Waiting . . . .

Working on my book has brought up a lot of memories of relationships past, both good and bad.  With the wisdom and hindsight of my 42 and 3/4 years, I can see patterns of behavior and I've come to an understanding, sort of, of why I made the choices I did.

Tonight I had another one of those epiphanies and I'd like to share it with you to see if any of you out there are equally guilty of "waiting."

Waiting?  Waiting for what, you ask.  Waiting for a man.  Waiting to be rescued.  Waiting to be happy.  Waiting to be taken care of.  The saddest and most pathetic kind of waiting that any self-respecting woman can ever be guilty of.

And I've been guilty so many times in my life.  After each failed relationship I'd pretend to be living my life, but it was just a sham to cover up my insecurity and my perceived need for a man in my life.  I'd wait for the next one to come along and then when someone showed interest the wait would be over and I could begin living again.

If I really look within myself I believe that I have put my life on hold numerous times during these 'waiting' periods.  It was as if I didn't dare be happy or successful while I was single.  Then I would be guilty of something.  Perhaps its my upbringing that has taught me that no woman can get by in life without a man.  Unmarried women often have their brothers or fathers as their "adviser."  Its as if they are incapable of making any type of decision on their own and need a human with a penis to tell them how to live their life. Now, I have nothing against men and nothing against penises, but why does an unmarried adult woman need a male "adviser?"  Why does she need an adviser at all?

That is the mentality that surrounded me as a child and still surrounds me to some extent in relatives and the community in which I live.  I'm assuming that is why I have spent the better portion of my life waiting.

The question is, how do I stop waiting?  How do I live my life not waiting?  I've always imagined that I was an independent and strong woman and could live perfectly well without being in a relationship.  Why is it then that my life is in limbo and I have currently returned to waiting?  And, if I consciously realize that I'm waiting, then I should be able to stop myself, right?  If it were so easy to put an end to this behavior, I'd say adios to it right now.

What would my life look like if I were not "waiting?"  Externally, there would be few signs that anything had changed; my cell phone would not be permanently attached to me, I wouldn't eye each male as a potential rescuer, and perhaps I would talk and joke around less while working. Internally is where the changes would be.  I'm forever waiting for my phone to ring with a call or text from someone special, waiting for any sign that he might be interested in me, not making concrete plans or planning ahead in case he does call or text.  In general, its an unsettled feeling.

Its embarrassing to admit that at 42 and 3/4 I'm waiting again.  Its not embarrassing to be single, I'm ashamed to be waiting for Mr. Right and not being fully happy and fully independent because of that waiting.


Ladies, don't wait for that special someone to come along.  Live your life like its yours and only yours.  Live now.

Guest Post by Kev

Mum  didn’t have to go to work today cuz it was her day off. That makes me happy.

She took so long to wake up today. I jumped and jumped in my crib for a long time. When I got tired of jumping I called “Gumma! Gumma!” Finally she came. She was so happy to see me and I was so happy to see her. She swooped me out of the crib and put me on the floor and I ran to the kitchen. The soy milk is in the fridge and I had waited all night for some.

Mum put the TV on for me so she could go have a bath. “Baa da Bilder” was on. I like that show.

Then Mum got me dressed and we went to Superstore. The cookie people were busy till 1100 so I had to wait for my cookie. I waited very nice and patient. Mum said so. She visited with lots of people in the store today. And she bought me “loop loops.” I’ve never had those before. They are “yummmmmmmy!”

I'm strong, Mum said I was.

Then we drove to “Gate Gumma’s” and got gravel. I didn’t know why Mum was getting gravel. When we got home she put it into a little flat box. I played in my new sandbox all day long!

At naptime I wasn’t tired so I didn’t sleep. Mum didn’t sleep either I don’t think. I just jumped and bounced some more and then she came to get me.

I had a good day. Mum likes being with me and I like being with Mum. We have fun.

Nurse's Notes

The general public may not fully appreciate the humor in this post, but bear with me on this one.

Tonight I set a new record for myself; a mere twenty minutes after leaving report I uttered the familiar and dreaded question: "Has anyone seen my notes?"

For those of you who are not nurses, a nurse's notes are akin to what a bible is to a religious leader. They are that important and they contain that much crucial information. Prior to starting a shift the notes must be prepared and it appears almost ritualistic as each nurse has their own method and they repeat this method each and every shift.  Some use a particular color of paper (I use orange);some use pre-printed forms made up on the computer, while others use multi-colored pens.  

The information contained in the notes is fairly consistent from nurse to nurse. Room number, patient's name, age, gender, physician, diagnosis, date of admission, allergies, brief medical history, IV information, special treatments, and any other pertinent information. I also include times of medications, code status, and LBM (last bowel movement).


Carrying these notes is essentially carrying a summary of each patient in your pocket and are considered to be confidential information.  As such, they are to be destroyed at the end of each shift.  Tossing them in the garbage is not sufficient, they must go into the confidential waste.  

Any nurse who claims she has never lost her notes is lying; its part of being a nurse. Lost notes can be found in the oddest places; in charts, on patients' bedside tables, even in another nurse's pocket.

This time my notes magically appeared on the very same table where I had written them, and once safely back in my bulging scrub pockets, they stayed with me for the remainder of the shift.