Broken Pottery Is A Dish Best Served Cold...And Preferably To Your Husband

It's all fun and games until someone swallows a shard of ceramic pottery.

Before Adult Protective Services intervenes and takes me into custody for spousal abuse, I'd like to state my case.  I was lovingly preparing dinner (that is, microwaving leftovers) for R two nights ago when it all started.  I reached into my cabinets to find a plate for his food that was being nuked, and instead of a dinner plate, one of my serving bowls came crashing down onto the counter, narrowly missing my head.  It was broken, of course, but it was a pretty clean break, just two or three large pieces. I swept up the broken ceramic and dumped it into the trash, cleaned off the counter, and went on with the food preparations, thinking nothing of it.

R calls me at lunchtime yesterday with a timber of panic in his voice.  "Babe," he asks, "Could anything sharp have fallen into the chicken pasta you packed for my lunch last night?"  My immediate response is no, as I don't make a habit of slipping hypodermic needles into dinner just for kicks and giggles.  He goes on to tell me that he felt something sharp go down his throat while swallowing, and his throat is now sore.  The memory of the broken pottery comes back to me, and I tell him that a dish did break while I was warming up dinner and packing his lunch for the next day, but it wasn't anywhere near the food itself.   A small shard must have somehow fallen into the plastic lunch container from the counter.

Now, I am an RN by trade.  My husband was quite excited at this prospect when we first met, with visions of me serenely sponging his feverish forehead in the night and rushing to his aid at the first sign of illness.  Some nurses I have met are like this.  However, the majority of us are not Florence Nightingale, and when our soliders fall ill, our first reponse is more like, "Take an aspirin and suck it up.  You'll be fine in the morning."  I am reminded of my own mother at times like these.  As a child, when my brother or I got sick, her response was, without fail, to "get up and get dressed; you'll feel better once you get to school."  Most of the time, she was absolutely right.  There were also the unfortunate occasions that yes, we did feel better at school, but only because we emptied the contents of our upset stomachs in the classroom in front of our teachers and friends. 

"Honey, I honestly think you'll be fine.  It could not have been a very large piece at all, and you'll probably pass it with no trouble.  Don't worry about unless your stomach starts hurting, and go eat something soft with fiber in it.  That'll help to get rid of it."

My hubby sounds much less convinced.  There are some things you should know about R before we go any further in this story. Go Google "hypochondriac".  R's face is the first hit you will see.  If you tell him this, he will likely spend all night on the Internet researching hypochondriasis and diagnose himself with everything life-threatening under the sun. In R's mind, headache=inoperable brain tumor, stuffy nose=Ebola virus or swine flu, sore muscles=multiple sclerosis or ALS, and coughing=congestive heart failure.

 This wouldn't be so bad if he would allow medication to help him for simple symptoms.  Pharmaceutical companies and the FDA invented the term "side effects" for people like my husband.  When I offer him ibuprofen or Tylenol for a pounding head, he looks at me aghast, accusing me of putting him into renal and/or liver failure, respectively.  The first and last time I gave him Benadryl  he was so wired that I found him trying to fix the wallpaper in our kitchen at 3 AM.  We have tried many medicines for his bouts of insomnia, even the natural supplement melatonin, which he claimed made his heart race and gave him sweaty palms. He also refused to take them for more than one or two nights, convinced he would experience addiction, subsequent withdrawal, and "brain shrinking" from too many doses.  Last weekend, he was given a Z-pack of antibiotics to help clear a sinus infection.  I tried to rip off the side effect profile and trash it before he noticed it, but of course he spent the next half hour debating whether or not to take those two tiny pink pills because of "potential QT-interval prolongation and ventricular arrhythmias" listed on the warning label.  As R is not a practicing cardiologist, he didn't even know what this meant, but was sure it would happen to him.  I tried to dissuade him from worrying, but what do I know? I'm just a CARDIAC nurse.

All of these factors in combination made for quite an interesting night in the Long household.  R was still concerned about his "bleeding, raw" throat, so I told him to call his doctor.  The doc saw him that afternoon, told him his throat was moderately irritated, and that most likley he will have no problems, but to watch for abdominal pain and eat lots of soft foods with fiber.  She also gave him a piece of information which was the kiss of death for R: "Go to the ER if you have any severe abdominal pain.  It would be rare, but the object could potentially perforate your stomach wall."  In R's mind, this translated to "Compose your funeral music and tell your wife what flowers you want on the casket. You will undoubtedly be dead by Sunday." 

I receive no fewer than 12 calls from the time R sees the doctor until he arrives home.  One conversation was particularly muffled, as R was double-fisting slices of white bread and eating his fourth banana while huddled  in the Kroger parking lot next to his office as he updated me on his "condition".  When he arrived home, I asked what he wanted for dinner (besides enough Valium to put a team of oxen down), and he said the doctor advised him to eat oatmeal and other high-fiber foods.  I made him a bowl of oatmeal, a plate of eggs, and yet two more slices of white bread for toast.  He asked if the eggs were okay to eat with his "perforated stomach".  Please congratulate me on holding off the rolling of my eyes until I left the kitchen.

That night as we were going to bed, the fiber tango began, and R spent quite a bit of time in the restroom.  I asked to see the contents of the toilet bowl before they were flushed to check for blood, but he assured me he was fine.  Finally it is 11 pm, and the lights go out.  I assure R before going to sleep that he is perfectly fine, the fiber is flushing his system, and the offending pottery will probably be passed in the AM if it hasn't already.  I turn onto my side, sinking into my pillow in blissful silence.

11:10.  R: "I can't sleep.  What if my stomach rips open and I have to have an operation?"  Me:  "You're fine.  Stop worrying, think of something pleasant, and please try to go to sleep."

11:13.  R: "Are you sure?  I feel like I'm gassy and need to burp."  Me:  "Let it loose.  You probably have gas from all that fiber."

11:17.  R: " I never burp this much at night.  Something's wrong."  Me: "You burp our pet's names to them as part of their good-night ritual each evening.  I'm telling you, everything is fine.  Sleep."

11:30.  R:  "I feel like I need to go to the bathroom again. What should I do?"  Me: "Get out of bed, take five steps to your right, locate toilet, and sit down.  If you need help with the rest, I can glove up and dig in." 

11:35.  R: "I just went to the bathroom again.  Something's wrong."  Me: "It's just the fiber doing its job, honey.  Relax. Please."

Sometime after this I fall asleep.  I am awakened well after midnight with R rooting around the refrigerator for something.  R: " I needed some water because I was thirsty.  My stomach is starting to feel funny.  I'm scared something's wrong."  Me: "Your stomach is hurting because you are concentrating on your stomach and how you are scared of it to start hurting.  You're psyching yourself out.  Everything is going to be fine. PLEASE let me sleep."

1:30.  R: "My stomach has that feeling that you get when you need to go poop.  What's happening?"  Me: "What's not happening for me is sleep.  Please, just use the restroom and try to relax.  Do you want a melatonin to help you sleep?"  R: "Why are you trying to give me heart palpitations?!?!"

2:45.  R: "Please don't get mad.  My stomach has that growly feeling that you get when you're hungry. Is that a bad sign?"  Me: "The spare bedroom is located at the end of the hallway.  Please take one of the cats with you for comfort, and BE QUIET SO I CAN SLEEP."

4:00.  R is shaking as if possessed with scarlet fever or a demonic force.  Me: "What's wrong?  Are you cold?"  R: "I'm scared that my stomach is going to rip open. I just can't seem to relax."  I begin to get out of bed.   R: "Wait, where are you going?  A, why are you leaving?"  Me: "I'm going to find those other pieces of pottery and finish the job if you don't LET ME GO TO SLEEP!!!!!!

We both got about three hours of rest last night.  R finally fell asleep around 4:15, and managed to survive the night.  Whew.  It was touch-and-go there for a while.

I know I sound like a terrible wife and nurse.  But in all honesty, I speak to patients all day long who claim a number of symptoms, most of which originate in their mind.  I have learned the difference between when to worry, and when to shut the heck up and go to sleep. My husband probably never will.  But I will not love him any less for it.  He is my gurantee that life will be interesting.

R is surviving the day thus far, and I have assured him that I picked through his packed lunch for syringes, subcutaneous needles, fiberglass, and shattered window panes. Hopefully, we have weathered the worst of the Great Pottery Poisoning 2011. Tonight, however, I am tempted to smuggle home some Propofol and pretend its a vanilla protein shake.  And if I want to get any semblance of rest this weekend, I just might go a little Dr. Conrad Murray on my husband (but only the version that helped Michael Jackson "sleep"--not the one that killed him!)

Imperfectly Worthy

Nietszsche wrote that "Without music, life would be an error."  If I were a few hundred years older, I'm sure I would've beat him to the punch on that quote.  Music has always been more than a source of entertainment for me.  It is my favorite way to worship and spend time with God.  It is my therapy after a bad day.  It is the one and only reason I can make it through a 6 mile run.  And it is a tool that my Creator uses to show me things about myself.  He frequently uses it as a mirror, holding it in front of my face so that I am able to see what He sees.  I am learning that God's truth about me is the one vision that truly matters.
All this to say that I got some new CD's for Christmas, and as is my habit, I have played certain tracks on repeat for the last 2 weeks.  Now, I am somewhat of a music snob.  I like people to think my music taste is oh-so-unique and impossibly hip.  In reality I have everything from Wilson Phillips and the Jackson 5 to Puerto-Rican hip-hop and ghetto booty music on my iPod.   You will find teeny-bopper favorites such as Miley Cyrus, Avril Lavigne, and Adam Lambert on my shuffle playlist, as well as Kelly Clarkson, Katy Perry, and the Black Eyed Peas.  Don't judge me--I've got Bright Eyes, Ingrid Michaelson, and Muse on there to redeem myself. 
The track serving as the current object of my affection is Sugarland's "Every Girl Like Me".  In between the admittedly vapid lyrics is the chorus, which reads, "And I am not perfect, but I know I'm worth it."  Make sure you listen to it with Jennifer Nettles' voice behind it, as it has a much greater impact.  Eleven little words in the middle of a country song.  Not much to write home about, right?
Well, I write home about most everything.  And these words have had a significant impact on me.  I've heard a theory that people, especially women, fall into one of 3 categories: pleasers, performers, and overt controllers.  "Overt" is a key word, since all of these are forms of control.  These are the parts we play in order to get our needs met.  For years as a painfully shy and insecure teenager, I thought I was a people pleaser. I couldn't stand for people to think negatively of me; one word or comment could send me into a tailspin of depression.  As I got older, one of my good friends pointed out to me that I wasn't so much a pleaser as a performer.  Yes, I want to make people like me--but only because if people like me, then I must be doing a good job.  I am a natural student and straight-A maker.  I'm that crazy person at the gym running 12 miles before work so that I "get it done".  Dinner is planned and made at our house for a week at a time and frozen into individual portions.  I can vaccum, listen to an audiobook on Spanish vocabulary, feed my cats, do a load of laundry, and talk to my husband on the phone all while updating my Facebook status.  If multitasking were a country, I would be its Empress. 
The problem with being a performer is that unless you have a steady supply of methamphetamines at your disposal, you get tired.  All the time.  And when you sit down to rest, you immediately feel guilty because you could be using that time to write thank-you notes for Christmas gifts or creating a litter of kittens out of all the cat hair you just vacuumed from the carpets.  A 3 mile run isn't good enough, despite the fact that your hip is hurting and your body is telling you to stop.  And how dare you go to bed at night when the dishwasher needs to be emptied, there is laundry in the dryer to be folded, and the bathroom isn't sparkling?  You slacker!
Point? I get a high out of doing things perfectly.  But as I am imperfect, I beat myself up for failing.  Much of my insecurity comes from fear of failure.  I'm too scared to do fill-in-the-blank because I'm not pretty/skinny/smart/likeable/funny/good enough.  I am always falling short.
That's where the Sugarland lyrics come in.  As usual, I was listening to them during a run.  My usual soundtrack of "ugh, I'm so fat" was blasting over my iPod headphones, and the chorus passed a couple of times before I really heard it.  "I am not perfect, but I know I'm worth it".  I don't have a perfect body, but I deserve to feel good about myself.  I am not a perfect wife, but I can ask my husband for what I need.  I am not a perfect nurse, but I can accept the thanks my patients give me instead of dismissing it.  And I am far from a perfect child of God, but I still have a place reserved in His lap at the end of the day. 
I believe perfectionism is one of Satan's sharpest arrows.  He loves to make me believe that if I do things well enough on my own, then I have no need of a Savior.  He also takes delight in kicking me when I fail, making sure I feel too beaten down to get up and try again.  My Father, however, relishes my imperfections.  If he wanted a perfect daughter, he would have made me a robot.  He likes that I sing off-key at the top of my lungs in the car.  He smiles at the fact that I can't get through a meal without wearing half of it on my shirt, and that when it is raining outside its guaranteed that I will slip and fall in front of a large crowd of people at some point during the day.  He doesn't mind that I have no sense of direction and got lost on the way back to my own house on my first date with my husband.  He loves me despite the theme park of roller coasters my emotions emulate from day to day.  He loves me perfectly, even though I am unbelievably imperfect.  His word says that His strength is made perfect in my weakeness.  I'll try to remember that next time I'm doing pushups and can't get past 5.
I am not perfect, but that doesn't take away my worthiness.  Because no one can take away what it is given to me by my Savior.  His peace, His love, His truth--no force can separate God from His children.  Remember that if you pass me at the gym, singing out loud to the Pussycat Dolls--there is no judgement here!