.

I'm profoundly depressed right now, for a lot of very valid reasons. Normally I'd need to write a post to see the validity, but luckily I married the right person, and he validates my stress and anxiety when I share them with him. But that sharing occurs often, and I feel like a wholly burdensome partner, so I'm trying to get it out here and not weigh him down any further.

I don't have the energy to describe all of the factors that are leading to this point. A big reason my coping ability is so low is the intense, prolonged knee pain I've been in for the last 18 months. I don't have it in me to deal with manufactured in-law drama, school drama besides getting there and back and finishing my million assignments on-time, maintain a house, and still be a good person. So I'm withdrawing into myself, bit by bit, and becoming more apathetic than I've ever been. It's a hard place to be. I put all my emotional energy into my nursing and then into my marriage, and there's nothing else left.

December 15 is my last day of my BSN, and I can't wait. Next semester it's just residency and an online class, and taking (AND PASSING!) my NCLEX. Then working. Contuining with my Masters, although with how I'm feeling right now, I don't know if I'll continue anytime soon, or even at APU.

I'm living an emotionally devastated life, and I don't know how to change it, except to keep putting one foot in front of the other. And it's killing me.

powerlessness.

The weather outside reflects my mood. My father keeps saying that it's earthquake weather, and it keeps echoing inside my head and rumbling out of my eyes...my core is shaking. I am under such immense stress that I feel myself tearing. Shearing. Pulling and pushing and under no control of the turmoil.
It is, to say the least, exhausting.
That's what has been so enduring lately - the lack of rest. I feel dead, all day every day. Life has become the process of putting one foot in front of the other and putting out the fire under my step. My dream after marriage is just sleeping.
There are issues with the house we're buying. Not with the actual house, not with the financing, not with anything that you would expect for their to be issues with. Nope, we were on our shit and all of that is totally handled. The issue is the sellers.
They had four goddamn repairs to do that were minor as all getout. Replace the wood under one eaves. Put a plate over the pilot light of the water heater, add a strap to it, and add a drainage pipe. It would take a shitty handyman about 4 hours to fix it, but they've waited until the absolute last day. And the tenants are still in there. Not only is my real estate agent not putting pressure on them, she's saying that I...YES ME...told the tenants they should be out by 5/11. Monday. When Sam has to be out of his apartment by Saturday, 5/9. Why would I tell them a date I never even had as an option in my brain?! As a matter of fact, I told them the 7th. As a second matter of fact, it's not my responsibility for their vacancy.
So for 2 days, we'll have to have all of his stuff in a Uhaul parked against my parent's garage and hoping we don't get robbed. 
Well Erin, that's not so bad. Why are you freaking out, you may be thinking. Well, because I have a very amazing group of friends that are willing to help me throughout the day of Saturday to move us, get us unloaded and partially unpacked. If we're delayed and don't get our keys until Monday, we'll be alone. And that means we'll be unloading alone. And that means that I'll be in so much physical pain that I may actually not leave bed and say FuckItAll to LIFE. Which I can't afford to do. Not with the school program I'm in. Not with my marriage commencing via wedding in 15 days.
So, like most humans, the fear of pain is motivating me and making me fiercely aggressive. I am gearing up to fracture and could care less what the fallout is.
By fracture, I mean: scream, cry, roar. I'm already doing it extensively. I can't bear the thought of going home, taking care of the dog I'm dogsitting, hear the shit my parents will dole out like candy, do laundry, pack my life, and ultimately have NO CONTROL over whether I will have the home I've worked hard for by Saturday.
Someday soon, it'll be better. I just wish I could exert some type of action to make it so.

tempered.

I ruminated on the year that had just passed by. It was, like it is for everyone, the beginning and the end of so many things, but there were more than the average notable occurrences. Most importantly, it was the last year I would ever be single (at least I hope). Really, who goes into marriage assuming that it’ll someday end? Not me. And not Sam, thankfully. We met in February and intend on walking through this life together. As a part of that, it was also the last year I would spend New Year’s Eve alone. It was the last year that I would feel lost from my path; nursing school has begun and as the culmination of four years of work, it feels like a big part of me that has been waiting to bloom has finally started to. It was the first year I lived without the fearsome pain of endometriosis, and had to live for 365 day the reality of never having a period, ovarian cysts, terrifying bleeding, suffocating pain, or the possibility (however slight) of giving birth to my own offspring.

It’s an odd thing, accepting that bit. It’s easy to accept something when you have the capability, and a little harder to swallow when it has been forcefully taken from you…more so when you yourself is the one who did the taking, to survive and thrive.

I realize I haven’t blogged in quite some time, and as I was talking to my friend Kathleen today, I realized why that was. Simply, it’s Sam. Blogging began as a way for me to expel my deepest self with force and words. I was unable to do it in regular life, primarily because I was too busy, or often because it was too much for me to reasonably expect my friends to listen to as I processed my life and feelings. Life is not easy, and I am poor, but instead of therapists or making my friends hate me, I turned to this venue. Writing it made it true. 

And now, honestly, I tell everything – EVERY SINGLE THING, that poor bastard – to Sam. He is in every way the best thing to happen to me. Also, the idea of spare time to write these days is a mirage, and I think that if I am going to devote a certain time of day to writing, it needs to be creatively, not just regurgitating the same things I’ve already verbally worked out with Sam or another friend.

I’ve decided a few things though. 2015 will be a big year that much is certain. Sam and I will be moving into our own place with a spare bedroom for our loves who need a place to land for a while. We will be getting married in May (the date isn’t known by many because we’re eloping and don’t want to cause a fuss), I’ll be completing my B.S in Nursing at the end of the year and beginning my preceptorship in anticipation of the NCLEX, and I’ve mentally committed myself to volunteering in a nursing home, ideally with hospice patients who don’t have their own family to sit with them.

I just watched a documentary called Serving Life, about inmates volunteering in Angola penitentiary’s hospice program, and what the warden said has stayed with me: it’s about taking care of each other in this life. I’ll dig your grave, and someone else is going to dig mine.

I’ll hold your hand and dig that grave for you, because I am capable of doing so, and not everyone is.  

There was a lot more that happened in 2014. Mental health advocacy for friends, cosigning on a car for a friend, refinancing my own, getting different health insurance (saving me thousands every year – THANKS OBAMA!), two knee surgeries, not missing a single day of nursing school despite those surgeries and still managing a 3.8 GPA, loving not only my life-partner but his family, road trips, tears, fears, and everything in between.

My best friend told me today that I am mellower these days. That Sam has calmed me down. Truly, I think that I am now tempered…that the fire of these last few years has done its job. I felt my blows. I hardened, and sharpened, and am formed in the best shape so as to slice.

So as to slice.

Reflecting on anger.

When I think about how I've changed the most in the last 10 years, it would be how my anger manifests itself. I still have a reputation for being fearsome, but I'm less inclined to punch someone and more inclined to yell or, more often than not, stay eerily calm.

(Except that time I caught my mom using drugs last August, and I truly beat her. She says I beat the shit out of her. I say I beat the piss out of her. Because I literally did.)

Today, again, I found evidence of a relapse. Lucky for her she wasn't home, so I had time to calm down as much as possible by productively channeling my anger into cleaning. My mother is a pathological liar, and probably one of the most selfish people I've ever known. These things don't make her a bad person, per se, and she is capable of kindness, but not if it came at the expense of her comfort. That is where we're different, and I'm well aware that many of my more permanent characteristics are a complete opposite of her as sheer defiance.

I try to never lie, even when it makes me uncomfortable, because she made me lie about everything from a young age. I have never been drunk, because she's an alcoholic. I've never used chemically-based drugs recreationally, because she's an addict. I've never slept in more than 2 days in a row, because she will literally sleep all day if you don't make her wake up for something. I am obsessive about doing dishes and laundry regularly, because I grew up around disgusting piles of both for weeks on end as a child (and to this day, whenever I'm not home for a few days). The list could go on and on, and it's all in direct reaction to her.

What makes it hardest is that I cut out liars from my life as soon as I can see them for what they are, and yet I haven't yet been able to cut out the worst/most frequent/pathological liar that haunts me. My mother is like the anchor that tethers me to all the most agonizing aspects of my origin story that I am perpetually trying to rise above. I rarely get genuinely angry...irritated, sure, plenty, but never for long...and most of those incidences are on her. What the fuck does she have so hard that she feels driven to escape? She literally has no accountability anywhere in her life. She doesn't have a job, doesn't pull her weight in the house, and is sleeping more than waking day to day. WHAT THE FUCK IS SO HARD ABOUT HER LIFE when she's literally had a caretaker in her OWN GODDAMN DAUGHTER SINCE I WAS 9 YEARS OLD.

WHAT THE FUCK. And really, I know it's not as bad as MANY other people have it. I'm not deluded. My good friend Trisha has a mom that would make you wince to hear the stories. She gets it, even though my story is like the diet version of hers.

But here I am, hours later. Angry, frustrated, betrayed, and wanting to cut the ties that bind. How much better would my life be without her? And really, do I owe her any more of the life that she seems hell bent on ruining?

I warned her today that if she keeps this up, she'll be daughter-less and will die alone.

I'd never said the words out loud before, and I'm finally to the point that I mean them. I imagined a future without the fear, drama, instability, and anger that she brings to my life, and it was a beautiful sight.

"Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering." -Yoda

I'm pretty over being her doormat when I refuse to be that to anyone else. Why is she exempt from the standards I place on anyone else I let close to me? "Because she's my mom" just doesn't cut it anymore. 

On being accepted.

Last Wednesday, I interviewed with the head of Masters in Nursing at my school of choice. After some hesitant language, the last ten minutes were spent planning my start date. I was in. I was accepted.

In the span of twenty minutes, my life's axis tilted, and I emerged elated and surefooted. All of this struggle for the last two years has not been in vain. I didn't work full-time at the hospital, volunteer as a CASA, and take anywhere from 10-14 units while in constant pain and alone up north for nothing. Sacrifice had placed a seed in my hand, and conquering innumerable hurdles had provided the tears to make it grow.

You may think I'm being dramatic, but I'm not. And I don't regret a moment or any decision I've made to get here. It's in my own time, to be sure, but there is nothing but soul-deep surety that this is what I'm meant to do with my life. Finding a path that's yours alone can take time, but the hunt is worth it, even if it takes your entire life. I can tell  you this confidently, my loves: don't stop until you find the place that your feet feel home.

Things are going incandescently right. Under normal circumstances, I would start to be scared around now, thinking that the other shoe is about to fall and I'll be at the disadvantage again, clawing upwards. But I think those days, the grand sweeping gestures of them, are behind me now. They've shaped me. As my good friend Sarah says: a good blade bends when pushed. It feels every blow that hits it. I felt my blows. I bounced so I wouldn't break. My metal was being tested. My self, the foundation of me, has been forged, and it's beautiful and fearsome and an oathkeeper. I would not have it any other way.

My mother looked at me the other day, and tilted her head just so. She told me, "You've always had a force of character, Erin. Me, I never had that backbone. I liked to believe I did, for a long time. We build up myths of ourselves in our own minds, and in mine, I was strong, but I never really was. And then there's you. And if there's anything that every parent will say about their children, it's that we wish they had more than us. In some ways, I gave you less than I had, but you were born with more strength of character than I ever had. That's the best gift I could ask for...you being so strong."

I love and am loved fiercely. While many other aspects of my life may be in flux, those two truths have remained the same, and I daresay always will. What could make you stronger than love? I feel it so intensely that it falls from my mouth when at my lowest and most exhausted and afraid. I don't fear death because of it. I don't fear failure, because it's just a state of mind. I don't fear loneliness, because who could be lonely with so much of this? So much. So big.

Be fearless. Nothing can hurt you. When it stings, know that it's your metal being tested, and the more you bounce, the stronger you'll become. You are infinite in this love. Go courageously into grace. Your best self is waiting for you in the unknown.

On being a woman who takes no shit.

There's been a lot of talk of misogyny in this last week after the terrible Santa Barbara shootings and the crazed rants/manifesto of the entitled fuck who did it (I don't remember his name and don't care to).

I do care about the victims.

WEIHAN WANG - The tearful mother said her only son was supposed to come home to Fremont for the summer, go on a family vacation to Yellowstone National Park and celebrate his 21st birthday in July. The station said the father, Charlie Wang, could only stand in the doorway, hugging his wife and uttering deep, guttural cries. Wang, 20, and his parents immigrated to the country from China ten years ago. He graduated from Fremont Christian School and was studying computer engineering at UC Santa Barbara.
Liu called her son "the joy of the family," someone who aced his SATs and never bragged about it.
"I wish I could go in exchange of my son's life," she said. "I'm just heartbroken. You can't imagine for a mom."

CHENG YUAN HONG - Hong, 20, was a hard-working and bright student who was always willing to help others. "James was shy, quiet, gentle, sweet, kind and most respectful," Laurel Cohen told the San Jose Mercury News on Monday. "Not someone who easily could engage in conversation. But I remember his earnest nature, conviction, honesty and mostly his smile; it lit up a room."

GEORGE CHEN - "We would die a hundred times, a thousand times, but we don't want our kids to get hurt," Chen's mother, Kelly Wang, said as she fought through tears. "This shouldn't happen to any family. This should be the last one in the United States."A family friend said Chen, 19, was a gentle soul who had a fondness for working with children.

KATHERINE BREANN COOPER - Her friend Courtney Benjamin said Cooper, 22, was a painter with an outgoing side. Known as Katie, she was about to graduate with a degree in art history.
"She was a self-proclaimed princess and I love her for that," Benjamin said. "And I know she has a crown on her head today."

CHRISTOPHER ROSS MICHAELS-MARTINEZ - Michaels-Martinez, 20, was an English major from Los Osos, California. The son of a criminal defense attorney and a deputy district attorney in San Luis Obispo, he planned to spend his junior year in London next year and to law school after graduation, his father, Richard Martinez, said. Friends said Michaels-Martinez, who served as residential adviser at a dorm last year, was the kind of guy who would welcome strangers into his home.

VERONIKA ELIZABETH WEISS - Weiss, 19, was first-year student from Westlake Village, California.
Her father Bob Weiss told the Los Angeles Times his daughter was a tomboy who played four sports at Westlake High School — cross country, baseball, swimming and water polo — while earning straight A's. Her strength was math. "There was never a day I wasn't proud of her. Never a single day," he said.

Their deaths have caused a lot of discussion; beyond the perpetual gun debate, it's gone to the deeper causes of hatred that would spawn such a tragedy. Most of recent American mass killings had perpetrators that suffered from some kind of long-standing mental disorder (although definitely not all); this one was bitter misogynistic. 1 in 6 women are the victims of sexual assault in the US, and while I've never considered myself a victim, I realize that technically I have been. It came up in discussion with one of Sam's friends last week; he's new to this whole women-are-equals concept, and has been trying to educate himself on feminism. Out of nowhere, I explained the following, which I never realized I believed:

"Look, women are taught to be victims before we're taught to be individuals. I was raised by a single mom who was molested at 5. As soon as I was taught to pull up my panties by myself, I was taught to never take them down for anyone. Ever. Before I went into kindegarten and had to get my shots, the nurse said, 'Okay honey, pull down your panties, I have to give your shots' and I completely lost my shit. I was so beserk, it took 2 other nurses, a doctor, and my mom to hold me down, and I bit my mom so hard she was bruised for a month. That set the tone for my life. As soon as I realized I couldn't run from danger, I learned to punch. I've fought one girl ever, and I was 8. Every other fight has been with men who thought they had a RIGHT to me. As if I was property. As if I didn't have a fucking say in ANYTHING. And they paid for it, either with shame or pain. They felt my 'say', I'm sure for weeks. People marvel at that...when most smart women run, from the bar, to their car, whatever, I turn around and face that threat head on. It's why I rarely go to bars anymore, or concerts. I'm not conventionally attractive by any means, and I'm intimidating in terms of height and weight, and men STILL grab at me, and call me a cunt when I turn away. Then it escalates. For the average woman, it's after they learn to stop being ONLY a victim that we learn to become an individual, which is why, I believe, most have that identity crisis in their late teens/early 20s instead of early teenage years, like a lot of men."

I've been grabbed, yelled at, threatened. I've stopped men from trying to roofie a friend's drink at Vault Martini Bar in Redlands (which is why I avoid ALL OF THOSE FUCKING BARS...the entitled trash of Redlands cause an intrinsic higher level of risk than any ghetto dive bar I've ever been to), and got into a big ol' screaming fight that almost went to blows when I called him on it. I've had my breasts and butt grabbed at almost every concert I've been to, I've been hit on at bars; when I politely decline or laugh at the ballsiness of the line they start name-calling. Naturally, if they say something about looks or weight, I laugh harder and go along the thought of: "NICE and you JUST HIT ON ME?! Someone you think is fat and ugly? WAY TO BE PATHETIC!" etc. If they stand up to try and tower over, the shock on their faces when I don't back down is as surprising as their pick-up method. If they'd said anything along those lines to a man, there would OF COURSE be repercussions. If they heard a man saying that to their mom, future-wife, sister, or daughter, they'd go ballistic. So why, I wonder, is it acceptable for them to say it to someone else mother/partner/sister/daughter? It defies all logic, and underlies one of the fundamental inequalities facing women across the globe: we are not individuals to society. If we don't actively belong to someone next to us (these incidences almost never happen if I'm with a male friend), we don't belong to anyone and are up for grabs. Like a mining claim; if no one is there, stake it...the mine is just there to give and has no say.

I'm a gold mine FOR ASS KICKING, MOTHERFUCKERS.

My worst nightmare (and this is truly something that haunts me) is being held down in an alleyway by a group of men and having no power. I usually take down one or two, but the rest exact fierce retribution because of it, and I wake up as I'm dying. I've told a few women friends that nightmare, and they always nod in understanding: it's a common fear with most of us. Some of them have said, "Doesn't that make you want to stop being aggressive and just carry pepper spray?" And the answer has been a resounding NO. Absolutely not. I refuse to silently take it, because that shock and horror in their eyes is worth that courage. When I ask them, "Would you let a man talk to your sister that way, or your daughter?" a spark of cognition can be seen, and possibly saving another woman from the fear of this man callously approaching her warrants the risk.

Yes, I'm a human. Yes, I have a say. Yes, I have people who love me (and even if I didn't, like the many women who are adrift in our society without a base and are unsurprisingly the worst victims of assault). Yes, I'm a woman. All of these things mean that I am not, contrary to Mother Culture, up for grabs to the first man who gropes or crudely propositions me. Really, when has "I'd tear that ass UP" ever worked as a pickup line?!

So, while I cannot change how men the world-over view us women, I sure as shit don't let them get away with it. And that, my darlings, is all I'm saying - always try and keep yourself safe, this goes without saying - but when faced with the disfigured face of misogyny, don't be afraid to ask the simple question: "How would you feel if someone said that to your mother/sister/wife/daughter? (*Note: I'm well aware that we are worthy as individuals, but we're breaking down massive, time-old walls here. You gotta start small, and teaching empathy requires something they can immediately identify with.) I'm your equal, and you should be ashamed of yourself."

It's their shame, not yours. Rise up.

Set sail.

April was, I hope, the hardest month I'll face in 2014. I was in a car accident, Sam and I found a puppy who was hit by a car on Easter (more on that later), Sam moved, my knee became acutely painful, Rita was slowly slipping downhill and I couldn't help at all, with the now-constant migraines that have tainted almost everything with an aura of disbelief and pain.

Car accident.
After dodging an almost car accident five minutes previously, a woman in a huge brand-new truck cut me off in slowing traffic. I slammed on my brakes, but slid into her anyway. Her truck, thankfully, was barely damaged, but my Mini had the hook jacked up and it punctured my radiator. From punching in my clutch and brake so hard, along with the impact, I got shin splints. Getting my car into the body shop wasn't too terrible, and luckily my Italian family had a spare car, so I was able to borrow it for the ten days the Mini was in the shop. Unfortunately, when I got the car back, there were multiple problems, so I had to keep taking it back, and this naturally escalated to me complaining to the shop manager, my insurance company, etc. I got it back the Friday before Easter.

Migraines.
I had blood work done the last day of March to test my hormone levels (plus the normal yearly panel); that SAME DAY the office tried to call me with my results, which didn't make any sense. Long story short, the office MAs said "everything was normal" but that my cholesterol was high and yadda yadda. This all happened before my accident on the 4th; a few days after the accident, when my shin splint pain was intense, I tried to make an appointment and the office REFUSED to schedule me because it was the result of an accident and told me to go to the ER. This, of course, unleashed a tirade about how ridiculous it was to try and send me to the ER for a non-acute issue, when my doctor is a DO and better qualified to treat me ANYWAY. Afterwards, when I was able to check my own lab values online, it turned out that I had literally NO estrogen in my body (the range I'm supposed to be in was 42-289 and I'm less than 3), and my cholesterol was "high" because my HDL (your good cholesterol!) was so high...so the percentage of HDL/LDL was ideal. Also, take note that 85% of your cholesterol is made by your own liver, so trying to control it with diet, etc, is pretty pointless. With all of these issues...the false report of my lab results, the refusal to schedule me, etc., I had to go and complain to the Quality and Compliance managers of the medical group. I also got my hormone replacement changed, and started on a new migraine medication. I sincerely hope that my values will balance out in the next few months and these migraines will be a distant memory to that rough 6 months post-hysterectomy.

Puppy Rescue.
Sam and I had Easter with my Thompson family and later, dinner at his mom's house. (I absolutely love his family, and am all the more thankful that they're so damn awesome after the terrible experiences I had with my ex's mother.) A lady that was dining with his stepdad's family next door started walking home and then rushed back; she'd just seen a dog hit by a car and the car had kept going, and she didn't know what to do. She didn't get a license number or anything, so there wasn't anything we could technically report. Sam and I went with her down the block to look for the dog and see if it had any tags on it to contact the owners, but when we found it, it was this little pit bull puppy with a harness but no tags. She was gorgeous, and so friendly! She still had her milk teeth, she was so young. The owners of the yard she'd landed in offered to keep her until the actually owners came around in the next few days, and I gave my number just in case they DIDN'T come by (I knew that, as a pittie, she wouldn't make it at a shelter). They called in less than ten minutes because their dog was being mean to her, and they didn't want her to get more hurt while on their property. So Sam and I went and got her and took her home (only possible because my dad had left for Egypt a few days previously). She was absolutely the cutest and most playful baby, already potty trained, already fixed, and not at all aggressive with Lucy and Ethel even though they were being bitches to her. This was Sunday night, and by Wednesday night/Thursday morning, she was vomiting profusely. I'd arranged to have her meet some possibly furever home candidates that day, but we didn't even know if she'd survive...my sweet girl had parvo. By 10am on Thursday, she was unresponsive and wouldn't open her eyes even when I picked her up; she was almost gone. I couldn't afford to take her to the vet and knew they didn't have better odds than I did, so I wrapped her in a cool towel to try and bring her fever down, turkey basted pediasure into her mouth, and kept kissing her forehead. By the evening, she'd seemingly rebounded, and I doubted if it was parvo to begin with, but sure enough, she was sick again overnight. She vomited everything she tried to drink for the next two days, then the diarrhea began. She was wasting away, and it was agony to watch. I barely slept, trying to comfort her whenever she woke up to puke. I started giving her subcutaneous injections of pedialyte by day 3 to try and get/keep SOME fluids into her, and I honestly think that and the pediasure on the first day are what kept her alive. She made it through, and watching her eat food and be able to keep it down was one of the biggest sighs of relief I've ever felt. That entire week was spent solely at home, taking care of her, and I'm thankful that of all the people that might have rescued her, it was someone who COULD stay home and had such an expansive resource of friends with insights on how to keep her alive. She's now living with my friend Nat, and is named Zelda, and they're very happy together. She's my first furry goddaughter!

Sam moved.
We found Sam an apartment and he was able to move in less than 10 days after first viewing it! It's close to his work and a perfect place for him to call home until we get married and buy a house of our own. It was a unique experience; I've never moved with a partner, and knew that it would be a test to our relationship. Sam is a really amazing man...he is constantly doing small and intensely sweet/supportive things for me, like massaging my ankles and shins/calves after the accident to help with the splints, my neck and shoulders during headaches, my hand when I'm stressed. I hope that I reciprocate on the same level in different aspects, but I feel like I come up short more often than not. In this circumstance though, I knew that if I could essentially captain the moving ship, it could go smoothly, and it did! And he trusted me to do that for him, which is a testament to us as a partnership. Thankfully, my friends Jessica and Yvonne and Sam's brother Jon were able to come help us on moving day, so we got him completely moved in less than 4 hours. I bought a fridge from my friend Nichole and was able to borrow my friend Drew's truck to move that over the next day (Jessica came AGAIN that day to help me load it up!) and another friend sold us her epic bed and gave him a desk. Truly, you know the impeccable quality of your friends at times like this.

Rita.
Rita, my Jewish sass factory, passed  yesterday. I wrote a blog/letter to her here on my previous post. Her decline was a huge lesson for me, as a person/daughter/aspiring nurse. The system failed Rita, but mainly because her decisions were motivated by fear and her daughter wasn't strong enough to let her go. I've always strongly advocated for the patient (and my experiences at Sutter Coast, and especially with Case Management) gave me the skills to better do so, but I was powerless to help Rita. I have always chafed at that notion; I am very rarely powerless, I don't just sit placidly and hope for things to happen in my favor, and I'm very skilled at changing circumstances to go down a manageable route. This was not one of those times, and I think it's a very important experience to go through. People are more motivated by fear than any other emotion, and it's usually to their detriment, but you cannot make someone strong or courageous for someone else when they lack that foundation to even advocate for themselves. Truly, this highlighted that as a person and as a nurse, I can only hope to inspire by example.

Even though this might sound like a long rant of complaining, it isn't. A lot of good happened this month, it was just an unexpectedly tiring journey to get there. Life goes on. We just have to try and steer the ship in the direction we hope to go, but be prepared for when storms throw us off course, and handle the readjustment as gracefully as possible.