Ted talk from a sick person

As someone who's currently struggling with a health issue, let me give you a piece of advice:

The reason we (chronically sick people) don't usually tell people what's going on isn't because we don't want anybody to know (in fact, it's really nice to talk about it and tell people). We chose not to bring it up because most people don't know how to react. They usually say, "that sucks," "I'm sorry," or "what can I do to help?" 

We don't need you to tell me that "it sucks," because believe me, WE ALREADY KNOW! And everyone is always "sorry" but that doesn't make the situation any better. Rather, listen to and VALIDATE our feelings. Tell us "that sounds like a rough situation," or "that's a hard thing you have to go through." Ask us about it more, let us help you understand rather than you giving us your prejudged sympathy. Ask us specific questions rather than the generic "what can I do." There GENERALLY isn't anything you "can do." 

Ask how you can help them in certain situations or ask them if there is anything you SHOULDN'T do around them (for instance if someone has chronic pain or fatigue maybe suggest an activity that isn't very active). Be willing just to listen to them talk or vent without interrupting with something you think is relevant when you really don't know what it's like. Your validation, kindness, and friendliness is often enough to bridge the gap of isolation and struggle we feel. 

And DON'T START ACTING WEIRD AROUND THEM. Just because you know more about them doesn't mean they are any different than they were before you knew.

Hospitals Have SuperHeroes

My hands are locked together in the all-too-familiar grip of CPR. The rhythm, the depth, the pace-they all feel natural to me, something I never knew I would become accustomed to. I know, by heart, exactly how the chest feels as it compresses under my arms. I know what it feels like to have ribs cracking under my pressure. I've learned to never look at the face of a child when you are performing CPR; it's too heartbreaking. The sound of the code alarm rings through my head, making me react every time I think I hear it. The beeps of the defibrillator are the beat to a CPR song. Butterflies that used to be beautiful are now a reminder of death-because every dying child gets a beautiful butterfly on their door frame to let us know of their loss. The adrenaline, what once gave me jitters and butterflies, now gives me the strength, clear mind, and the drive to keep going. Knowing exactly what blood tests to run, knowing what meds to give and when, knowing exactly what to do and when to do it-we know.

Our teamwork is flawless, our minds focusing on what matters. Each child is different, and yet, each child is the same. We've done this so many times we don't need to think twice. Each person knows their place and gives a flawless performance. Cardiac arrest, respiratory arrest, code blue. The things we fight against to keep you alive. When your body fails you, we take over. We make calculated moves, giving medicine, breath, and life to a tired body. You fight as hard as you can, and when you can't go on any more, we PROMISE you we will go on for you. We will fight the gods of Hell for a child we just met. We will be covered in blood, sweat, and tears to save your life. We will stop at nothing to give you your life back. We will have nightmares about codes and spin on our heels in the store because we thought we hear a code alarm. We cry and mourn and swear because sometimes this job is harder than anything. We have flashbacks, PTSD, and anxiety. We can stress at the littlest thing because we've seen what it can do at it's worst. We are superheroes. Superheroes who wear capes in the form of scrubs. 

Nurses, techs, doctors, respiratory therapists, pharmacists. HEROES. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. 

Kirsten Creates

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Because I Know

You know why I'm so passionate about vaccinations and wearing seat belts? You know why I'm such an advocate for being an organ donor? Because I know what it feels like to try and save a life when their death could have been prevented.

Because I know what it feels like to perform CPR. I know what it feels like when someone's chest caves inward from your pressure. Because performing CPR is now second nature to me-something I wish I would never be so good at. Because I have seen tiny. little. humans. DIE. Because I have watched hearts break when parents hear that there is nothing more we can do for their child; because I have heard the sound of a grieving parent. Because I have seen 10 perfect little fingers and toes lay completely still. Because I have seen beautiful little porcelain white faces that will never smile, move, eat, or breathe again. 

Because I have watched dozens of people try so very hard to resuscitate someone and fail. Because the image of the girl spewing blood everywhere as we did CPR after a car crash will be forever embedded in my brain. Because I can't drive 30 miles per hour without knowing that even that speed kills. Because I know what it looks like when a cancer patient gets the flu. Because I know what it feels like to do chest compressions on a infant less than a month old. Because I have zipped up a body bag for a perfect child that should still be playing. Because I have cried in my car for the lives lost. Because tiny little coffins that hold tiny little humans exist. Because children have irreversible damage done to their bodies when they shouldn't. 

Because I know what it feels like to try and save a life when their death could have been prevented.

GET YOUR DAMN VACCINATIONS. 

WEAR YOUR DAMN SEAT BELT. 

SAVE LIVES.

Life From a PICU Point of View

I worked in a PICU. One of the hardest, most life changing things I've ever done. I see the world differently now, I see life differently now. I see how precious, how short, how miraculous, life is. I went in looking at life as a naive person, I came out looking at life from a PICU point of view.

You start to see life differently when you've seen someone die. You learn that life throws crazy curve balls that no one can hit. You see, in the PICU, everything isn't sunshine and rainbows. It's hail, and earthquakes, and fires all at once. It's pain, and sorrow, and grief that swallows you whole. It's seeing lives being ripped apart, and families broken, and tears of horrible pain. But it's also flowers, and teddy bears, and cupcakes. Because somewhere in the pain of life, of the PICU, you learn to appreciate the small things-because sometimes those are the only things that are left.

I now enjoy feeling the rain dance on my face because I've held someones head still while a surgeon drilled a hole in their skull. I love the sound of laughter because I've heard the harrowing sounds of a parent crying when their child dies. I don't mind the times my husband leaves his socks on the floor because I know there is a mother right now wishing she could pick her son's socks off the floor. 

I love seeing other people happy because I've held down too many tiny humans for procedures while they were crying in pain. The sound of a baby crying is a sweet sound because I've walked the silent halls of a hospital where babies couldn't cry due to tubes in their mouths. I cherish seeing others falling in love because I have seen the power of a mothers love. Hugs from children remind me that life is short because I've seen what happens when a child is hit by a car. Baby blankets always need to be cute because sometimes it's the happiest thing in the room.

I am passionate about vaccinations because I have seen people DIE from the FLU. I believe that running a marathon is amazing because I've had to be the beating heart for a child too many times when their own tiny heart couldn't. I think of all the baby heart warriors who have heart defects when I hear my husbands heart beating when we hug. I am a registered organ donor because I have seen children live because someone was selfless enough to share what they no longer needed. I am an advocate for type one diabetes because I have seen how it can kill or nearly kill a child.

I see a hard working, efficient team when a child is sick. I see coworkers finding anything to be happy about when their patient dies. I see the laughter that we find in everything because sometimes it's the only way to survive in the PICU. I see the friendships made over cleaning up poop and vomit and the after-work drinks shared after a crazy shift. I've seen the infinite love of good people who deserve nothing but happiness. I've seen the selflessness of nurses, techs, respiratory therapists, doctors, and countless others who give their all to keep others alive. I see people who spend nights, weekends, and holidays away from their families to help you spend the next one with your daughter.

The world would be a better place if everyone had a PICU point of view. People would love harder, fight less, smile more, and really appreciate the small things in life. There would be laughter in the simple things, there would be more vaccinations happening, and there would be less hatred. I hope you'll hug a little tighter and laugh a little more; you'll be amazed at how bright the world looks when you look at it with a PICU point of view.

* PICU stands for pediatric intensive care unit. It is a unit in a hospital for critically ill children from 0 days old to 18 years old. 

It's Who I Am; It's Who We Are

Some days, I don't know why we do it. It seems to hard, too sad, too broken, too heartbreaking. Some days, working in health care seems impossible. And yet, we continue. We fight, we work, we never give up.

Sometimes it's hard. Hard to keep going, hard to fight for so many lives that might not make it. Hard to study, to learn, and remember all the important things about saving lives. It's hard to poke them, and perform procedures on them, and run test after test. It's hard to watch their pain, suffering, cries, and anxieties. Some days it just breaks your heart. 

So, why?

Because there is something inside us that lets us be there for the heartbreaking times. There's something in us that drives us to be the comforter in terrible situations. There's a force within us that let us keep going when everything seems lost. That FORCE, that DRIVE, that SOMETHING is the reason we do what we do. 

It makes us cry when people die, and it laughs with us when our patient can finally tell us a joke. It makes us smile when they eat again, and cheer when they take their first steps after injury. It's the thing within us that lets us leave our families home on holidays, and the thing that drives us to study, to try our best. It is the reason we shed happy tears when a patient rings the cancer-free bell, and when they go home. It's the reason we get so excited when they come back healthy and whole, to visit because they came to love us too.  

It's the love, and the connection we feel for the patients. The way we love their family. The way we care about each and every one of them. The way we learn to appreciate our good times, and have hope during our bad times. It's the miracles we see, the shattered impossibles, and defying the never-will-again's. It's everything we learn, and all the lessons we have yet to be taught. It's the caring, loving, serving, soulful, people that we are. 

Some days, we don't know why we do it, and some days we really wish we didn't do it. But we do. And we will. It's a part of us that we can't ignore. It's a part of us that will never go away, and it's a part of us that we love. Each one of our patients is a part of the quilt that makes up who we are. Each experience, each heart break, each death, each survival, each story. They are why we do it, why we love so great, care so deeply, and fight so hard. It is who we are.

She Was Sick. Really Sick.

She came in sick. They all do. But her? She was a particularly sick child. She came in sick, getting worse by the minute. Her parents brought her in at a good time, they didn't wait too long. It wasn't their fault. She was just a sick, sick kid. 

When we get an admission on our unit (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit), it's like a well practiced routine. Vitals, report, plan of action. We got her vitals, listened to her report, and the brainstorming began. Fluids were given, meds were pushed. I was new, the health care team wasn't. I watched, waited, listened, and did. 

Vein after vein, I.V lines were attempted. A special line to give medication straight to the heart was successfully placed after a couple of tries. We spent hours in that tiny room, crouched over her crib. 

Fluids, meds, ultrasounds, scans, sterile procedures. We tried it all. Because that's what we do. You try what is best, and if that doesn't work you try something new. We. Don't. Give. Up. There's a part of everyone who works in health care that's the same, the part that refuses to give up. Maybe we love a little too hard, and hope a little too much. We get attached-it's inevitable. We see someone hurting, someone sick, and we have to get involved. It's a part of us that you just can't strip away. It's a part of our identity. It's who we are, and why we do it. And it's why we keep doing it, even after the pain, and the loss.

The code alarm went off that afternoon. The sound that makes everyone drop what they are doing and sprint towards a room. The sound that gave me nightmares for the first few months. The sound that means to expect the worst. 

And so I sprinted. We were ready. We've done it hundreds of times. Each of us has a role, we all know it, we all start it. I'm new, but the team isn't. The doctor takes the lead, making orders, ensuring everything is being done. A nurse to push the meds, a nurse to feel the pulse. A pharmacist drawing up medicine, the respiratory therapist bagging the child. One tech drawing labs, another performing chest compressions. And me, standing next in line for compressions. 

I've practiced it dozens of times, been trained over and over on the technique. But there is no way to really be prepared for physically putting your hands on the chest of a person and forcing their heart to beat. Two minutes was up and it was my turn. We switched on a pulse check, and the second they said, "No pulse, continue compressions," my body moved into autopilot and I started my role. The other tech was coaching me, commenting on my recoil and depth, making sure I was going fast enough. Training took over and I did what I had to do. Two minutes later we switched again. 

It's hard. You can't think about it. You have to focus on your job until it's done. And so, while I waited, I watched, focusing on the technique and pace, making sure I was ready to imitate when it was my turn. And then it was and I let my training take over once again. I watch my hands, memorizing their movement, because the second I look away, I'm going to look at the face and you can't look at their face while you are doing chest compressions. You just can't. 

It was during that round of compressions that the doctor turned to talk to the parents. To tell them that there was nothing more we could do. It was then that we were told to stop everything, and the time of death was called. It was then that the parents' hearts were crushed as they fell to the floor in pain. It was then that I have heard some of the most painful cries I've ever heard. 

We quickly and quietly moved our things to let the parents have some time. The strange thing about after a code, is that we don't have time to stop and think about what just happened. There are still sick people and we still have to do our jobs. And doing my job was the only thing that kept me from crying at work that day. Everyone checks on you after a code, because no matter how long you knew the child, or how long the code took or how it went-it. is. hard. It's hard to know that despite the teams best efforts, a child still died. It's hard to know that your hands were the beating heart for a child that is no longer alive. It's hard, and it sucks. It really sucks. For the parents, for the family, for us. 

I sat in my car and cried that day for a long time. I cried for the child, for the loss, and for the pain of that family. I cried for all of us that spent so much time trying to save that child, and I cried for myself, and for the very real pain that I was feeling that day. I learned more lessons about life in that one day that I ever have before. And every time I put my hands on a person and am their beating heart, every time I walk past a room where a person is about to die, every time I come to work and hear of a child that has passed away, I cry. It might not be a lot, but it's what I do. It's how I feel and how I care. It's who I am. No matter how long I've known them, no matter my role in their life, I hurt, and that's okay. 


This article was featured on the website, Love What Matters, along with the article "I'm More than Just a CNA."

http://www.lovewhatmatters.com/its-hard-to-know-your-hands-were-the-beating-heart-for-a-child-who-is-no-longer-alive/

http://www.lovewhatmatters.com/13-31-thats-how-much-i-make-an-hour-because-im-just-a-certified-nursing-assistant/