Years End

Upon reflecting back on 2016, I don't know what to say, except that it has been a year of learning, as this is what life is made of.

Here's what I learned this year:

Sometimes, prayers really don't get answered how you want them to. Sometimes you sit at your friends bedside while they're dying, and no matter how much prayer, faith, and hope is given, the Lord's ways just are not our ways, period.

The heartache and grief I experienced at Rachel's funeral and memorial service is some of the worst and raw pain I have ever experienced. I still can't go a day without thinking about and missing her. With her death, I learned that life is full of tragedy and heartache. Yes, I had glimpses of this pain many times before, but losing a human being who was so fully integrated in my life story has been exceedingly difficult. The emptiness that I have carried within me has been overwhelming on some days, and others has made me a better nurse at the bedside, when tending to those who are terminally ill.

The triumph and joy that I have experienced in becoming an RN has been nothing short of phenomenal. I have said it over and over again, but it bears repeating; being a nurse is what I was made to do. With absolute certainty, I can say that this career was God's calling on my life. He wants me here. He's given me a gift that I intend on utilizing for as long as He will allow.

When I accepted the position at the hospital I now work for, I took a total leap of faith. I was toggling between four positions offered to me. Two were easy to eliminate, the other two were equal so far as options were concerned. One job was logical, the other was a faith move. I chose the faith move and while the job in and of itself has been amazing, everything else surrounding it has been hard.

 My living situation turned out to not quite be what I had anticipated.

The church I chose to attend was also a faith move that just led to heartache, as I learned that the past sometimes is not a thing of the past, and old wounds cannot be mended. I learned that saying "I'm sorry" doesn't equate to forgiveness, and that was a really hard lesson to learn. Rejection in church is hard.

Well, rejection in any form is hard.

I met Jordan* in August, and from the first meeting, he made my heart flutter. I spent so long not feeling much of anything, always putting my heart on hold because I thought I knew, for the past five years, who God intended for me to marry. (Gigantic fail, this story is not quite bloggable yet), and so in the waiting period of my life, I met Jordan.

There were factors working against us (sorry, this story is also not quite bloggable yet). Jordan and I began to spend time with one another. I allowed him to do the pursuing; it was unexpected and fun.

I took a chance on this man because I sincerely thought that he was worth the risk. I appreciated going on adventures and doing life with him. From late night drives to Denver, a work party, learning how to golf, walks, hikes, movies, playing volleyball, phone calls, making dinner together, attending church, looking at his baby photos and watching home videos, star gazing, nearly daily photos of sunrises and sunsets, and some of the most vulnerable conversations of my life, I thought maybe, just maybe I had found what I had been praying for.

But then the ghosting began (definition here), and a final conversation took place. I remember him telling me that the time he spent with me, our conversations, introductions to family, friends, and co-workers, and holding my hand was all just to see if he could feel something, and unfortunately, no, he felt...nothing. Well, nothing romantic for me.

So there we have a great tragedy where one party feels all the feels, and another tries to feel the feels, but feels nothing. So great.

He hugged me and told me how special I am. I took a few days to think about what I wanted. He wanted to remain friends (ooof), and I pondered it. I contacted him two days later to offer friendship, as that was my initial commitment to him, and he told me he didn't want to talk to me any longer, and there was nothing more to say.

Ouch.

So there was that.

Sometimes you're just not enough. Sometimes you're used.

A week later, one of my closest friends came by and told me that he wanted to give "us" a try. Double ooof.

I have learned that life is unpredictable.

But every now and then, I see glimpses of beauty.

Like when you contact a friend when your heart is aching and you're falling apart, and without question, they bring you candy and ice cream and hug you tightly and gently ask "What happened?"

When you're on the run and need a place to stay, and someone offers you their home.

When you've screwed up bad with a friend and they offer forgiveness. Total and complete forgiveness; God's mercy made evident.

When, after a month of separation and silence, a friend returns and helps you move out of a place in a disorderly and hilarious fashion, hashing out feelings while hurling items into a car with reckless abandon. Or on a day when you have the worst cold you've had in years, and they stop by with chicken noodle soup for you, having driven nearly an hour out their way.

It's letting go of the idea of who and what I love, recognizing that sometimes (most of the time), life doesn't happen my way. It's healing found in a labrador puppy. It's down by water, praying and finding healing when life doesn't make sense. It's a four year olds birthday party. It's seeing a friend again I  haven't physically seen in nearly a decade. It's winning an award from my school for academic excellence. It's in every time I meet someone new. It's the date in the middle of a snow storm. It's in letting people know how much I love them. It's graduating nursing school, surrounded by the people that I love and who supported me through this journey. Running a marathon with my closest friend. It's saying goodbye.


It's taking the NCLEX, passing, and thereby officially becoming a nurse. It's in the hikes with friends. It's beautiful rainbows, sunrises and sunsets. It's going to a funeral. It's going to Winterpark for a few days to heal. It's getting closure. It's going to a Hillsong United concert. It's getting a name badge that identifies me as a  registered nurse. It's the hours of conversation and memories with Mallory. It's seeing sunflowers everywhere I go and remembering Rachel. It's going to a Lindsey Stirling concert. It's spending the day with an old friend and who was your first kiss. It's the hard talks with people who have differing theological beliefs. It's going to a Bronco's game for the first time. It's a home of my own after years of praying. It's helping to ease someone's pain and being present for their final breath. It's coming to the place of surrender with God, crying more tears than one thought possible, and letting go of what I thought my life was supposed to look like.

That has been 2016.

*Giving his real name would be crazy town

How lucky I am to have had something that makes saying goodbye so hard

Grief is unique; no two people grieve identically. We may all process through those five stages (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance) but the emotions are never expressed the same.

I wrote this as a way of grieving but also remembering and celebrating the friendship I shared with Rachel Marie, a woman who significantly impacted my life.

We grew up together, having met within the first few weeks of me being home-schooled. To me, Rachel was the definition of my teenage and young adult years. She made home-schooling bearable.

Through navigating the complexities of life, like how to properly kiss a boy when the time comes (we practiced with pillows) or what to do when a boy held your hand (her hand was held first, at youth group, by Zach, mine came about six months later with Seth) we grew up, and learned about life together under the guise that life would be just grand.

We dreamed of what life could be; being successful nurses, having husbands and children, enjoying independence and freedom. We confided in one another, gave dating advice, practiced highlighting hair naturally with lemon juice (FYI: ...it doesn't work).

We fought frequently, then would make-up; it was the nature of being young and ill-prepared to communicate effectively. We learned how to dress much cooler (read: how to stop wearing our mother's clothes from the 80's) and went from the styling "homeschooler hair" (read: hair down the back, un-styled, often with an awkward middle part) and stepped into young adult-hood.

I remember when Rachel told me she was engaged; a mutual friend of ours from our teenage years had pursued her, surprising her, and requesting permission to court her with the intention of marriage. Oh, it was the stuff dreams were made of.

After the wedding, Rach and Mark moved to Georgia, and our friendship and communication waxed and waned. She had her first child; a true beauty.

Once upon a time, I used to be a jerk, and I am ashamed to say that at one point, I had reached this place where I couldn't take hanging out/around with happy couples, so I walked away from my friendship with Rachel.

For several years, we went our separate ways; she went on to have two more children, I continued on with college. But I never forgot her; I'd touch base every now and again, never owning up to the fact that I had attempted to give up on our friendship due to my immaturity and jealousy.

But God, in His merciful way, worked on my heart through a series of events, and in the summer of 2013, He told me I needed to mend my ways with Rachel, and apologize. I reached out via email, Rachel being the beautiful soul that she was, responded with forgiveness.

One month later, she informed me that she had just been diagnosed with cancer. It was the most shocking, take your breath away moment of my life, but I vowed in that instant to partner with her in this journey, no matter what.

Two and a half years came and went, so quickly. I remember the day that she told me that her cancer was now at a stage four after a tumor recurrence and emergency surgery. The cancer, she explained, was being spread through her lymph system. It was vicious, unrelenting, cruel.

We were sitting outside a coffee shop, the day was warm, summer was blooming, and I knew at that very moment that she was going to die, that cancer would win, at least on this side of heaven.

After that, I made it a point to visit her as often as I could; one never regrets time well spent. Our days were full of conversation, reminiscing, and laughter. We talked about who we are, and who we used to be. It was always seasoned with grace, inside jokes, and discussions of living until she was an old woman; certainly we'd grow old together and live till the bitter end.

November 2015, after experiencing abdominal pain and hoping it was a GI obstruction, the scan revealed multiple tumors in her abdominal cavity. It was a dark day when she told me of the recurrence, but a plan was formulated; get her to Mexico for treatment.

In May 2016, ascites developed. We still talked as if time was all that we had; surely this cancer would be a thing of the past; I'd work as an oncology nurse, and she would be a representative of her cancer clinic; she'd share her story of healing. We would travel the world, friends forever. I had felt the Lord urging me to get a passport a few weeks prior, and Rach and I made tentative plans to go to Mexico in the fall to visit the clinic she was receiving treatment at.

On that May day, in her mountain home, which will now always be etched in my mind, she shared with me that she doesn't mind so much if she dies, for she knows where she is going. What bothered her most was leaving behind a husband, three girls, her siblings, parents, in-laws, friends. She didn't like being treated as though she was dying, and she lived in such a way that death would never have its victory over her.

The Lord granted her a vacation that next week with some bumps, but upon her arrival home, cancer decided to kick it up a notch, and give her a run for the money.

 Back with a vengeance, Rachel messaged me one day that she was consulting with hospice, but was hopeful that this was just a stepping stone in an effort to manage her tremendous pain.

At the news of hospice, and perhaps because I am in healthcare and know the implications of end of life care, I came uninvited to see her; how could I not? She, my best friend, confidant, lover of life, and the one who knew me best, was worth it all to me. I met first with her husband, parents, children and siblings. When I was ushered into her home, my mind disconnected, refusing to believe that this was real.

Before me lay my beautiful friend, abdomen swollen from the tumors, fatigued from the pain medication and the disease eating away at her. I felt her pulse; tachycardic. Her pulse was bounding from her neck, skin wet with perspiration.

In that moment, nothing, literally, nothing mattered. I spoke of my love for her, the love of Jesus, I told her stories of our homeschooling days, we discussed who we liked when we were in high school, I told her how beautiful she looked. She began apologizing for doing unkind things to me when we were young, telling me she's been thinking and wondering what went wrong during our glitch in communication years back. I told her all is forgiven, and then I apologized, too. Told her I was a jerk, and immature, but here, in this moment, grace and mercy were present. Jesus was with us; He had restored what was once broken.

Next to her lay my graduation gift, the one she had planned to give to me for a celebration; we had had plans for a lunch and one-on-one time after she returned from vacation.

She apologized that she hadn't had the time to write me out a card. This beautiful gift will forever be cherished. Her father, sister, and daughter all told me how much this gift meant to Rach; how excited she was to give it to me. This passport holder is now beyond precious to me.

Life is a fine line. It is undervalued how precious it truly is. But when you see someone you love dying, nothing else really matters. It stops you in your tracks, it reminds you of the need to live without regrets, pointing to Jesus, and being genuine. I have lived parts of my life that are most certainly regrettable, but I have also learned through this experience of the grace and mercy that Jesus Christ offers.

I shared a soul connection with Rachel; whenever she would have a medical set-back, even when she didn't tell me right away, my soul always knew, always became burdened and troubled; heavy. I'd get on my knees, pleading with Jesus, hoping that I was wrong, that she was healing, that the God of miracles would touch my friend and remove the tumors, remove the pain, remove the cancer.

When she messaged me that she was admitted to the hospital with an infection, she told me "Circumstances surely are not looking good. Trusting my Jesus." I don't know how she did it; maintained such a positive outlook, even at the end. She served, and will always serve as an inspiration to me; she changed my life.

I was blessed to receive text messages from her about once a week with an update. Her pain was clear, but so was her love for Jesus. She never faltered in her communication to remain faithful to our Savior.

The day she died, my soul was burdened all day. Such a strange thing, being connected in that way, and prayer was the only thing that could ease the burden. I prayed for a painless transition from earth to heaven, and I felt almost jealous of the fact that she now gets to be with Jesus, while I'm stuck here on this planet, a sin-torn world, where grief and pain abound. She now sees, face-to-face her Maker, and is at long last, at rest, free of cancer, free of fear, free of the things that bound her.

I don't know why the Lord didn't heal her earthly body, I don't know why she didn't get to live till 90, why she had to leave earth at 28 years of age. But I do know that I serve a God who does know, and while my heart is heavy, I lift my eyes to the Maker, the One who knows, and who has promised that all things work to the good of those who love Him.

Rachel, I will miss you, so much. My heart is broken, but I know that you are with Jesus, and the pain is no more. I wish we had more time together, more hours of laughter, and sharing life. I'll miss spending time in your warm home, your hospitality, dance parties with your baby girls, and the feeling that no matter what was happening in my life, I was safe, I was home when I was with you. I don't like having to face this life without you, because you were my sister, my friend, but how thankful I am to have known you. I would never trade the hours we shared for anything this world could give me. Thank you for showing me Jesus, every step of the way.

Earth has no sorrow that heaven can't heal.

A Case of Alveolar Osteitis

Many years ago, I was told that my wisdom teeth needed to be removed.

I ignored that advice, but felt bursts of fear whenever I'd develop headaches, or soreness in the general area of said wisdom teeth, for fear that they were abscessing and I'd die a slow painful death before I could become operated on.

However, as the years have progressed, I found myself very recently experiencing near-debilitating headaches and a penchant for sinus infections.

So, off to the dentist I went, knowing it was the wisdom teeth causing the headaches.

Have I ever told you how much I hate going to the dentist? I do. I really do. It's not fear of pain, it's fear of nausea. I have to fight vomiting all over the hygienist and dentist each time they go poking and prodding in my oral cavity.

After I received my last set of x-rays (and almost puked on the assistant) my dentist diagnosed me with a sinus infection and prescribed antibiotics, but only if I promised to get my blasted wisdom teeth removed this summer.

As a dutiful patient, I located an oral surgeon and had an initial consultation with him. He seemed so pleasant, that I scheduled surgery with him.

The first snag in the plan was the day I consulted with him there was a glitch in the system which meant my insurance company never actually received the prior authorization to help pay for said procedure.

I took care of that issue, requesting a STAT authorization because a) I was dying from head pain and b) I re-worked my entire lifes schedule for this procedure, and it needed to be done.

Surgery Day

"So, you're going to be put under, right?" The assistant asked me.

....No. I had requested local anesthesia because I have an irrational fear of whatever will happen to me if I ever have general anesthesia.

"Well, just so you know, surgeons are not known for being gentle, so you're going to get at least 12 shots in your mouth."

Awesome.

Assistant leaves old school country music playing on Pandora for me.

Surgeon arrives, changes the music station; begins to blare the Yeah Yeah Yeah's, and starts dancing.

Injects my poor little mouth. Pain sears across the left side of my face, and my eyes suddenly decided to lose the ability to focus, so now I have new-found nystagmus.

My throat feels like it's constricting, but they tell me this is normal.

Twenty minutes pass. I am clearly not numbed, but my tongue sure is, so I've now developed an attractive slurred lisp.

Surgeon comes in, injects me again, multiple times. He's clearly becoming annoyed at me, but I can't quite pinpoint why. He repeatedly tells me that general anesthesia sure would be the easiest way to go. He leaves.

Nothing happens. I am told I must have a fast metabolism.

He convenes a meeting in his office with his assistants in my direct line of view. Awkward eye contact ensues. He closes the door.

A long while passes, my heart is beating quite rapidly I'm so nervous, and my right foot begins shaking.

Someone stops by, asks if I'm doing okay. As the anesthetic works everywhere except for where it's supposed to, I state in my sexy slurred lispy voice, that it sure would be nice to know what's happening. I am asked if I want a cup of water. Hey, remember when my throat was constricting so I couldn't exactly swallow?

Surgeon returns, asks if I am numb. I reply that I have some numbness in my face. He replies that he doesn't care. He only wants my lips to become numb.

A while passes. Surgeon returns: "Are you numb?" He asks.

I reply "My top lip is"

He states, in a lovely make-you-feel-good tone that he doesn't care, at all, that my top lip is numb. He only cares if my bottom lip is, as well as my chin.

Well then, bucko, the answer would be "no"

He leaves. I try not to cry. Here I am, sitting on an ugly yellow plastic covered chair, pinching myself,  working on trying to breathe, nervous/anxious/scared, and conjuring up reasons why I should not leave.

He returns again and tells me this is the last time he is going to numb me. After that I have two choices: reschedule or consent to general anesthesia.

I choose to pray. I ask God to anesthetize me enough to complete the procedure.

It works. Surgeon returns, and his assistant asks why he's upset. He replies that he's just stressed, but is pretending that he is not, and that is why he is choosing to sing and dance.

Trying to alleviate the tension, I apologize for taking up so much of his time. I had no idea that I'd react to local anesthesia this way. He berates me; asking if I feel like he's spending too much time with me.

  Uhhh?

He turns up the music, starts dancing, and begins removing my teeth. I can partially feel it, but I'll be darned if I tell him that.

He and his assistant begin talking about how hot Nicole Kidman is. "Her red hair is SO attractive. Actually, all red heads are. And remember how hot she was in Eyes Wide Shut?"

Nicole Kidman, FYI, you ruined my surgery.

My four teeth successfully removed, my surgeon informs me that because I felt like he was spending too much time with me (even though I never said that) he would fly through the discharge instructions and leave.

...

My recovery was initially difficult. At the pharmacy picking up my medications, they wanted to know why my surgeon hadn't explained what medication to take first, and how to alternate. The pharmacist also instructed me, no matter what, not to take ibuprofen with my other drugs.

I should also mention how attractive I was, getting those meds. My mouth wouldn't stop bleeding, my gauze could no longer contain the blood, and I was drooling. It was really nice.

My mom transported me home where I spent the next few days recovering.

Early Friday morning, having had no prior problems, my body decided that now was a good time to start vomiting.

And then I kept vomiting.  And suddenly, the pain which had been almost non-existent, decided to rear up, to the point that I could not get comfortable.

 I called my surgeon, hoping for zofran, an antiemetic. He decided I was dehydrated and told me to go the hospital.

I instead went to a new doctor in town. He asked me how quickly I wanted my pain and nausea to be alleviated. I replied "immediately"

Hoping for an IV, he decided to perform acupuncture on me, in an effort to stay away from medications. His idea, not mine. (Bear in mind, at this point, due to my vomiting, I had been medication free for many hours).


He places needles in my abdomen, and along my right ear.

I experience pain relief for two seconds.

He places more needles.

Another two seconds of relief.

He decides enough time has lapsed and notes that because one of the needles in my abdomen is red and because my right ear is now bleeding that is indicative of inflammation and I would probably benefit from more acupuncture at a later date.

Then he writes me the glorious prescription for zofran and for a lower dose of pain medications, due to the suspected sensitivity to the narcotics.

My pharmacy does not want to fill my pain med prescription because I had already received a vicodin and percocet prescription two days prior.

Yup, totally get that, but do you not see my swollen face and look of death?

Prescription was filled.

The pain continued. I consulted my pharmacist friend (really pays to have a pharmacist friend late at night, by the way.)

The pain still continues into the next day. Dramatically so, I experience my first tears since the procedure because I have a constant throbbing pain in my right lower jaw, across my face and into my right ear.

I called my dentist; he told me I should call my surgeon since he's the one who did the surgery and knows my case best.

*cringe*

I call my surgeon.

He tells me if I was really in a lot of pain, I wouldn't be calling, my mom would be calling for me.


He asks if I can take ibuprofen. I reply that I can, but was told not to....

He cuts me off. "Ma'am, ma'am. Are you listening? I asked if you can take ibuprofen."

@!%*$#

I tell him what the pharmacist told me about not taking ibuprofen. He replies "That is the craziest thing I have ever heard of in my life."

If that's the craziest thing you've ever heard of in your life, you've been clearly sheltered.

He tells me to take ibuprofen and I'll be good.

Guess what? I had a few moments of pain relief, but every time I thought I had kicked it, the pain returned repeatedly.

I kind of wanted to die.

I returned to work on Tuesday, six days after the surgery. Working with nurses, and reiterating the story and my persistent pain, (which returned ten-fold whilst at work) I was told that something was wrong and I needed to see a dentist.

The next day, seven days after my surgery, I called my local dentist, the one who initially recommended the worst surgery of all time.

I explain that all I need is for him to LOOK at my extraction site and tell me if it's normal or abnormal, cause hey, I'm kind of dying over here and my surgeon is rude.

They squeezed me in, and it only took one look to be officially diagnosed with dry socket.

What's dry socket, you say?

Oh, just the absence of a blood clot which aids in protecting the bone and nerves, which leads to said bone and nerves EXPOSED TO EVERYTHING. No biggie.

I was properly treated, apologized to, and went on my dandy way.

Finally, today, I am not only feeling human again, but also (almost) pain free.

Nicholas Sparks Has Nothing On Me

The past three months of my dating (or lack thereof) life have been nothing but a jumbled ball of confusion.

I'd gone on various outings with a pleasant gentleman caller, and spent hours upon hours texting the man, but because there was never any "determine the relationship" conversation, I was left to believe we were "just friends" with the idea that one day, it could turn into something more, but maybe not.

Last Friday, December 13th (Holy cow; I just realized it was Friday the 13th!) started out as an ordinary day.

Actually, it was a day where I took little notice to my appearance, wore mismatched scrubs, had greasy hair and a general "eh" attitude about life.

My doctor and I were just finishing up an appointment where the client was thrilled to discover her dogs lump was not cancerous, but a mere lipoma. As the appointment wrapped up, I saw two men, and a dog being escorted into the next exam room.

I cringed.

 Why? Because one of the guys was cute, and I can't handle a cute guy. I can handle just about anything else; give me a dead body any day.

I headed into the exam room, determined to be cool. And you know, I was cool, if I do say so myself.

The two guys were co-workers, one had come along with the owner of the dog for a break from work. For simplicities sake, we'll call the owner Johnny and his friend Bob.

As the appointment continued, I became consciously aware of a connection with Johnny, one of those moments where you can sense a mutual attraction, but you're not really sure what to do about it. We made small talk, and when the veterinarian left the room to mix up some ear medication and Bob went out to the car to retrieve the other dog, I realized I had nothing to say.

Johnny's dog, however, really liked the smell of my shoes (coincidentally, his dog bared the name of one of the greatest crushes of my life; we'll call the dog Bocephus). So, we talked about my shoes. They're great shoes, really. Barefoot technology (plug for the makers of barefoot technology shoes).

By the time Bob came back, it was clear that Johnny was single. He kept making mention of how alone he was, and (jokingly) how he had no friends in the area. It was a bizarre appointment, really, and when the time came for him to go, and I passed the dog leash back to Johnny, I knew, I just knew that things were going to be different this time.

That difference came about five seconds later when after Johnny left, the veterinarian I work for squealed that she had always wanted me and this guy to get together since the very beginning of time. I was peppered with questions, and asked if I felt the "spark" between us. I acknowledged the said spark, but I also was cautious.

"Oh my gosh," stated my doctor "You and Johnny would be so perfect together. He loves his dogs!"

*Squeal*

Johnny stayed on my mind for the remainder of that day, so much so that I sent my mother a text stating:
"Had an attractive dude come into the clinic today. He was kinda flirtacious. He's cuuuuute."

Saturday, December 14th, my veterinarian and I were scheduled to work together once more. She asks:
"If Johnny were to come into the clinic and ask you out, would you say yes?"

I assured her this would not happen.

Ten minutes before the clinic closed for the weekend, Johnny walks in the door.

My heart skips a beat, my hands get all fluttery and try as I might to act normal, I can't.

So, I left.

Well, I ran to the back of the clinic to tell my doctor the amazing and incredible news. She squeals, smacks me and jumps for joy.

I saunter back up front, ready to take on his request for a Larimer County license for his dogs.

He says:
"I need to tell you something that might make me blush."

He proceeds to tell me how for the past 24 hours, he has been kicking himself for not getting my name, for not asking for a chance to get to know me.

I, remaining cool, tell him my name.

He says:
"Sarah. That's Biblical. I'm Johnny, also Biblical". (His real name is Biblical, friends).

So I reply, (with my back turned to him, because a) I'm cool and b) I'm trying not to show my flushed face:
"So are you Biblical?" (What? Does that even make sense?) I clarify: "Are you a Christian?"

And for the first time in my 200 years of life, Johnny replies in the affirmative. With that established, we quickly connect. He tells me how he spent the night before praying that I was a Christian. Alternating between hopeful and depressed. But on this day, he had to, just had to see me again.

Then he asks how he can get to know me better, I, being sly, hand off my phone number and together, a Nicholas Sparks story is made.

Except we're talking about me, and this blog wouldn't be called "A Funny Thing" for nothing.

So, later that day, he texts. And we texted for awhile, the majority of it about our shared beliefs, and the second half about how he can't believe what a lucky guy he is, and how you never know unless you take a risk, and that this is from God, and this is the start of all good things to come forever and ever amen.

He calls me a few hours later, and with his Nicholas Sparks mode turned fully on, he tells me:
"You know, instead of hearing your voice, I'd love to be sitting across from you, seeing you, hearing you talk."

We agree to dinner, and he comments that this is the fastest first date ever.

And oh, dinner was grand. He told me how pretty I look with my hair down, with my hair up. How expressive my eyebrows are (awkward, but I guess it's true), how funny I am, and finally, how he's never going to stop pursuing me unless I ask him to, because this is it, this is the real deal, and he's committed to seeing this through.

Okay, guys, I get it. He was a little eager, but having spent the last three months of uncertainty in the dating world, it was really nice to finally have a man who was clear with his intentions. And he was cute.

We went for a walk after dinner, because he felt our two hour dinner wasn't enough; he wanted to know me better.

On our stroll (which, by the way was in negative temperatures), he asked if he could hold my hand.

I'm going to admit something here:
 I am a serial hand holder.

I have held way too many hands in my past, and *sniffle* have made a choice in recent months to only hold hands when it's the real deal. None of this hand holding intimacy allowed anymore.

 So, I told him "no". Pretty freeing for this former hand-holding-aholic.

As we strolled, he told me about our future dates he was going to be planning, telling me once more that he wants to date me, and he will be the most romantic man ever, ever, ever.

We paused at a shop window. I turned to look at him, and he says:
"Don't look at me."

I ask him why. He grabs his chest and says I make his heart go "Pitter-patter".

Pitter.

Patter.

At the end of our date, he asks if he may formally call upon me again. I reply in the affirmative. He hugs me, then tells me that, yep, I'm a good hugger too amidst my many admirable qualities.

For the next few days, a string of calls and texts follow, all telling me how he is pursing me, this is great, this is grand, this is it.

Awkward side note: He did mention how he had to shoot and kill a feral dog once (he wasn't sure what to say about my awkward silence, though he did ask numerous times if I was crying).

But I put aside the killing a dog business, and instead focused on a man who came out of nowhere.

Sad story: He's friends with one of my co-workers. She texted him to see how it was going with me, and I accidentally discovered their conversation when I was looking through her phone at a photo she had taken.

Like a creeper, I read a text message conversation about me. Indeed, he was enamored. I felt secure, for the first time in years upon years.

One night last week, he made mention of a past, a past he needed to tell me about.

His turn came when last Wednesday,  when we met together again. I shared with him a few woes of mine.

He in turn tells me he's still in love with his former fiancée.

Allow me to repeat. Johnny is still in love with his former fiancée.

They broke up a month and a half ago. They spent the week prior to meeting me fighting every night.

He lies awake at night, wondering if she is worth fighting for.

I stare at him.

I offer words of encouragement. I can see him mentally shutting down.

He then asks to go grocery shopping with me.

So, off we went, heavy food shopping. He buys me a beautiful purple water bottle.

At our last stop before dropping me off at my car, I can see this man is fading from me. Any vested interest is leaving. He's conflicted.

Because he's still in love with his former fiancée.

I could say that phrase a million times and never get sick of it.

He sends me a text one night that everything is "tough, confusing, complicated" and the timing is "really, really rough."

And: "I don't know what to do with you, but I'm suddenly afraid to do anything more, even though you're just right."

I suggest he stops talking to me. Because you know, I had no real emotional attachment to this man, and wanted him to be happy, because I'm nice like that.

Plus, I don't want a man who is still in love with his former fiancée.

He tells me he "doesn't want to."

So, while I offer to be his friend, and to encourage him in any way, he does the manly thing and disappears for a few days.

Until tonight, when he tells me he's gone back to the former fiancée that he's in love with, and he hopes to make it work, but oh, he feels horrible for/about me, and he'll never forget about me, and maybe we can be friends, but it's hard being friends with someone you have feelings for, but he wants me to be in touch, but he feels no peace, and he's not very happy, and so on and so forth.

Then he told me he couldn't text anymore tonight because it was making him "feel bad".

If you're going to pursue someone, make sure you're not still in love with your former fiancée.

Just saying.

The One About Online Dating

I have a confession to make.

I have tried online dating.

Last summer, I suffered through the heartache of 2012. After months of moping around feeling sorry for myself, my dear Mother (hi, Mom!) decided it was time for some action to help heal my aching heart.

I was asked to sign up for a dating website, giving it three months. Surely I would find someone.

And boy did I.

Gentleman Number One

We sent each other a few messages. His photos appeared okay. We agreed upon a meeting.

The meeting was about two hours long, over coffee. It was rather non-eventful, and truthfully a little boring. I can only talk about sci-fi for so long.

Parting ways, I thought to myself surely this was a first and last meeting if I ever saw one.

And then came the constant text messages.

I'd respond out of politeness. But when someone constantly asks me what I am up to, it gets a little annoying. I mean, hello, why would you keep saying "I can't stop thinking about you" if you're not getting a response? Sure, I would respond sometimes out of politeness, but his messages far surpassed mine. I was just trying to be nice (story of my life).

Then came the fateful day that he sent me multiple messages, to which I did not respond to. Hours later came the call, to which I did not answer. Checking my voice-mail, he stated that he had driven the two hour drive in hopes of seeing me, you know, just passing through, late in the evening...

 

And that was (almost) the end of Gentleman Number One. He still continued to ask me for dinner dates for weeks afterwards, even after I sent him a "thanks, but no thanks" e-mail.

Gentleman Number Two

He seemed promising enough. Pursuing a PhD in mathematics, I thought this could be a good thing.

Ever hang out with a boy genius? Someone who is socially awkward, and beyond smart? Like, "what planet are you from" intelligent?

I will not divulge into too many details, but here is one thing you should know about me: I take my faith incredibly seriously.

Long story short, this gentleman pulled out a family photo out of a Ziploc bag and described to me, in detail, who his family is.

I asked one very simple question about where his natural father is (he only mentioned a step-father) which led into an incredibly awkward, unsettling conversation, about his father's lifestyle choices.

So, on a first date, in a coffee shop, we got into a debate. Actually, it was in between a debate and a fight. After that ditty was over, I thought for sure I had adequately ticked him off and he'd never want to see me again.

That is, until the next day that I received a three page email saying:
"You now have my complete and undivided attention-I'm not dating anyone else, nor will I start unless I stop dating you first. (Just so there's no confusion, I do believe I want to continue dating you for the foreseeable future.)"

This was after he e-mailed me his schedule so that I could know all of his comings and goings, down to Every. Little. Detail. 




Gentleman Number Three

After the last two guys, I was pretty discouraged.

To be honest, my heart was not into meeting this guy. Not because anything seemed wrong with him from the few messages we had shared, but because it was going to be yet another guy who was probably crazy, and I just wasn't in the mood.

Additionally, though I had never had acne in my life, my face decided that this was the prime time to have a monumental breakout, and according to my father, I looked like a meth addict (Thanks, Dad!) I was pretty ugly, and no amount of make-up could cover it up.

That, and my contacts had also decided to rebel on me, so I spent most of our evening distracted by the sensation of having sand in my eyes. Like, an entire beach worth of sand in my eyeballs.

Anyway, on a freezing cold evening, I parked on Pearl Street and tried to fumble my way through my wallet, looking for change for the parking meter. A few ladies approached me and offered me their ticket, which had a considerable amount of time remaining. Naturally, I thought to myself that this was a sign of good things to come.

Freezing, (in fact, I'm not even sure if freezing is an accurate word for that evening); I made my way to our designated meeting spot.

He met me at the door, and hugged me, (a first, since the previous two guys made it all awkward-like initially, unsure what they should be doing).

My hands, face, and the rest of my body frozen cold, we made our way to our table.

My Mom and I have a text-message code. I would send her an emoticon based upon initial impressions.

:) = Yay!
:( = No!
:/ = WTF? (WTF meaning anything but the intended meaning, because I don't use the F word).

So, the evening progressed. And for the first time, this guy didn't give me the creeps, and he didn't give me reason to argue with him. We had, what I thought, was a decent conversation. Except, if you know me: (and if you don't, just read this sordid story, particularly the third paragraph.) I am one pathetic human being; me and cute boys don't mesh well.

I ordered ice cream for dinner, which according to another guy, this is a bad move on a first date because the guy will automatically assume that these are my eating habits and in no time, I will become morbidly obese, and that's just a nasty first impression.

Gentleman Number Three made a few telling comments, one being that I'm not asking any questions (boy, if only you knew what was going on in this head of mine! I'm paralyzed!) and two, that I live too far away.

I sent my Momma a total of two texts that evening, the first being:
:)

And the second being:
"I'm actually having a good time!"

But then, at a Starbucks, when we sat down to talk, I brought up Kenny G when he told me about his love of music. Seriously, Sarah? KENNY G?!?



Yeah, because if there is any way to impress a potential guy, it's to simultaneously mock his love of music and talk about Kenny G. Nice.

Another disaster that evening was that I decided to be honest, and tell him that so many guys try to go too fast too quick with me. Whilst trying to drive the point home, all I really did was sound like a girl who was way too full of herself.

So while I thought this date was going okay (minus the fact that I couldn't talk, but when I did, I talked about retarded things), he seemed to like me well enough. He even grabbed my hand a few times. Gee whiz!

Until the end of the date, when he walked me to my car.

He hugged me, very tight, and told me he had a great time.

Then he opened my car door and shoved, literally shoved me into my vehicle, and ran away at impressive speed calling out, "I'll talk to you later". Oh no you won't. 

Trust me, I knew.

A whole week went by before he sent me a message stating that among other things, I just didn't appear interested in him.

I tried to re-assure him that this was not true, but you can only beat a dead horse so many times. He was, as they say, just not that into a pimply-faced, irritated eyed, boring, ice-creaming eating, only able to talk about Kenny G, and how-many-guys-have-liked-me kind of girl.

Can't blame him.

Dead Horse


Gentleman Number Four

As I sit here, I have spent a considerable amount of time with my head in my hands trying to figure how to write this portion out.

Within one week of communication, (meaning having not physically met in person), and with us only Skyping, he had decided that he wanted to marry me. (See that, guy number three?! I wasn't exaggerating!)

This is an odd sort of thing, but come on now; I've had multiple events like this in the course of my life. What made it different was after telling him he doesn't know me, and that I could be a crazy serial killer, he tells me that God "vouched" for me, so it's all good.

Disaster struck though, when he asked me via text message what my BRA SIZE is. Seriously, dude? Am I one of those girls?

It got weirder though, when he said:
"I want you to be my wife. That means not only my best friend, but also the object of my desires."

Well fiddly fee.

He got pretty annoyed that I wouldn't divulge this set of details to him, despite his best pleading. Yeah, red flags all over the place.

"I'll just have to accept the fact that you have your own reasons for doing things that don't involve my happiness at this point."

Apparently, I am "so darn attractive that the mystery was killing" him. For bra size? What?

Men, I have to tell you this: Breasts are not all that attractive. I see hundreds a year (because of my job, not because I'm a creeper), and gravity does a number on them. Unless of course, you're attracted to milk glands, milk ducts, fatty and connective tissue, get over it. Don't be a pig. Women are more than their bra size or a pretty face.




Needless to say, I opted to end this relationship before it even started. I had to. I'm not looking for a cheap hook-up. If a relationship starts this way, imagine how it'll turn out. He made a lot of disturbing comments to me, including (but not limited to!) That I give him "Nothing, not even sex". Well, buckaroo, a) I'm not that kind of girl and b) We never even met, so yeah, no hanky panky.

He also made mention of being disappointed in me. Well sir, I am disappointed in you. For shame.

His final text:
"Sorry for losing my temper last night. What I was trying to say it that I need a wife who can be as open with me as I am with her, no matter how sexual or whatever else the conversation is. Doesn't seem like you're that way. However, you're a great girl, and it won't be long before you find someone. If God tells you to keep trying with me, then I'll be receptive to that. But, the ball's in your court at this point. After the way I acted last night, I'm in no position to be in control of the situation. Whatever happens, know that I truly do care about you and wish good things for you. God bless."






People, if you're one of the lucky ones where things work out like they ought, count your blessings.

If you could potentially be interested in someone, just tell them. Ask them out to coffee. Take that chance.

I've spent half my life hoping that it would work out, and the best I've ever gotten after sharing my truest feelings was being called a "freaking woman" (yup, true story). Sometimes it doesn't work out, but you'll never know unless you try.

So, read my words and take them into consideration.

Otherwise....











Dead horse

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