I like your smile

That's how it began. That's not how it ended.

When you meet someone, you begin to look at them with how they'll fit into your life, and how you'll fit into theirs.

Some relationships end in marriage, others disaster. And others still, are bad enough to be categorized as funny. 

You may know him, or merely know of his name, but in this blog, he shall be known as Sarturo.

At our first meeting, it was a little like this:

We would talk for hours, amazed at the things we had in common, almost like we had known each other for years verses days. 

It seemed too good to be true. 

And it was. There was always some concern in the back of my mind, some nagging doubt about something that wouldn't go away. But what was it?

Hello animals.

I asked Sarturo to read my blog about dear Jack Spitz. He did not. When we were on an outing a month ago, I shared Jack's tumultuous story, and received a generic, feigned interest response (we girls can always tell). But what was a girl to do? The guy was great otherwise, so I pressed on, hoping that in his heart of hearts, he really did care about my pets.

But then, my beloved Labrador, Cadie, dog of mine for almost 9 years became ill. I shared my concern with Sarturo, and there was little to no reaction.

I took Cadie to the vet clinic, where she was diagnosed with diabetes (fasting blood sugar of 541). Dealing with insulin, schedule changes, food changes, I hoped that boyfriend of mine would inquire about the results of my dog's blood tests.

Nothing. Silence. 

So, I filled him in, hoping that once the news hit, he would take it from there and ask how she's doing, much like every other friend on the planet who was privy to my dogs recent diagnosis did. 

Nothing.

I gently reminded him after a few weeks, that if he's going to care for and about me, then my hope is that he will also care about the events transpiring in my life. It makes somewhat of an impact with Sarturo, I will admit. Sort of like a pebble being thrown at a piece of metal.

Next came Andy, Golden Retriever extraordinaire. My best veterinarian animal partner, Andy and I worked thousands of hours together during my duration at the vet clinic. Sadly friends, he had to be euthanized on October 12th. I didn't get to say goodbye to my sweet boy. When I heard the news, I was heartbroken. While I did not raise Andy from puppy-hood, I can clearly say that I loved him as my own. Andy loved me, and I loved him.

Sharing the saddening news with Sarturo generated a flat line response. A few "oh's" and that portion of my sad story was done. He didn't care. Actually, he changed the subject.

I began to wonder: Is this normal?

In case you're wondering, the answer is no.

I had some wild turkeys take refuge in my yard the last week, and upon sharing the delightful news with Sarturo, I was informed that I should shoot them, freeze them, and sell them. Now don't get me wrong, I can take a good joke, but this conversation initiated the demise of our relationship.

When we first began dating, I asked Sarturo about his views on hunting. He told me he didn't enjoy it; too costly, too much effort, and not worth it. Satisfied, I took that as the truth. However, after the topic of turkeys came up, I discovered that Sarturo likes killing:

• Pheasants
• Prairie dogs
• Racoons
• Wood peckers
• Bunnies (he called them that, not me)

Why? Well, not for food, which makes sense for most hunters. He kills the aforementioned creatures because they are "nuisances". 

After seeing that I was a little bit horrified, he asked me this question:
"What if you were driving, and you hit a cat? Would you pull over and see if it was okay, or keep on driving?"

1) I like animals

2) I worked at a vet clinic for almost four years. What do you think I'd do?!

I tell him I'd check on the animal's welfare. He looks at me like I told him I'd sacrifice it to satan.

Carefully, I ask him, "Sarturo, what would you do?"

"I'd keep on driving, wondering what the cat was doing in the road to begin with."

(Side note: Pretty sure I read somewhere that someone who delights in killing animals, and believe me, he does, is how serial killers begin. Just saying).

(Second side note: This question/answer was later modified to include dogs, and Sarturo would still do a hit and run).

Emboldened, I ask, "Well, what do you think I should have done with my dog, since she now has diabetes?"

He responds that I should have euthanized her, due to the cost of her medical care, which P.S. really isn't that bad. After a moment, he asks "wait, how much would a euthanasia cost?" I quote a price, and he tells me that I really should have just "taken her out to the backyard and shot her".

Naturally, we decided to take a few days off to think about things, though I did end our conversation telling Sarturo that this bit of news is definitely a deal-breaker.

So, three days go by, and I get the occasional text from him. Everything I text to him generates the same response:

Me: "I got two job offers today!"

S: "Cool"

Me: "Hey, hope your day is going well"

S: "Cool"

Me: "Got my math homework done!"

S: "Cool"

Ladies, this is the relationship dreams are made of!

Thursday night, we reconvened. 

Sarturo informed me that he tried, tried to understand why I was ever sad about Andy, but it's not like I raised him  or anything. 

He told me that any monetary investment in an animal is "extreme" and an animal is a wasted investment. That is, any money spent on veterinary care, pet food, even a leash is outrageous. At the end of the day, it's just an animal.

Also, he told me that it seems like I would love an animal more than a human, placing them above my future husband and children. (Which is weird, because not too long ago, someone told me they were shocked that I had even the remotest amount of love in my heart for animals because I just don't come across that way.)

But perhaps the best quote of the night was:
"I don't like animals. That's it".

That's it? Who doesn't like animals, domesticated or wild? He told me that he "doesn't dislike killing things". Who wants to kill just because?

And so, Monday night, I received a final phone call from Sarturo. I really let him have it, too, telling him that his dislike of animals is a little extreme, uncompassionate, and that I've never met anyone who hates animals. Where's the love? 

He told me that loving animals was "not built" into him. He also told me that hello, where he's from, you hunt to eat.

I stated that I've never heard of eating racoons and woodpeckers, but hey, if that floats his boat, go for it! 

....that didn't go over well. 

Readers, I may or may not have hinted that he's this country's next serial killer, and I may or may not have told him that whenever I think of him, I will think of him as the jerk from the state he is from.

Blockhead even stated that before meeting me, he'd never heard of people who pet-sit (a common side job of mine). Apparently in his neck of the woods, you leave your pet at home, have someone check on them once or twice and keep your fingers crossed that your pet is alive when you return.

He ended the conversation by telling (yelling) at me that I will never find a better guy than him, and then, he hung up on me.  

I guess it's over.

The Few. The Proud. The Marines.

Some days are stranger than others.

I'm dog sitting, and I came home today to find the very heavy, hard to open front door wide open. I mentioned it to a co-worker, and she had a Police officer respond to the house. He did a complete search  and found no forced entry and no indication of foul play. He checked every nook and cranny to confirm that there were no axe murderers/serial killers hiding in the closets or underneath the beds.

But that's not what today's blog is about.

Today, I was recruited to be in the Marines.

It started with a Marine Sergeant stopping by the Police department with a young recruit; he needed a report released for Marine review.

Usually, it takes three days for us at the department to process a records request, because hello, there's a lot more involved in releasing a report than one would think.

So, the Sergeant says to me and my co-worker "Please, I will do anything, anything you want me to do to be able to get this report today".

(This immediately causes me to think of an incident an Officer had recently where a young lass offered to do "anything" to get out of a troublesome situation. ...)

As he goes on and on (seriously) about how he will do anything to get the blasted report, I offer to take up the challenge and work on releasing the report as soon as possible.

After the Sergeant left, my scheming co-workers said that what he should do to compensate me for my efforts is to take me out to dinner.

*panic*

Now don't get me wrong, he was a nice looking fellow, but....he had wrinkles. Not that I don't, but you know. Wrinkles indicate age. Like, older age. Not necessarily ancient, but no spring chicken either.

So, the day progresses, and one of my other co-workers walks by and asks "Did I hear something about Sarah going on a date?"

The women I work with fill her in on my potential Marine date.

Side note: At this point, I am not a willing participant.

As luck would have it, my co-worker then decides to try to set me up with her son.

She shows me various, terrible pictures of him, one at an odd angle where his face isn't even distinguishable. Another of his squished face sleeping, and yet another of a fish eye photo of him flipping his mother off. She tells me he's lost at least 60 pounds in the last year. True love!

She then sends him a text, telling him to send her an attractive photo of himself. *cringe*

The Marine shortly thereafter returns. Except, he requests more paper work to be completed, so my one co-worker heads up to dispatch to get the paperwork certified, and I am left nervously, awkwardly standing there with a staring Marine, a young recruit and a hopeful co-worker sitting at her desk, awaiting for true love to take its final course.

Well you know me, and when things get awkward, I start talking.

So I ask the recruit "Hey, what inspired you to go into the Marines?"

He tells me his tale.

Another awkward silence ensues.

So I ask the Marine, "And what inspired you to go into the Marines?"

He also tells his tale, and then says "Why are you asking all these questions?"

...I give him a glamorous answer of "Well, I just love to hear people's stories because no two stories are alike!" Gee whiz and by golly!


He then asks "Well, why are you here?"

I hold a captive audience as I relay in two minutes my life's story and how I got to this very fine point.

Meanwhile, my hopeful co-worker is adding in bits and pieces of my life telling Mr. Marine how great I am, and how I also work as an EMT in the Emergency Department, thus making me "crazy".

He then tells me that I should consider joining the Marines because they will pay for nursing school. He says "Do you know how much the GI Bill is?" And I'm like What's a GI bill? Gastrointestinal something or other? (Okay, I'm not that stupid).

He tells me "it's $80,000 to start with". Again, internally, I'm like ???


He also asks "Do you know how much you'd have to pay for school?"

Being the smart lady that I am, I say "Nothing!"

And he says "That's right!"

Man, I am brilliant.

He then says, "I should get your number"

Suddenly, I am acutely aware of the sound of the seconds ticking by on the clock.

Is he asking me out? Or does he want me to be a Marine? I flash to a music video I saw recently, and the song begins to play in my head (to be shared at the end of this blog).

He tells me "We should meet tomorrow and I could start the recruitment process!" He tells me he'd start today, but by golly, he doesn't have his paper work on him.

Fishy.

He then starts asking me questions like:

• How old are you?
• Do you have asthma?
• ADD/ADHD?
• Broken any bones?
• Do you wear glasses or contacts?
• Completed college?
• Any Police record? (Uh, hello, I'm working at a POLICE department, I can't exactly have a record)

He then proudly tells me that I have what it takes to become a Marine. 

Then, he tells me (again), that we should meet, tomorrow, and oh by the way, how would my parents feel about me becoming one of the Few and the Proud?

I tell him, politely thanks but no thanks. I'm not joining the military.

He says "But you only have two years left."

To live?

He clarifies: To join the Marines. 

Then he tells me a zany story that I "won't believe". He's lost two sets of keys in the last 16 years he's been in the Marines! 

Egads! Now that's wild!

(Sneakily I had asked him how long he's been a Marine to gauge his age).

He's promised to return soon with bagels for me and my co-workers to compensate us for our time.

                          Music Video Link

The Daily Grind

It's been awhile. That doesn't mean my life hasn't been funny, though.

Two years ago:
"Sarah, we'd like to offer you this job. You don't even have to apply for it; it's yours for the taking."

Me: "No. Sorry, but no. I think I want to work on nursing school pre-requisites. Besides, I LOVE my job at the vet clinic."

(Paraphrased conversation)

Present day:
I began loathing my job at an unknown, recent date. Somewhere between adopting my kitten, Jack, and applying to nursing school.

Many factors have contributed to this feeling, but when asked exactly why I feel the way I do, I lose my vocabulary skills and simply sum it up as:
"I hate my job." (Doesn't that tell you how I feel?)

A few reasons include an employee turned bully/work goddess where no rules apply and an office manager who I swore, (up until this last week, that is) had developed a deep hatred of me. This wasn't always the case. No: It was my boss who encouraged me to become an EMT. Upon my certification, she got me a pair of socks that said "EMT" on them (so official!) and she was, once upon a time, one of my greatest advocates.

But then I got flushed down the toilet. Squashed like a bug. Forgotten about. Ditched.

So there I was one day, leaning against a cage door, watching a dog recover from surgery, on the brink of a mental breakdown. Surely, you've been there before: manic, ready to cry, having irrational thoughts, ready to walk out of your job, never looking back.

In about a half-hours time, I was surfing the Internet. Yes friends, I was surfing the Internet at work. *Gasp* And I got an idea to look up other jobs. *Double gasp* And I found a job. One that I actually wanted. *Triple gasp* And it was the job I had turned down two years ago. *Quadruple gasp*

What was this job? I'm not quite ready to divulge that information, yet. But it involves law enforcement.

Naturally, I applied. The following week, I got a call to take a test and then to interview for the position.

The week before my interview, my boss cut my hours. When I asked her why, she told me that there were "too many people on the schedule".  Hello! Have you forgot me, your stellar employee?! 

I then seethed. My eyes turned red and stream poured out of my ears. I had had it.

Then my boss appeared. Ever so bravely, I said "Boss, I feel screwed over because I'm only a part-time employee."

Her charming response: "Yup"

She then tells me that I could have some horrible weekend hours that she doesn't want. That's like telling someone they could have the chewed up, hairy piece of gum you just dropped on the floor.

Naturally, I declined. She said "Oh well" and walked away.

Walked. Away.

Then she had a private meeting with the practice owner, which usually means that someone is about to get canned.
~
The following week, I had my interview. It went well, but I was convinced that I hadn't gotten the job. I was certainly bound to stay at the vet clinic for the rest of my natural life.

Two days later, I got a call that I had a conditional offer of employment if I passed a thirty page background investigation. No big deal, thirty pages. No big deal...

The day that I turned in my background investigation, I got a call from a detective from the department:
"Sarah, I called the vet clinic and they were very surprised to find out that you're a pedophile."

Dot. Dot. Dot.

Have I mentioned that I've known this detective for almost four years? So I told him "Little known story" to which he laughed merrily, and told me the real reason for why he was calling.

Anyway, I passed the background investigation.

In the few weeks since I accepted the job which will start in May, strange things have been occurring at the vet clinic. My boss actually said good morning to me and asked how I was doing. If you knew my boss, you'd realize how monumental this truly is. It was a first in the three and a half years that I've been employed there. She's been grateful, kind, and has recently offered me as many hours as I could ever possibly need or want.

Meanwhile, I've kept the news about my new job a secret. I'll give my notice soon enough. Eventually. When I work up the nerve.

Today, the owner of the practice called me into his office. He asks me to close the door and to take a seat. This never happens unless, well, unless you're about to get fired.

He is a man who avoids conflict at all costs and who never calls in his employees to meet privately with them. That's the job of my practice manager, who is oddly not around this week.

I sit down. I stare at him. He tells me that he never does this, but there are a few things that I need to know. My thoughts go wild: He knows! Give it up, Sarah! Disaster ahead!

Instead, he tells me how valued I am as an employee. That clients love me, and that I am so wonderful to work with. I'm great with people on the phone, I'm great with people in person, and best of all, I'm a low-key person and he means that in the best possible way.

And oh, he's giving me a raise.

And I'm still quitting in about three or four weeks.

And I'm a jerk.

And I feel like one, too.

Is prayer worth it?

A month ago today, I was crying.

Crying is not even the word for what I was doing.  I was Bewailing. Blubbering. Bawling.

Was there a death in the family? Was a close friend no longer with us? Was I terribly injured?

No to all of the above.

So what was it all about?

A kitten.

A little, black 11 ounce kitten.

Here is his story.
~

Friday, September 16th began as Friday's ordinarily did. Work at 7:30 am, answer calls, act friendly. One call though got the whole day in motion.

"Place where I work, this is Sarah"

"Sarah, this is Carolyn." (She's the woman in charge of animal adoptions)

"There's an elderly man bringing in a kitten he found; we'll take care of all the charges."

Moments later, in walks a man, carrying a small closed box, no bigger than 2" by 4". He hands it to me, and thinking perhaps there is a dead creature inside, I open it and inside is an incredibly small kitten. I thank the man, and whisk the kitten away to the back to display him to the veterinarians. After checking him out, the estimated age was 3-4 weeks.

I spent the rest of the day with him and subsequently offered to take him home to foster him.

Friday night:  his first seizure.

Though at that point, I wasn't sure what it was. I mean, here he is, needing to be bottle fed, have his privates wiped down because he was too young to eliminate on his own and all he really wanted to do was sleep. I thought maybe he had been woken out of a deep sleep and was having a...moment.

But the seizures continued, increasing in duration. Otherwise, he appeared perfectly normal. Eager to eat every two hours, grasping at his bottle and syringe to eat whenever it was placed near his mouth.

Sunday, he had a seizure.
Then another one.
And another one a few hours later.

His pupils would dilate, his claws would outstretch, he would screech, he would meow, he would twitch uncontrollably. And then just like that, they'd stop. He'd then appear dazed, confused, and within fifteen minutes was back to sleeping or roaming the room.

However, Sunday evening, his seizure woke him out of a deep slumber, and the sounds he was making indicated to me that this was not normal. I timed his seizure. 10 seconds, 20 seconds, 30 seconds. Still continuing. After 60 seconds it stopped.

I called the veterinarian and she said she'd like to observe him overnight at her house to see if he was having true seizures.

The next day, she brought him into work with the grim news. He was indeed having seizures and the causes of seizures in such a young animal was likely congenital. That, or he had gotten into a toxin that was slowly killing him. Or perhaps, he had feline distemper; a terrible virus causing severe illness and possible death.

Additionally, he had developed an upper respiratory infection and was terribly congested and having difficulty breathing.

He was hospitalized all day Monday and every few hours I'd hear him screaming from a seizure. At one point it was so terrible, I saw the head veterinarian run out of his office to see what was going on. In my line of work, seeing a doctor run out of their office means trouble.

A woman from a business next to the clinic stopped by and told me I need to euthanize the kitten, that I was causing him to suffer.

However, mid-afternoon, it was discovered that the kitten was running a fever and in a hopeful moment, I thought perhaps this could be the cause of his seizures, similar to febrile seizures in human infants.

The next day, Tuesday, he went a full 24 hours without a seizure.

But Wednesday at 2:30 am, he seized. And again at 7:45 Wednesday morning. And again in the parking lot of the veterinarian clinic where I was taking him because he seemed to be having difficulty breathing.

I rushed him into the clinic where he began repeatedly seizing. One after another after another. The veterinarian gave him Valium to stop the seizures and though it helped, it also knocked him almost unconscious.

After the full effect of the drug wore off, he began seizing again. The seizures were lasting longer than ever before. And being all of 11.8 ounces now, it was quickly taxing his system.

~
The call: Wednesday, September 21

I missed the phone call. I didn't listen to the voicemail. When I got the text stating "CALL ME" from one of the vet techs, well, you can imagine what I was feeling.

"We think he's suffering, Sarah. He's been having repeated seizures, he's not wanting to eat anymore. We all think it's time to put him down".

She then named off things she thought could be wrong with him including a nasal tumor and cuterebras (fly larvae) in his brain.

I flashed to preparing his kitten milk replacement, giving him three cc's at a time since that's all his stomach could hold. Feeding him every few hours, even in the middle of the night. Him grabbing the syringe, eager to eat every time. I thought about him wanting to sleep on my chest, cuddled in a tight ball. I recalled wrapping him in a blanket since he was too small to conserve his own body heat. He was so small, he easily fit into the palm of my hands.

And thinking about this and now the fact that I was losing him, I began to cry. There's no other graceful way to write it.

I drove to the vet clinic.

Inside his cage was my kitten, still recovering from his last seizure, disoriented, soiled, some drool on his little face.

I picked him up and wrapped him in a blanket. I carried him around, pacing, and crying. Co-workers kept coming up, hugging me, telling me that I had done so much for him.

The vet tech who had called me earlier kept asking if I was ready to say goodbye.

I was not.

Besides, the method by which they'd have to euthanize him wouldn't exactly be in the most humane manner. His veins were too small to easily hit for the sedation to be given intravenously.

I asked if I could spend some time alone with him and they let me go into the operating room. We sat there and I wept over him.

As we sat there for the next hour, he slept. He was so out of it. According to my co-workers, he was dying, and all they could say to me was "I'm so sorry".

After you've spent time in the veterinarian field, the death of an animal doesn't sting as much. Well, as long as it's not your animal.

But as I held him, counting his breathes, one every ten seconds, I prayed for wisdom. I also prayed that I wouldn't have to make the decision to end his life. I prayed that he would just slip away in his sleep.

And then, just like that, I knew it wasn't his time. Typically, my gut instinct is off. Like, way off. I don't often trust it. But this time, I did.

After making my decision that it was not his time to go, at least here in the clinic, I opted to take him home in the hopes that he could pass away there in a warm, loving environment.

Everyone told me that at the very least, I had provided him five days of love and that he would pass away warm and not afraid.

Some comfort.

Driving home, I had honestly never cried so hard nor had I ever prayed so earnestly before.

Once we got home, I laid him in the sunlight, praying once more for a peaceful passing in his sleep. And yet, he continued to breathe.

He seized twice more, the latter one lasting for one minute and thirty seconds. He then fell into a deep sleep on my chest for hours. I studied for school and intermittently prayed. My prayers were sort of a non stop "Heal him or let him die with me" plead.

At one point, starved, I got something to eat and he apparently smelt my food and actually lifted his head to see what I was eating, seemingly if you will, waking up from the trance that he had been in, the spell that had been making him so sick.

He got up. He walked around. He ate. He started acting like a kitten, but he had done that to me in the past, so I wasn't confident that he was miraculously better.

But as the days and weeks have passed, his seizures have stopped. His viral and bacterial infections began to clear. His nose became unclogged, his gait more steady. He began to play. He learned how to use the litter box (no easy feat training him). He figured out how to run, how to hiss, how to properly bathe, how to act according to his feline nature.

He got his first vaccines yesterday and was given a total clean bill of health, heralded as the miracle kitten. Oh, and he weighs a whopping two pounds now; right on track for his age.

So was it prayer? Does God heal animals from their afflictions?

You, of course, will come to your own conclusion, but let this be said:

• He was very ill, with no hope of improving.
• He had an overabundance of prayers said on his behalf.
• He stopped seizing, with literally no explanation "why". I worked with four veterinarians on this case.

I introduce to you:

Jack Lazarus Spitz (he has an affinity for spitting at animate and inanimate objects, true to his feral nature).

Praise the Lord.



James 5:16 "The effective prayer of a righteous man can accomplish much"



Code blue

I watched a man die tonight.

In a way, I feel partially responsible. While I know this is completely untrue and irrational, the guilt remains.

From the time I first learned CPR at the age of 17 to present day, I've wanted to be a part of the resuscitative efforts of a patient.

A few weeks ago, I participated in final practicals for EMT students and part of their practical exam was that midway through the "call" the patient goes into cardiac arrest and out comes the CPR dummy. Being the assistant to the student being tested, I performed fake CPR multiple times, thinking that in the two years I've been healthcare provider CPR certified, this is the closest I'd get to actual cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

As my summer has progressed working in the emergency department, I admit, I'd always day-dream about the opportunity for a real live CPR in progress case. Whenever a cardiac patient would present, I'd think to myself "Is this it? Is this person going to code?"

Today, I didn't want to work. I don't like working weekends and I was not in the mood to spend the whole day indoors. Strangely enough, I found myself taking mental notes throughout the day; what I'd blog about if something emergent actually happened. We had the routine emergency visits; lacerations, back pain, nausea, motor vehicle accidents, but nothing to really get the long desired adrenaline rush.

This afternoon during my downtime, I went through the stacks of paper held inside one of the desks in the emergency department. The first paper to catch my eye was the Organ Donor Authorization form. As I scanned through it, marveling at the morbidity of getting to choose eyes, various organs, and tissues, I admit: I thought to myself there was no chance I'd ever actually see that form being filled out.

And then the call.

Dispatch paged EMS to a local hotel, stating "CPR in progress".

Initially, I thought I misunderstood. CPR? Watching EMS rush out the door though, I knew that this would be the call.

Setting the trauma room up, I asked the nurse what to expect, what a code is like. She explained how it would be chaotic and oftentimes there would be more help than needed. Pulling out the bag valve mask, we discussed protocol and then, we waited.

Over the radio, EMS stated they were on their way, the patient was bradycardic, but that CPR was in progress. They said to expect them in four minutes.

It was a long four minutes.

The ambulance finally pulling into the bay, I hear the patients wife screaming "Baby, come back! You can do this, I love you so much. Come back baby, we need you".

One paramedic is on the side of the stretcher, doing CPR.

The patient is unresponsive, skin tone is gray.

A rush of staff; on hand we have lab, x-ray, multiple nurses, EMS staff and of course, the doctor. The scene of a code is maddening; people yelling, IV's being started, CPR being done, drugs being injected into the patient and the cardiac monitor screaming, seemingly more amplified than ever.

The patient is quickly hooked up to what is called an AutoPulse, a machine that in basic terms, wraps around the patient's chest, compresses, inflates and does CPR. Next to the patient, a bag valve mask is hooked up and every six seconds, we breathe for the patient.

Thump, thump, thump. CPR in progress. Everyone is talking over each other, orders being shouted left and right. "Get the piggy back tubing!" "Get the coflex!" "Got an arterial stick over here!" "It's been two minutes, check his pulse".

Checking both carotid and radial pulse, there was nothing. CPR was resumed.

Stepping out of the room to grab something, his wife grabs me, screaming "Please! Tell me if he has a pulse! I need to know! I can handle it if he doesn't have one. If I were in that room, I'd bring him back to life". I tell her we're doing all we can, well knowing that this man is pulseless. She starts screaming, pacing, crying out to God that this can't be happening.

I enter the room again, and nothing has changed. Glancing up at the monitor, I see that he has a "pulse" but this is only due to the CPR being performed. His rate changes from tachycardic to asystolic. Every two minutes, he's re-evaluated for a pulse, every time I expect to feel something, but there is nothing.

His skin remaining gray, I look at his face. In between the tubes, the suctioning, the bag valve mask, I see a man who is no longer there; his blue eyes non-responsive. He is intubated, but no matter what is done, no matter what drug is infused into him, there is no pulse.

His wife enters the room, CPR efforts still in full progress. She is instructed to stand in the corner and an EMT hands over the bag valve mask to me, instructing me to breathe for the patient. And every six seconds, I squeeze that bag, hoping that at some point, he will return, that at some point, his heart will beat for him, that his respirations will resume.

The doctor tells his wife that his pupils are unresponsive, thus indicating no brain activity. She rushes to her husband's side, kissing his face, telling him that he needs to live, he can do this, they have grandchildren, that God has too many wonderful plans for him on this earth and that he can't leave her, not now, not yet. She cries "You can't leave me baby, you didn't say goodbye to me. You can't leave me!"

I squeeze the bag. His wife jumps up and yells "He's breathing! I felt it!" But it was me who was breathing for him.

Moments later, the wife announces "This is a dream, this isn't happening".

And then, the code is called.

CPR is stopped.

I stop ventilation.

The machines are turned off.

Staff quickly exits the room.

And suddenly, it's the wife, her now truly deceased husband, the doctor, the nurse and me. The wife announces that she needs her family to come in, to say goodbye.

In a truly heart wrenching moment, family members stream in, crying, yelling, pouring over this man, mourning his untimely loss.

In the following moments, the police arrive, victims advocate comes to meet with the family, the coroner is called.

I help prepare his body for organ donation.

I continually check his chest, feel his arm, squeeze his hand, hoping that maybe he'll come back. Maybe he'll be one of those crazy ER stories of "the guy who came back to life" after dying.

But he's gray. And he's cold. Rigor mortis is apparent.

Closing his eyes and placing a wet gauze over them for possible donation, I say goodbye to a man I never knew.

Thirty years and two hundred pounds on me

I've been traumatized.

I'm never going to be okay again, ever.

I also now know what kind of man I attract.

...

There I was, having a nice day at the vet clinic.

A couple hours earlier, I had a conversation with what you'd call an eccentric man. May I give you a description of this man? Unfortunately, the description I give won't even touch the surface. Just picture someone you find to be incredibly unattractive and then times that by oh, a trillion.

• 50+ years old.
• Overweight. Beer gut.
• Straggly, greasy, greying hair.
• Wearing a felt hat with a feather attached.
• Beard. You know the kind of beard he had, if you're following my description.

He's wearing a sleeveless shirt, and on his left upper arm is an orange bear, in mid roar, looking as threatening as only an orange bear can.

He approaches me and asks how long I've worked at the vet clinic, and then asks if I'm planning on becoming a veterinarian. I recite my script (because I'm asked this question weekly) and go into my story about how yes, I work at a vet clinic, but I'm actually an EMT planning on becoming a nurse, etc etc.

He tells me about his days as a cop and mentions an ex-girlfriend who couldn't stand the sight of blood. He also mentions how he rescued a woman's life once by holding pressure on an artery after she'd been in a horrible wreck.

I was so impressed.

So, he leaves and I think nothing of our meeting.

He returns, hours later, breezes in the door and asks "did you miss me?"

I jokingly said yes.

And thus, my downhill journey.

He begins by telling me that I should come down to his farm in Berthoud and "help take care" of his animals.

I was in an honest mood today, and told him no, that's too far away.

He tries to entice me to come to his farm, telling me he even has a "two story house". 

Be still, oh beating heart of mine!

I again reply no thanks.

So then he asks, "are you single?"

I give him the truth. Cursed honesty!

He then says "Hey so am I!"

Oh gee!!!!

Let's stop here and see what thoughts are going through my mind:
"Oh please no. Please God, anything but this. Let this be a joke, a silly bet, ANYTHING."

But no. This was no joke. He then says, "I should get your number. Let's go out to dinner"

Hint: hillbilly's are not my type.

Time stops. The world comes to an end.

Or so I wished.

Dinner? DINNER?!? Dude! LOOK AT YOU! You're ancient! You have a hat with a feather sticking out of it! You've got an orange bear on your arm!  

(As one co-worker said afterwards: "Sarah, he's got thirty years and two hundred pounds on you.")

I quickly decline this oh so wonderful dinner invitation.

And what do you do in moments when you've been shot down? You make it even MORE awkward!!!!!!

What does my gracious asker-outer say?

"Oh you're cold. You're cold. You are cooooooold".

Silence ensues. I mean really, what in the world can I say?



Me and Andy

Enter: Andy! The one, true love of my life.

Andy and I have been friends since I first met him almost five years ago. He's been with me through thick and thin.

So, Andy comes along, and in his usual treat begging fashion, comes alongside me and stares at this man who is making things worse with every passing second.

This man, seizing on the opportunity, says that Andy would want me to go out with him.

No. No he would not!!!

As he's making Andy go nuts, and continues to give me a hard time for saying no, I then decide to cut my losses and walk away.

Actually, more like run away.

A woman told me last week she'd set me up with her son, but after discovering my age, she changed her mind and said "You're too old."

I finally understand what she meant!

Dead bodies

I was warned that seeing cadavers would affect me in ways unthought of. Surprisingly, it wasn't their exposed muscles, their organs that were passed around, or their faces seemingly frozen from those final moments before death.

You know what got to me?

Their hands. 

The skin had not been dissected from the cadavers. The first person I examined was a ninety-one year old woman who had perfect long manicured nails. Her skin was dotted with age spots, and her hands, oh her hands looked as fresh as the day she died, pardon the morbidity. 

The second cadaver, a seventy-something man also had hands that strangely enough evoked emotion. On his right index finger was a band-aid; he had died with it on and it was never taken off of him. That band-aid strangely made me think of who he was when he was alive. How did he cut his finger? On the day that he died did he happen to place that band-aid on his finger, unaware that his demise was quickly coming?

My professor told us to be respectful of the bodies we were about to see, re-named "Kate" and "Paul". Being respectful entails not making jokes they'd be"horrified" to hear if they could indeed still hear and only saying things that they'd approve of. (How am I supposed to know what perfect strangers would/would not approve of?) 

Very somber, my classmates enter the cadaver lab. Somehow I get a spot right next to our first cadaver, Kate. Her body is wrapped in towels, each section covered. Her chest is first revealed. Her first layer of skin is carefully peeled back, revealing the very thin layers of skin. Beneath that, her adipose tissue is removed. Kate had spent her life taking care of herself and her innards clearly display this. As her ribcage is removed, we see her lungs and her heart. Her heart is quite enlarged. Cause of death: congestive heart failure. 

Next comes her organs: stomach, liver, gallbladder, large and small intestines. We pass around her liver, and random fact: the liver is a pretty huge organ. 

Out comes her small intestines, and we stretch them around the length of the room, approximately twenty feet. 

We examine her uterus and ovaries; apparently it's pretty impressive that she still had them at the age of 91 though it is speculated that she never had children. 

Kate also had a hip replacement, but it looked more bionic than anything else.

Her brain is later passed around and there is evidence that she had a small brain tumor that she likely never even knew about.

Paul is next. He was a large man both in height and in weight. All I knew about him was that he was a man who did not take care of his body, and his innards truly did not lie. As we peeled back the skin from his still hairy chest, the first thing I saw were his lungs. They were black. Non-smokers will have some black tinge to their lungs from everyday pollution exposure, but this man's lungs were solid black; it is unknown how long he was a dedicated smoker.

Paul also had many broken ribs and the bruises and burns on his chest were indicative of CPR and defibrillator efforts.

As Paul's heart was passed around, I finally got a chance to hold his heart in my hands. It was surreal. It also gave that phrase a new meaning.

As we progressed through his body, there was evidence of fatty liver disease, cysts on his kidneys, and more surprisingly, the size of his stomach. Text book stomach measurements are eight inches in diameter. Paul's stomach was more like a foot and a half long. Also, his intestines were madly disproportionate--the large intestines were huge, the small intestines too small and short.

As we went back and forth between Paul and Kate, I couldn't help but wonder what sort of life they had lived. Why they decided to donate their body to science. What it was like for them to die.

All too soon though, cadaver lab was over. We pieced the cadavers back together putting organs, ribs, and skin back in their respective places. 

Dead bodies are weird. Especially their hands.

"You are a person and then you cease to be a person, and a cadaver takes your place."