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

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.