I whisper your name (ayradyss) wrote,
I whisper your name
ayradyss

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It was supposed to be a short post...

So I misspoke my first entry today or the last one last night. It should've been Why is it called a pair of underwear? Hopefully that makes more sense to people.

"Thirteen patients. I want everyone out of here by 11 tomorrow." Yes, sir. If I'm out at 11, and I only have 2 patients, and it's a Monday...
Would it be bad of me to go home and do my laundry and see my Angel again?

I'm randomly flipping through LJ's, using the Random button. I automatically exclude any journal that doesn't use at least fifth-grade grammar and spelling accuracy. There go about half of them. I have yet to find one that holds my interest and has been updated recently.
I think, if your journal is friends only and you want to say "I don't want people reading this unless I know them" then you should say that. If you want to say "I don't want people reading this unless I personally approve them first" you should have a writing sample available so that people can evaluate whether they want to be approved by you. No, really. Why should I ask to be friended otherwise?

Hyperkalemia girl, once we got the arterial gas back and the art K, turned out to be much better. I would feel bad about not getting her stick, but the RT didn't either - he had to call the big bad chief RT, who had to go all the way to the elbow to get it. And I got the second art stick I did today on the very second try, and the nurse complimented my technique. She was a very nice nurse, took her time and let me take mine. The first nurse, the one who showed me, was nice but harried - and I hate wasting nurses' time.
Art sticks, check. Now I need to place two NG tubes and figure out where my missing rectal exam went. Should just have Sabrina sign on one, I know I did one she didn't sign on. And the NG tubes...well, suppose I'll have to sign on for an SBO or something, or hang around an ED for a while. Got one in Anaesthesia and never got it signed off on.

You know, reading back through my Recent page suggests to me that I'm spammy as all heck. It must be a burden to read through all of this verbal diarrhea when I'm on a call night or a lot has happened. Once upon a time someone came across my journal just when I'd had two long hard days in a row, and said something about my depth of conviction and all that. I wonder, does that still hold up in the day-to-day doldrums of what I'm doing?
I write, not so much to entertain, although you know, O Best Beloved, that I compose sometimes, little essays that strive to convey truths - I write because, as I said so long ago, I have to. All of this, all these things - thoughts and events and people and places and non sequiturs that flow through my mind - it's write them down or they stay there, locked in my head, becoming nonsensical with time and battering at my mind. Sometimes it's prose, sometimes it's poetry, sometimes, when it gets really bad, it goes onto paper in a notebook of things to write about someday.
Those are the things I never write about. I have one poem and a short story reserved for those who understand the fine line between short story and mental reality - two things and a hundred first paragraphs about the morning when I was molested on the way to the bus stop. I have never written about my grandmother dying, nor more than a sentence about my grandfather's second wife wasting away into nothing and dying from cancer while I was in France. I have never tried to turn my words to so many things - the things that left me numb at the time, that now I cannot find a beginning to write on - because they've been there too long.
When it's dark, and you come up behind me in the darkness on a sidewalk, I will turn to look back at you before I move off to the side, and I will slow down and tighten my hands into fists - thumb on top - until you pass by. Do not startle me. Do not cover my eyes. Do not - as my sister learned, in Chicago, in the middle of the holiday crowds - cover my mouth.
These are the things I don't write about. I allude to them, in the metaphors of my poetry, the things that are uniquely mine; I touch on them and shy away. These are the things that clutter my mind, shape my fears and dull the tarnish of my dreams. And I write, O Best Beloved, because I must.

Do not feel obligated to read.
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