typical

Once again, I had such high, high hopes for the day. Last night, after a glance at my calendar, I curled up and set my alarm for 20 minutes later than usual.  

That never happens. 

-

That was last week. I haven't even had time to finish a post! No events scheduled for three days lead to down to staff and about to be down three. That means my brain is a skip's scramble. My body is running on empty. Caffeine isn't enough. I wonder if this is how some people start doing drugs...like Liv Tyler's character in Empire Records. 

Calm. Deep breaths. I'll be home three and a half hours. I won't have a 12 or 14 hour day today. It'll only be ten. 

My stomach is screaming at me. This is the only time I've slowed down enough to be able to hear it for days. In ten minutes, when I have to start running around again, it'll be silent again. Well, not silent, just unheard. 

Emails are going ignored. I'm not ignoring them, I just haven't been in my office long enough to have an answer. I wish I could just say that, but I can't. I can't promise I'll have the information tomorrow, or Friday, or even by Monday. 

My desk is, once again, a hot mess. Not that I get much time to sit there to be bothered by it. 

I can't even be coherent anymore. I'm easily distracted as it is, but I would always be able to hop back into my sentence right where I left off. Now, I just stare. Stare and forget I was even speaking in the first place. 

I've been blonde for a year now. I think. My timeline has been muddled lately, too. This weekend, with this mess, I dyed my hair the darkest red. I chopped it off. Four inches: gone. I gave myself bangs. I switched from brown to black eyeliner. None of these things I noticed until this moment. This one moment of calm. None of these things will I remember once I grab my keys and run out the door again. 

Five minutes. 

My eyes are drooping. My skin is pale. My skin is always pale, but blush and a little bronzer used to bring me to life, now they make me look like I'm on display at the mortuary. 

Three minutes. 

If I just had time for a nap. Just one nap, short and sweet, I'd be good to go. Maybet circles would lighten. 

Two minutes. 

My feet barely had time to relax. Time to shove them back into my heels. Where are my keys? Oh, under that stack of paper. 

One minute. 

Collapse.  

Wine, wine, wine.

Most of my days end with a sigh and a glass of wine. Yesterday was entire bottle. 

Oh, yes, self medicating is bad, but doctors also say a glass of red wine with dinner is good for you. 

If a little is good, more must be better!

Today, though, was good. I didn't get much done, but I feel good about what it did do. 

I have a girl who has been through a hell most people couldn't imagine. She lives in constant fear of returning to a similar hell, and tomorrow, she has a very real chance of actually doing so. I don't think that would happen, but it is a possible outcome. Worst case scenario. 

I talked with her until I couldn't speak any longer. She cried and she yelled and everyone was a bitch and everyone was out to get her. It took every ounce of strength I had not to cry, too. 

So why, was today a good day?

I left her with dry eyes and hope. If I can just do that, then every bad day is worth it. 

Today, today was magical. Today ended with pumpkin spice m&ms. Also, a glass of wine. 

The calm

Tomorrow, a new girl moves in to one of my houses. She's young and shy and even tempered. For the first time in months, I feel the good sort of anxious. A weight has been lifted and calm has settled in it's place. The storm is over and the weather is finally changing. I spent all day yesterday painting her room; painting over the last remnants of the old inhabitant. The storm. 

She was schizophrenic, although sometimes I think there was more to it than that. She'd be sweet and playing air guitar one minute, and throwing a chair through a window or breaking a staff's arm the next. More than once, I put my life on hold to stop the destruction. Zoo trip with my visiting aunt, wedding reception, and, multiple nights, my dinner.  All skipped. All spent dodging flying rocks and 'fuck you's. She was the human embodiment of chaos. 

She was the only one whose med list I knew by heart. I'd read it often enough to admitting nurses, psych hospital staff, and pharmacists that I'd be shocked if I didn't. I'd spent more time in hospitals and had more interactions with police officers in four months with her than I had my whole life before. 

She went to church every week. Sometimes twice a week. That never did any good. The pastors said she had demons in her, a theory I'd normally only except in a horror film. Standing in that room, newly painted like the sky on a cloudless afternoon, I felt it. It could have just been the color of the walls, but I could feel the lack of darkness. 

She wasn't all bad, hence the chaos. At the end of what was one of the most emotionally and physically taxing days of my life, she brought a smile to my face. I finished a phone call and felt tears filling my eyes when she walked up. She bounced her head off my shoulder three times, each time accompanied by a 'boop,' and then she simply walked away. Without one word, she moved toward the door. I yelled after her, asking what it meant. She turned back and smiled a pure, genuine, smile and said, "you know, honey." Moments like that are the reason I do what I do. They're also the reason her bad days hurt so much. 

One bad day, after talking with her for over an hour, her guardian gave the okay to phone the police and have her taken to the hospital. The arrival of the police only upset her more. I was on the phone with her mother, my staff was clinging to my dress and cowering behind me. I was already fighting tears when she did it. She was yelling at someone named Joe (there was no Joe present, nor did she ever know anyone named Joe), and when an officer stepped toward her, she landed a punch. They both had tasers aimed at her before I remembered to breathe. She got a few more hits in before being thrown against the car and handcuffed. I spent the next five hours bonding with her mom while she was admitted. 

I've seen her pick up broken glass and slice her wrist. I've seen her try to carry out a death threat on her roommate. I've seen her shot up with sedatives by badass psych nurses. I've also seen her give what little she has to make someone else smile. I've seen her stop what she was doing and give a friend a reassuring back rub. I've heard her give a peer the same pep talk I've given her so many times. 

She didn't leave of her own volition. We had no choice but to give her notice. She was a threat to the safety of her roommates and staff. She was the reason I couldn't sleep at night. What is she going to do next? 

I was the one who took her to her new house. Movers came and packed up her things, and I drove her over. The house is in a part of town I only hear about on the news. I can only imagine what could happen once the honeymoon stage is over. I left her in a neighborhood where, when she's outside throwing her rocks and yelling her 'fuck you's, the neighbors won't stay inside and shake their heads. I gave her one last hug and finally let the tears I held for her flow, but only once I'd started driving away. She couldn't see them. 

I was conflicted up until the moment the paint dried. I took a deep breath, and felt peace for the first time in that room. Although, it could have been the fumes. We'll see tomorrow.  

not my day.

The best way to start your morning: phone rings as soon as you step into the shower. 

No, I will not answer that. 

When it rings a second time, however, I can no longer avoid it. 

Work starts as soon as I wake up. 

It's not even eight am and I've already solved my first crisis of the day.  I haven't even had coffee, yet! That's an accomplishment. I am going to be positive today. 

Three emails, six phone calls, and 28 text messages later...

Apparently, I am not the only one who thinks I need a clone. Apparently, some people believe I already have one. Receiving a phone call from a client's guardian asking why I'm not at the house to meet her is bad enough, but not knowing that I was supposed to be there is even worse, especially when I have a doctor visit for someone else in half an hour. 

No, the bedroom is not painted. I am waiting to get the supplies from the other office. They said they'd bring them today.  

Oh, it's being delivered today? Of course, I knew that. 

Yes, yes, I have someone on their way to meet you. 

Lies! Am I allowed to be pessimistic and whiny, yet?

No, one of the handicap parking spots is actually open at the clinic! There are two, and they are always taken. Every time we come here, I have to park around back and wheel her up the hill to the door. Today can still be a good day after all. It's only 930.. It can still be a good day...

"We don't have you on the schedule, Laura." 

It is taking every ounce of whatever I actually have left (I forgot to take my allergy medicine this morning, too) in me to not slap this girl across the face as I as her, "Are you sure?"

"What time are you supposed to see the doctor?" Her voice told me I'm not hiding my emotions very well. People aren't used to seeing me angry. 

She runs back to talk to the doctor and apologizes for the mistake. Of course, since we weren't marked down, they're double booked. 

11:20 and I'm still sitting in the exam room. A creepy exam room. It's not our usual. There's so much I could be doing! I fixed my face after the encounter with the receptionist, but I don't think I can hold it much longer. It's been a long time since I've angry cried, but this whole week has been like today, and I know it's coming. 

I have another appointment at 1. I have to paint that bedroom. I have get a check in the mail and I still don't know where it needs to go. I have a staff with a case of missing vacation hours. I'll have to trek to the pharmacy and wait around while they fill her prescription. I have two ridiculously important emails to answer. I know my voicemail light is blinking away on my work phone. I can feel it. 

2:37 pm and sitting in the pharmacy is the only moment of peace I have had today. I hate the pharmacy, but this is the most relaxed I've been all day. I hate that the douchey one is the only person I can talk to because everyone else is new and looks at me like I'm not speaking English.

Breathe deep. Close my eyes. Smile.  

I have a bottle of wine at home. 

overnight

The best part of being a supervisor? When someone calls in sick and neither of us can find a sub staff, I get the pleasure of unpaid overtime. It's my luck that my Labor Day was spent doing just that. 

I worked from two in the afternoon Monday until eight am Tuesday morning. And that's not counting my regular scheduled programming. It's not that big of a deal. It's not like I was doing anything important. Except that it was Labor Day and I was enjoying my day off with nonstop BBC on Netflix. 

It was an easy night. The only things I actually had to do was daily paperwork (easy), pass meds (easy), and cook lasagna (not so easy).  I lucked out on the cooking...there was plenty of leftovers and they all wanted that instead. They were even on their best behaviors for me (besides a few snarky comments about my running shorts and T-shirt).  Oh, they were even all in bed at 930. I couldn't have asked for a better unpaid shift on Labor Day. 

I did a little more paperwork and laid down on the couch to call asleep, too, but figured 'hey, it's Labor Day, why not watch one more episode of Sherlock and pretend I'm home.' So there I was, laying on the couch with my laptop burning on my chest, when her door opened. My little hypochondriac was awake. 

"I took my temperature and it's 99.3. I need soup and orange juice."

"99.3 is perfectly fine. What you need is sleep."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I know everything, remember?"

"Alright. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, girl."

My episode was just about over as I took my laptop to the kitchen to get my sleepy time glass of water. It was almost midnight. Definitely should have skipped Sherlock, but I'm a fan of delusion and I wanted to be home. I turned around to head back to the couch and there she was again. 

"I'm hungry." 

"Why are you still awake? You have school in the morning, young lady. And I have a meeting." 

"You know how I said I'd have one Dr. Pepper with dinner and that's it?"

"Oh, you sneaky..." The last time she had more than one pop that late, she was up until four am. 

"Yeah! So I can't sleep. What are you watching?" She is 20 years old and has the smile of a 14 year old girl who just learned how to sneak out of the house. 

"Sherlock."

"Like Sherlock Holmes? I love Sherlock Holmes."

And with that sentence, I waved a decent nights sleep goodbye. 

She only watched about an hour of it with me before she finally went to bed. I sent her off with the title of the 'movie' she had hopes of renting. 

It was after one in the morning when I finally got to close my eyes. I felt guilty giving her false hope. At first. When I opened my eyes twenty minutes later, my alarm was sounding. Did I even sleep? 

What an unfortunate way to start the day.  The day I have a meeting with the director of operations. The day I had my new dress packed, but not my concealer. 

She was all bubbles and sunshine when she awoke. She even helped with the other girls morning routines. She could not, however, help the circles under my eyes or the eight hours of meetings and appointments ahead of me. 

If my sleep schedule wasn't jacked enough already...

Goodnight moon. 

nonsense.

I had such high hopes for the day. I was going to get so much paperwork done! One appointment. One little physical and the day would be mine. 

How silly of me to be optimistic. 

I've learned the pattern and yet, each time I have a day like today, it surprises me.  

How in the hell is it already 315 in the afternoon? And what do I have to show for it?

I not only should have known based on the pattern, but also by the fact that the doctor's office I visited was an office I've visited often. An office with which I was familiar. An office with fantastic coffee. An office that had fantastic coffee.

As soon as I walked in the door, my eyes went straight to the corner table. The table where the coffee sat. It was empty. I stood, with my travel mug, and my heart, empty. 

First sign of a bad day! I'm not usually dramatic over coffee...except I am.  Especially when I then have to sit in a 32 degree exam room for an hour and a half, in a short dress, with no coffee.  And there went my day. I have to take her back to work now, then to my office, then scan the 27 documents the state is asking for, then print off 27 different documents for the houses, take said documents to the house, and it's five pm. 

Nothing is finished. 

Nothing ever gets finished. 

Oh, drama drama, stress stress. 

Time for a glass of wine. 

Rinse, and repeat tomorrow. 

heart

"It could be all that smoking, you know.  Smoking two cigarettes in less than ten minutes can make you dizzy."

She stares at me from the tall, cold, awkward-paper-covered exam bed. She knows I'm right, but she doesn't want to admit it. 

"You have pretty blue eyes like me, Laura. I just noticed that." 

All I have time for is a smile before the doctor walks in and immediately starts asking questions. 

"Is it worse when you turn your head?"

"No, just when I'm walking." Then, the most Oscar-worthy moment I've seen from a client. She turns her head as far to the right as possible and jerks it back to the front, hands on her ears with her mouth open. Home Alone style. "Oh! I lied. It does get worse when I turn my head."

And just like that, we got sent to HyVee for Gatorade while the nurse got a heart monitor ready.  Don't get me wrong, I love the better safe than sorry approach when it comes to someone's life, but oh, the drama this girl will create with one of those. 

I am always right. We got the monitor on a Friday and by Monday, she had called the monitoring center 14 times. 

No, they had not seen any irregularities. 

Yes, the monitor is functioning fine. 

No, there's nothing else you need to do. 

I can handle two and a half more weeks of this, right?

watch.

I love when pharmaceutical reps walk into the doctors office. Really. They're probably some of the most interesting people I've had the pleasure to people watch. They're probably taking a few samples themselves. 

They are always dressed fabulously. Right down to their designer shoes. Male or female, it doesn't matter. There isn't a hair out of place. Not a single crease in their suit. This counteracts the luggage overflowing with samples and pens and pamphlets that they cart around and stumble over. 

The luggage is what makes them interesting. You can tell who they really are just by their bag. You can see the person behind the primped and pressed exterior by the condition of that bag. 

The new ones always have that brand spanking new bag; the fabric is stiff with confidence and naivety, the zippers sparkle with zest and anticipation, and the pamphlets stacked neatly and at the ready. 

As they spend more time in their position, their bag starts to show it.  They might keep a neat exterior, but they can't hide the wear and tear of that luggage: broken zippers, dirt and coffee stains, pens and pamphlets shoved together willy-nilly where they don't belong... it's a hodgepodge of a broken soul. 

I have to give them credit, though. They don't show their broken spirit. They show up each week with a smile and polite small talk. They cart that bag to each office over and over again. They dress like Ralph Lauren models and they hold their head high. But, if you look close enough, as they turn to walk out the door, you can catch a glimpse. Just a fraction of a second! You'll miss it if you blink, but it's there. In their eyes you can see the worn down and tired soul, yearning for a change. 

But then, as quick as their guard fell, it's up again as they stroll to their car with that trusty, loyal, tired luggage. 

no touching.

"Heeeey there, pretty lady.  I need to schedule a follow up."

"What days of the week work best? I have an 8 o'clock next Wednesday."

"8 o'clock in the morning? Oh, lady, I can't do that." 

"Hey, hey, hey...no reaching over my counter. No touching, no touching or I'm going to make you go over to Carla over there." 

"Okay, no touching. Have you had a stroke? I have. You forget things after you have one of those."

This man's awkward attempt at flirting with the receptionist continued with feigned ignorance when she explained the rules of fasting before his next appointment. 

"Why would I drink coffee after 10pm? Unless I have something to stay awake for..."

"No, I'm saying after 10pm and in the morning, before you're appointment, you can't have anything to eat or drink except water or black coffee."

"No sugar?"

"No. No sugar."

This is becoming a painful conversation to eavesdrop on.  I'm actually wishing I was in the freezing exam room at this point. I'll just tune that out and focus on another conversation. 

"Mom, I'm fine."

"You are not fine, and even if you are, I still wish you'd make yourself an appointment, too. It never hurts just to get a check up.  Your sister goes to the doctor all the time. She looks healthier than you."

"She's pregnant." 

Next. 

"Get your hands off those dirty, germ covered toys right now. You don't know how often those get cleaned. If they even do get cleaned."

That from the mom who walked in with on her cell phone and let the door slam on the toddler behind her without even a glance or a sliver of concern. 

We have been listening to these conversations for the past half hour. Our appointment was 20 minutes ago. I know we'll end up sitting in the exam room for another 20 before the doctor even sees her. That part will be five minutes. 

-

I'm right. I'm always right. 

Although, the mother from the second conversation walked by while we were waiting:

"Is he coming back to take you home?"

"No, my daughter will pick me up."

spinster

"You're too old to have kids now, Laura. You're 23 and you're not even married!" 

"I'm only three years older than you!"

"Yeah, but I'm cute."

I know she's being funny, but I also know her well enough to know when she truly believes what she's saying. 

"Zip that cute face before I leave it on the side of the road." 

She laughs and makes the motion of a zipper across her lips. 

I love my job. I do. Even when they tease me. Even when a police officer ruins my favorite shoes trying to get me out of harms way. Although, I actually would have traded my ruined shoes for getting ran into (her hands were cuffed behind her back, there's not a lot she could have done!) that day.  Even when they embarrass me in front of the cute nurse, on purpose, and laugh about it as soon as we leave.  They're the reason I get up in the morning.

"Oh I really like that house!" I pointed to one with a wrap around, enclosed, porch.  "But maybe I should just stop looking since I'm never going to need any more space than a studio apartment because I'm going to be alone and childless my whole life."
"Yep."
An exaggerated frown crossed my face and she immediately took to groveling.  
"Okay, no, being serious now.  You will be a great mom.  You'll be old, but you'll be great.  You have to bring them to our house so I can play with them.  They'll call me 'Auntie.'  They'll all have beautiful hair, like you, too."
"I feel better now.  Thanks, girl."  I wasn't really feeling bad in the first place.  You can't do this job if you take everything they say to heart.  If I got upset every time I get called a 'fucking bitch,' I'd go crazy, myself.  Not to mention, 9 times out of 10, half an hour after 'fucking bitch,' comes 'I love you, honey.'  1 out of 10 times it's still 'fucking bitch.'
"You're welcome.  Now, just because you're going to have all these beautiful babies and live in a big house, that does not mean you can leave us.  I'll let you have the babies, but you have to stay our supervisor."
"I can't make any promises...what if the man I marry has to move for his job?  What if he makes sooo much money that I don't need a job?"
"Leave him.  We'll need you more."
I love my job.

solitaire

I have a solitaire app on my phone that has the capability to turn 7:30 pm into 10:30 pm in the blink of an eye. I don't even want to look at the stats to see how many games I've actually played.  I'm single and live alone, so solitaire is a more than perfect way to pass the time. 

The undo button is my favorite feature. I go so fast, I often click past a card I could have used. I don't even see the opportunity staring me in the face. I even end up pulling a new card down when I could have uncovered one on the bottom (notice my complete lack of knowledge of card terminology). Taking that card from the bottom could have revealed an ace! or something equally as beneficial. Still, I go too fast and the cards blur as I skip over them. 

Life needs an undo button. A wait, I went too fast, let's go back and actually analyze the situation before I make my move button. 

I don't know how many times I've gone somewhere this week (or my whole life to date...stats are high either way) only to have left what I needed sitting on my desk. I don't know how many times I've looked back once the situation has calmed down and I think, "it would have all been much easier if I had done that instead."  My favorite is, "if I had stopped talking at that sentence, I wouldn't be in this mess." 

Undo, undo, undo...

I am addicted to the stupid game. I try to keep as many cards in the pile as I can so I can hit auto complete and the all swish into order. I do, however, have a nasty habit of starting a new game before I've made sure I'm out of moves. Ehh, start over, would be another nice life feature. 

Clean slate, new deck. 

My worst habit is quitting before I even try. Getting dealt every card in the same color just isn't worth the time. Chances are, it'll be a waste. Why bother if it's fairly clear it won't work out? It's daunting. Who wants to deal with daunting, card game or otherwise?  New game. It's so simple to move on and maybe have an opportunity to win. 

Most importantly, in solitaire, there's no other player to screw it all up. I'm tired of people screwing everything up and messing up all the hard work I put into what I do.  

Life needs to be more like solitaire.  

frustrating.

I feel like I have gotten nothing done today. Absolutely nothing. Truth: that's accurate. 

This is running through my head as I sit in the pharmacy, drinking my fifth cup of coffee of the day. I know I have a list of everything that needs to be done before I can go home tonight. It just seems to get longer and longer. 

Today was a bad day to wear a dress. I thought I'd have one stop today. One stop turned into two, which multiplied to four. In the rain. In a dress that barely touches my knees. 

My spirits were lifted for a few moments when the nurse who came to walk me through the discharge was incredibly attractive. They fell again when he opened the door for me, displaying a wedding band. I felt better about that after five minutes of talking to him. He had a "Midwestern accent" (let's face it, that means no accent, people), that had laces of British and Bostonian every few words. It really started getting on my nerves. Was he fucking with me or is this a legit problem for him? Either way, my poor ears were not processing this mixture very well. 

I again felt my overworked heart fall when I pulled up to the pharmacy and saw the douchey, bright blue Hyundai in the lot. The last person I wanted to see after a day like today is a short, 'stylish' man with his hair done the way my brothers did theirs in the 90's (half a bottle of hair gel so the front sticks straight up). Oh, and the goatee. 

I prayed he would be helping someone else when I walked in.  He wasn't, but he was on the computer.  He looked up when I approached the counter and walked down to meet me. 

Damn. 

I'm going to take my own advice and look at the positives. Everywhere I went today, I got compliments on my dress. Even if it was soaked from the rain. 

week from hell.

I am being punished for something. That's got to be it. I did something to piss karma off and now I'm paying for it. 

Last week I spent a total of 10 hours in two separate hospitals. It would have only been five in one...if they had listened to me. After the third hour, when the behavioral specialist finally showed up, she had plenty of flirt time with the nurse (he was very cute) and was in such a good mood that she smiled and said, "I feel great and I want to go home. I won't hurt myself or anyone else." More smiles and a hug for the nurse and we were out the door. 

Not even 12 hours later, we were at a speciality center. Police escort and all. The first question one of the officers asked me after I filled him in:

"Why was she even released last night?" 

While they argued over wether I was pessimistic or realistic, they agreed that if they had my job, they wouldn't be able to handle it. 

"How do you still have hair on your head? I would have pulled all mine out by now." 

That should be a sign. I should probably listen to the police officer telling me that my job is too much stress. Instead, I stood in front of him, trying to convince her to calm down so they can take the handcuffs off. She stood up and screamed and in that second the officers were in front of me and my toes were smashed. My baby toe looks like a blueberry. 

Her roommates knew where she was as soon as they realized she wasn't going home that night. They took turns calling their parents, who then took turns calling my boss and the state; complaining that I didn't call them and let them know. 

This is the point where I want to be rude, too. Really? Do you want me to call her guardian when your daughter does something at work? Just because she messed up and needs help that we can't really give her, does not mean she doesn't have a right to privacy. Really. 

All of this, plus the paperwork that goes with it, plus another girl constantly going AWOL, plus staff that leave the country with almost no notice, plus my own ridiculous personal life with my increasingly worse boy problems...

I am being punished. 

Now, instead of catching up, I'm sitting in another waiting room.  

I'm surprised I have any sanity left...although I've noticed a significant decrease in that. I can't keep days straight. I can't remember where I'm going once I start the car. I can barely eat with my stomach constantly turning. 

Maybe I should follow the police officer's indirect advice. I don't like this view being a regular part of my day:

erotic love?

Opening a new group home is pretty difficult. Before you can even find a house, you have to have clients to move in. You can't put money down on a house and then, oops!, only two clients are ready to move in. They can't afford it and we can't afford to have a staff with only two clients. The most important thing, though, is making sure it is staffed when it's ready. That means, we have four staff hired and trained by the time we're ready for everyone to move in.  That means, we have four staff floating around in no-mans land waiting until the position they were hired for actually exists.  

If it will actually exist. 

We ran into some trouble during this process.  One of the girls suddenly isn't ready to make the move from her parents house yet.  No new group home.  Not yet. Now these staff stuck in no-mans land have a choice: they can accept another open position, switch to on-call status, or find another job. 

That is a tough call to make. It's awkward telling someone, "I know you were hired for those hours in that house, but it won't be available for a few months. We do have these hours at this house available, if you want them. There's also this position in vocational of you want day hours instead."

Two staff accepted other positions. The other two were proving hard to get on the phone. 

One evening, my office mate and I were making our last attempts before we turned in the personnel form stating abandonment. That's when we made the discovery that she had one of the phone numbers wrong. She looked through her call list to see where the mistake happened and found another number she thought could be the staff's. It was an incoming call number that happened an hour before this staff was scheduled for training the week before, so she called the number to check. 

"Hello, this is Samantha, am I speaking with Diane?" 

"No, this isn't Diane. This is a business."

"Oh, this is a business, too. I was trying to get ahold of one of my staff. Which business is this?"

"This is Erotic Love."

"Oh, I definitely have the wrong number. Sorry."

She hung up the phone and we laughed until we were in tears. We finally got ahold of that staff, who claimed her phone was broken so she had used a friend's that day. That answer raised more questions, but we agreed that it was best they go unanswered.  There are some things you're better off not knowing. 

scrambling

First day back after vacation and I've already decided I need a clone. That technology needs to be perfected right now. I can multitask the shit out of anything, but I think I've reached maximum capacity. 

My desk, as my lovely coworker put so delicately on a sticky note in the middle of my monitor, is a hot mess. 

I am a hot mess. 

As soon as I get on a roll and my paperwork is getting done (fully this time), my phone rings and it's time to switch gears. Crisis mode flips on and I end up in a doctor's office with a shrieking baby and his obnoxious older sisters fighting over a half eaten apple and a Spider-Man coloring book. That's if I'm lucky. Sometimes I end up sitting in one of the houses until 1030 pm; playing therapist. If I had a clone, I could be at the pharmacy and in a meeting in opposite sides of town. Just think of the efficency. 

Until this happens, I'll just have to make due with 12 hour days in a dress and heels, running all over the city, and answering emails at stop lights (not that I actually do that...that would be bad...). 

It would be nice if everything would run smoothly in the meantime. Especially since I'm ridiculously behind after taking one day off. I can dream, but I doubt it'll work out that way. One day off and five doctors had to be called, I lost a staff for two months, and someone has a new WebMD diagnosis and needs to be at the doctor ASAP before her lung collapses. 

So much to do...can I go back to the lake where I had no responsibilities? I had the doctors office with the Keurig to look forward to today, but the only stupid circle insert thingys left are sleepytime tea and decaf breakfast blend. Time to try and trick my mind into thinking decaf has caffeine and make a list of everything that needs to be done today. 

I wonder if I could convince my boss to let me hire a "clone." 

vacation!

It took some time, but I finally remembered my last vacation. Over three years ago, my boyfriend and I went to Kansas City for the weekend. I haven't even taken more than a day off for my birthday (not counting the two sick days I broke down and took and four or five times I came in late or left early when sick because I refused to take a full day) in the past year. Tomorrow, I am taking the day off and going out of town for the weekend. 

It's not much, and I'm incredibly excited and I definitely need it, but I'm worried. I keep thinking of things that need to be done. No one has an appointment. No one has a meeting (technically I do, but I wasn't even aware of it until today and was told it wasn't important). Everyone has petty cash. Everyone has meds. Staff know who's on call. Staff know how to handle a behavior. 

I think it's guilt. My caseload isn't the easiest. I hate to put the responsibility of the hypochondriac and the schizophrenic on one of my coworkers. What if something happens and they're stuck dropping everything to take care of it. That's my typical day, but I don't wish it on anyone else. So it's guilt. Guilt or I'm a workaholic. Yesterday I was in the office until after 8 and I was back this morning right at 8 am. I'm single. I don't have kids. All I do at home is workout, watch syfy shows on Netflix, and cuddle with my cat (and work on my addiction feeding, server connecting, company laptop). Those people, even the girl who follows me into the bathroom so she can show me her latest injury, are my life. 

Is that pathetic? It seems a little pathetic on paper.  It's not so pathetic when you take the human element into account:

I just need to unplug, relax, and have a drink or six. I need a few days of not waiting around for my computer to decide to print a PDF file. 

Everything will be here when I get back and, I'm going to the office with the Keurig on Monday. 

Breathe...forget about what could be in that inter-office envelope I left unopened...enjoy my vacation. 

Got it. 

subtle masochism, part dos

Today, I was prepared. I knew I'd be sitting in a waiting room for at least an hour and, in my attempt to help myself out, I brought my own coffee. 24 fluid ounces of actual, semi-decent, gas station coffee. Today I would not be fooled by the waiting room excuse coffee. I could ignore the voice in my head, because I had something better. Granted, not by much, but it was something.  

As I walked into the office, my triumphant smile fell from my face. This office has a Keurig. 

I shouldn't be surprised. This is my life. I keep going for the bad over and over and when I finally settle for semi-decent, there's something incredible right in front of my face. 

I can't have them both. I can't just toss a full 24 oz cup of coffee in the trash can. I have a commitment to see this cup through, though it tastes worse with each sip and each stolen glance at the Keurig.  My stomach is churning as I get up to walk out the door. I had tried to finish the cup I had so I could grab a cup of the good stuff, but each drink seemed to be replaced. It wasn't going to go away and it didn't matter what I did to try to get rid of it. I steal once last glance, and regretfully walk out the door. 

I just can't win, so why not let the masochist take over?

expectations

I think part of the reason, okay most of the reason, I have a terrible time at every doctor's office I visit is that I have hope. I have hope that when I walk in, I'll be greeted by a handsome man in some sort of medical profession (my hope is not picky). 

One of my girls has either caught onto this, or she just likes to tease me. The first time I took her to her primary she gushed about his perfect hair for 20 minutes. In walks a lanky old man who tells stories about his grand kids. 

The first time I took her for her psych she did almost the same thing. I didn't buy it this time, although I did have a small speck of optimism in the back of my mind. This time I got an ex-football player looking man who maybe hadn't let go of that time. He included me in the conversation more than he probably should, but it wasn't until he said "I bet when Laura's wet," instead of "I bet when Laura's upset," that I felt it was time to go.  I may have only taken psych in high school, but I know what a Freudian Slip is, sir. 

Maybe I just shouldn't have any expectations. Then I can just just be surprised with every bit of craziness I encounter. Including this incredibly outdated office I'm in right now. 

Girl] interrupted

I feel like I'm in a scene from girl, interrupted every time I'm in the psychiatrist's waiting room.

"Hello," she says to break the silence. 

The wafer with sopping wet curls and bug-eye sunglasses gets up and walks out side. She stands right in front of the door, turns around, lights a cigar, and stares at us. 

As she turns to make conversation a similar looking girl, who at that very moment buries herself in her phone, the PA behind the counter tells us it'll just be a minute. Then miss dry, but unnecessarily hair gelled, curls has something to say. 

"What time is your appointment?"

"2:30," she answers. 

"What doctor are you seeing, because my appointment was at 2:30 and if your next then I just don't understand." Her words were thrown out so fast that I almost didn't understand. 

"She's not seeing the doctor today," I tell her, hoping that's what she was looking for. She appeared happy with that answer and, unfortunately for me, open for conversation.
"I'm getting my shot today, do you get shots?"
"I used to, but I don't need them anymore." Skinny girl put her phone down and leaned forward in her chair.  "I only come in once a month now."
"Oh, I still get shots. I like your shoes.  Where'd you get 'em?"
"I've had them for so long I can't remember.  Oh, wait, I got them at footlocker."
My client turns to me and asks, "Can we go there when you take me shopping?"
"Yeah, probably," I answer as I glance up at Nick, the PA, again.  He holds up five fingers with an apologetic smile in response.
She turns back to hair gel and the questioning starts.  
"Are you married?" She asks as she starts absentmindedly peeling lose hairs off my shirt.
"Nope."
"But that's a pretty ring you got on.  Did your boyfriend give it to you?'
"I don't have a boyfriend.  I got this when I was visiting family in Texas.  See, it's not even on the right hand for marriage."
"Do you like to go fishing?"
"No, anything with sharp and slimy objects isn't for me. What agency do you work for?"  Before I realized that last part was directed at me, she adds, "I used to have Lasting Hope, but no one helps me anymore..." Her voice trailed off as she stared out the window.
How do I respond to that? I can tell you need it, but unless you have a developmental disability, I can't help you.  This is the only field I know, I can name all the agencies like mine in Omaha, but I have no idea what else is out there.  As I scrambled to think of something to say, bug glasses walks back inside. 
'I like your glasses," my girl tells her.  Without so much as a breath, bug glasses walks back out the door.
"I'm ready for you two now, Laura." Nick saves the day.  We awkwardly exchange pleasantries with the unmarried, curly haired woman in the cute tennis shoes and walk back to the exam room.
At least I can say I don't have a boring desk job.

can I have a you make a copy of the script for my records?

"Why do doctors make you wait so long?"

I want to answer, "because this is the fourth time this month we've been here, you silly little hypochondriac, and they know this and are probably busy with people who have something real wrong with them." 

Instead, I say, "you should ask her, I bet they do it for fun." 

She laughs and proceeds to wiggle her "swollen" foot, the reason for this particular visit, in circles. 

"I can't ask her, that would be rude! She's the doctor, she can make us wait as long as she wants."

"I suppose she can." 

After a 46 second examination of her foot, it's off to get an x-ray. There's another few hundred dollars to tack onto her bills under "unnecessary medical procedures with normal results." 

These people know that, and that's why they play into it. As much as I hate dragging her to the doctor for her newest WebMD diagnosis, I hate how these doctors handle it more. Feeding into her delusional vertigo by saying, "it could be a side effect of any of your psych meds," and sending us to her psychiatrist to have them reevaluated is not how you handle a girl who thrives on the attention.   Of course, the psychiatrist left the meds the same, but had me schedule a follow up in three weeks. 

And so the never ending cycle of waiting rooms continues. I spend more time in exam rooms than I do in my office, watching the "concern" in the doctor's eyes grow as she describes why she needs a full body MRI.

"We better schedule one, just be safe," they say.

"We'll get more money out of this," is what they want to say. 

She returns from her x-ray and the nurse tells me, much to my surprise, that everything looks normal. The nurse tells her to ice and elevate as she wraps it in an Ace bandage. It's exactly what I told her the day before, but I can see her face relaxing as the nurse wraps. 

As we walk out the door, I tell start to tell   her, "told you so," when she wraps her arms around me and squeezes.

"Thank you." 

I go through a lot of trouble, and it can drive me insane, to give this girl, and others, peace of mind. In this field, going to the doctor to get a new medicine, or even to be told that you're fine, is something they can understand. This is where they find reassurance that they really are going to be okay. It may push me to my breaking point if I have to sit in another 32 degree waiting room, telling myself i do NOT have to pee, this week, but it all melts away when they say thank you. 

That is, until the next time...