practice and find another health care provider.


I showed her the discharge sheet and lab work from the ER.  "Oh, I'm gonna have to send you to a cardi-o-logist."

God, I hope I won't be as presumptuous as all these people  when I get my nursing license...

Why That Career Change, Huh? Part I

I was often asked why I never went back to being a news reporter.  They, especially my family, were baffled when I announced I wanted to trade the microphone for a stethoscope.  My old fashioned father seemed to think being an R.N. is inferior to being a news reporter.  He didn't like it one bit.

People seem to think it's a "cool", "glamorous" gig to be seen on tv, schmoozing with people in power, traveling constantly and being in the center of things that "mattered" to the public. 

Well...I still do believe in all of the above.  It really is effing cool, especially for a young reporter, like I was.  I was on call most of the time.  I never had vacations, because it is during the holidays when a lot of crap happens and you have to be there to report it live.  Safety was never an issue.  While people sped away for their dear lives from something or evacuated from somewhere, I had to be neck deep in whatever it was they were running away from.

The news coverages I loved the most were those that put me in mortal danger.  It wasn't the fluffy human interest stories, the travel documentaries or the political interviews.  I found that to be indubitably boring.  I did like getting made up though for in-studio broadcasts.  Hey, someone does your hair and make up for you?  C'mon.  Who doesn't like that?

But the highlight in my career wasn't that White House assignment through which I met my husband.  Hmm...now that I think about it, why yes, that was the highlight.  If that didn't happen, we wouldn't have met and fallen in love, and I wouldn't have that ball of limitless energy otherwise known as our son, Little BB.

But going back, the hard core stuff was the turn-on for me.  I've slid down landslides, trapped in liquid mud.  I've hiked in rebel encampments while praying to God I wouldn't be kidnapped and be another slain journalist.  Somehow, I often found myself and my cameraman in the middle of rallies gone amuck.  We've had rocks and whatnot thrown at us by activists / anarchists.  But also, we've had policemen hose us down and throw tear gas at us too.

One time, when there was a shower of rocks and a smattering of Molotov cocktails here and there, I ran and skidded towards the belly of a truck.  I only had a nanosecond of relief cause I turned to see the damn truck was copiously leaking oil in the middle of the fires caused by the bombs and burnt effigies.  That was fun.

At twenty-something years old, the thought of marriage was detestable.  I told my mom that I'd give her granchildren, but not a son-in-law.  My parents aren't in a happy marriage.  So this line of thinking was inevitable for me, their eldest child.


Then of course life throws you a curveball.  And God said "Let there be light"...and behold, there was my husband-to-be.  In our first year of marriage, we were blessed with Little BB, our miracle baby (again, let's save that for later).

Horny. But The Beloved Spouse Is Uncooperative

I don't care if you're mad at me!  Come back here and do meee!!!

Perhaps the most annoying thing about a marital spat is when one really wants to get laid, but the other one is so preoccupied with his or her righteous anger, that it's just not gonna happen.


I'm not even going to say it's the tears or the glaring or the banging of cabinets or the i'm-going-to-come-home-late-just-to-annoy-you thing that my husband does.  Nope.  It's the fact that... I.  AM.  NOT.  GETTING.  ANY.  I don't know if this is an aberration of female behavior, but amidst my irritation at my husband's childishness, I still want to do him.  

If men who are sexually frustrated get "blue balls", what do I have then???

I mean, geeze!  Our son is having a nap.  It's a lovely day.  I'm effing horny.  But nooo...he's maaaad at me, so he'd rather gaze at Dr. Oz right now.  All because a neighbor gave me a hug during our barbecue, when he was about to leave.  My body didn't even move away from my seat.  I just patted him with both arms.  Our freakin' torsos didn't even touch.  There was a table in front of me.  What the heck, dude, I mean, seriously, what the heckkk???  I swear, I really should just be a rude bitch and stop being friendly to anyone beyond the third degree of consanguinity.  

(I apologize if I'm getting uncivilly worked up.  Unfulfilled desire does that to me.)


It's so irritating cause I love my husband dearly, wholly, with all that I am.  And this?  THIS???  What does he think of me?  Some hoe???  Maybe if our neighbor was Robert Pattinson or George Clooney, then maybe, just maybe, he is entitled to feel a tad bit threatened.  But, sorry for saying this, our neighbor doesn't even come close to RPattz's toenail.

Robert Pattinson Tutorial On How To Do A Breast Self Exam (BSE).  The American Cancer Society recommends doing the BSE one week or more after your menstrual period.

Moving on...In Psychiatric Nursing, we were taught about defense mechanisms.  These are methods, usually unconsciously done, of managing anxiety.  It's such a simple topic because you don't have to be in the medical/health care field to know you've used at least 10 of the Ego defense mechanisms.  Let's see what I can utilize to treat female blue balls:

 DENIAL: failure to acknowledge an intolerable thought, feeling, experience, or reality.  Ex. Lindsay Lohan saying that she "doesn't have a problem".


DISPLACEMENT:  redirection of emotions or feelings to a subject that is more acceptable or less threatening.  Ex. Ahmadinejad kicking his dog when he's actually thinking of Obama.


PROJECTION:  Attributing to others one's unacceptable feelings, impulses, thoughts, or wishes.  Ex.  Sarah Palin saying democrats just dislike her.


UNDOING:  An attempt to erase an unacceptable act, thought, feeling or desire.
Ex.  Obsessive compulsive behaviors


COMPENSATION:  An attempt at excelling at something to overcome a real or imagined shortcoming
Ex. Tom Cruise being a great actor.


SYMBOLIZATION:  A less threatening object or idea is used to represent another
Ex. Dreams, phobias


SUBSTITUTION:  Replacing desired, impractical or unobtainable objects with one that is acceptable or attainable.
Ex. Jesse James dating Kat Von D.


INTROJECTION:  a form of identification in which there is a symbolic taking into oneself the characteristics of another.
Ex. Rihanna blaming herself for Chris Brown's behavior.


REPRESSION: unacceptable thoughts are subconsciously kept from awareness
Ex. Inability to remember a traumatic event.


REACTION FORMATION:  Expressing attitude directly opposite to unconscious wishes/fears
Ex.  Being excessively kind to a person who you'd rather murder.


REGRESSION:  Return to an earlier developmental phase in the face of stress
Ex. bed-wetting, baby-talk


DISSOCIATION:  Detachment of painful emotional experience from consciousness
Ex. sleep-walking, amnesia


SUPPRESSION:  Consciously putting a disturbing thought or incident out of awareness.
Ex. Me putting off confronting my husband.


SUBLIMATION:  Substituting constructive activity for strong impulses that are not acceptable.  A healthy way of coping.
Ex.  Starting a blog instead of bashing the next unsuspecting passerby into a bloody pulp because my husband isn't talking to me and I'm horny at the same time.

Envying the Employed. Envying My Husband.

Every time someone asks me "What do you do?" or "What's your occupation?", I generally get the same reaction.  Observe...(CUE IN: flashback-y music with matching blurry effects)

Disclaimer:  Generally, I don't have a super sharp I-can-work-for-the-CIA kinda memory, and I have hypothyroidism too, but for the life of me, I can't figure out why these encounters are so vivid.

Why...Whyyy...Whhhyyyyyy?

Second Prenatal Visit, 2006
NURSE:  "Occupation?" (Staring at her clipboard, no eye contact.  How, in the name of all things hygienic, is she working in health care with those foot-long acrylics???  She could inadvertently perform surgery with those nails!)


ME: (barely 3 months since resigning from breakneck paced job of 6 years, therefore feeling horribly unadjusted to the new title.)  "Umm"  (looks at the floor) "I-i-i'm a h-h-h-housewife."

NURSE:  "WOW!!!" (Looks up from clipboard so fast, I thought she'd snap her cervical spine) "Lucky you!  Ain't no shame in that!"  (writes on her clipboard)  "I wish I had more time."  (She's nice.  Cute pixie haircut too.  Now if only I could make her get rid of those claws...)
 

Second Annual Ob-Gyn Visit After Giving Birth, 2009
 NURSE PRACTITIONER:  "Soooooo, you're still a stay-at-home-mom?"  


ME: (With more confidence this time, head held up high with a smile fit for a  Rembrandt toothpaste commercial, pride brimming like the tequila in Mel Gibson's glass)  "Yes."

NURSE PRACTITIONER:  "Good for you!!!  That's a luxury not many can afford.  I wish I could just stay at home with my kids.  Why don't you have the second one yet?"  (Wow, she also has a pixie haircut.  What kind of cosmic pattern is this?)

ME:  (Smiles sheepishly)  "I'm studying for the NCLEX-RN.  I don't want to be vomiting all over the test center."


Thyroid Ultrasound Appointment, 2010:
WASHINGTON RADIOLOGY ASSOCIATES RECEPTIONIST:  "Occupation?"

ME: (Coolly, casually, the words roll off my tongue without making me spastic now)  "I'm a stay-at-home-mom."

WASHINGTON RADIOLOGY ASSOCIATES RECEPTIONIST : "Ooooh" (face crumples like she just gulped down vinegar)  "I hear the pay is pretty baaaaad."

ME:  "Hahahaha!  Good one."

WASHINGTON RADIOLOGY ASSOCIATES RECEPTIONIST:  "But I hear the benefits are soooo good."

ME:  "So true.  So very true."  (The Biotin Force is strong in that one.  Thick hair, she has.  Had it, I wish.  It's ok, I say.  His ways, the Lord has.  Thankful, I am.  Hypothyroidism, I have.)


With all honesty, I'm truly, truly thankful for my lot in life.  Considering all the nasty things I've done, and the amoral person I was before my husband opened my eyes, I REALLY am undeserving of these blessings.  To say God is merciful is literally, in my case, a severe understatement.


But my husband is still not talking to me and he has the option of driving away with his work buddies when he doesn't feel like seeing my face, albeit it is kinda pretty.  HAHAHA.  I'm trying to make myself feel better here.  Trying.  Please humor me.


That's what he just did.  I was in the shower, he came in the bathroom, changed his work shirt, fixed his hair,  put on Hermes Concentré D'Orange Verte and disappeared in his German car.

Me?  During the rare times my hubby's presence irritated me, the only thing I could do to effectively vent was to email my best friend and/or play with my son.  I don't know how many times throughout my son's three year lifespan, that I've cried myself out in his presence.  There were times when I was crying while burping him.  Other times, he was just playing, oblivious, drooling and gurgling while I was telling him between sobs that I was sorry, but I didn't have anyone else to talk to.  

A few hours before I began this post, I was crying out of frustration or out of who knows what.  My son asked me in a worried tone, "What's wrong mommy?  Where do you hurt?".  Of course, I had no answer he could possibly comprehend.  I couldn't simplify the answer so a three year old mind could process it.  I didn't want to lie and say- my tummy. 

So he said, "I think you need a surprise to make you feel better."  Then he picked up Mack, the truck from Disney's Cars, and gave it to me.  "Maybe I can also tell you a story.  You need a story, Mommy.", and he proceeded to tell me his version of Peter Pan.  After saying "Bee End", he hugged me and said "Don't cry."

Of course, that only made me cry all the more.


I miss the independence of having a job.  I miss having more adult contact.  I miss having a my own life, my own accomplishments.  I don't know me anymore. 

It's like I'm only breathing to take care of my husband and my son.  Hmmm.  ...That really actually is a luxury.  Ain't no shame in that.  The benefits are actually very, very good.  I really am lucky. 

The Housewife Reviews for the NCLEX-RN

This blog was conceived out of a protracted argument with my beloved husband.  As of today, it's been five days of Arctic cold shoulders from both ends. 

 Well, he did talk to me once, just to ask me to edit his presentation for his European bosses.  Then...nary a "thank you" afterward.  I don't know what the heck is going on in his frontal lobe.  Oh, Lord, look at me sharing my thoughts with a laptop. 


My mother who just happens to also be my best friend lives outside the U.S.  All my girlfriends have their own drama going on.  We're at an age where people are about to be married, just got married, just had kids, or are having none of the above because the ascent on the career ladder is all that could be had at the moment.

Also, I saw this episode "Private Lives" on House yet again (yes, I adorrrrre that show), and Donna's character said: with the internet, nobody can ever be lonely again, or something like that.  (Y'know, Donna, from "That 70's Show".  How am I supposed to remember her real name?)

I shouldn't be feeling lonely.  I have my three year old son, the light of my life.  He's up in his room, playing with Thomas The Train or Lightning McQueen.  He's a miracle baby.  But let's save that for later.  Meanwhile, I'm down here in the kitchen trying to decide if I'll write about loneliness or the impending, dreaded NCLEX-RN.


WAAAAAAAAH!!!!!  THE NCLEX!!!!!!!  It's almost noon and I still haven't studied!  I have Procrastinitis.   I should just switch off the computer right now and dive into Saunders and Mosby. . . . .


...well, whaddyaknow.  I'm still here.  Why is it that just when we have something to do right now, a hundred things we don't really need to do gets done, huh?  


When I woke up this morning, I said, ahhh, I'm going to review Fluid and Electrolyte imbalances.  But noooo, I ended up baking, then watching two episodes of "Family Guy".  Yesterday, when I wanted to review maternity nursing, I ended up cleaning the house then doing my nails.  When I wanted to read on pharmacology, I found myself doing the laundry then playing with my son on the Island of Sodor.  


Don't get me wrong.  I had good grades in nursing school.  But I'm having a hard time concentrating now.  Maybe I should use the furry handcuffs upstairs, attach me to the study table and throw away the key.