A New Year, A New Look

Welcome back! I'm back, and I'm better than ever! And that means that I've decided to move everything on here, over to my new WEBSITE :) I'll keep everything here, but I'll also upload everything here on my new site and keep a link to this blog! All future content will be posted on laughing-life.weebly.com so go check it out!

Somehow, Someway, We Just Do

I thought I knew what pain was, I was wrong. I thought I knew that working in the medical field could be hard, I had no idea what I was about to learn. As I stepped into the room that day, I experienced something I never could have prepared myself for. 

I remember his name, I remember his face, but most of all, I remember his scream. The look of absolute misery on his face, the way the tears streamed down his cheeks, the way his eyes pleaded with us to stop. His scream, his last desperate plea for the pain to end, for his only way of letting us know that he needed something more than our help. 

His cry filled my ears, as I helped hold him down while we took care of him. It was necessary, needed, and yet, so horrible. I had tears in my eyes, and pain in my heart. Knowing that he needed this done, and knowing that it felt like torture to him, but a necessary evil. Realizing that sometimes you have to help hurt, in order to help heal. I went home that day, my thoughts filled with the sound of his scream, wondering how I was going to come back tomorrow, and deal with it all again.

I was astounded, seeing that his pain didn't affect anyone to the extent it did me. I didn't understand. Was I too mushy, too soft? Would I be able to survive there? And then one day, I got it. 

One day, I held another baby down, as they screamed, so the nurse could do what she needed to. I saw tears in her eyes, rolling down her cheek. I saw the way she pleaded with me with her soul. And I realized that we weren't immune to her suffering, but rather, we were used to it. 

Their pain, their sorrow, their struggles, had become a part of me. Somewhere along the line of my work, I realized that I had grown accustomed to hearing, seeing, feeling pain. Somewhere along the line of helping them, I learned to accept the necessary evil of causing a little pain, to relieve a lot of pain. 

Their screams still bother me as much as they did that first day, and yet, somehow, I am used to it. It pains my heart, and yet, makes it stronger, allows me to do my job. Because they need me. I can still hear his screams in my sleep, but I can see his smile too.

There's something special about nurses or nursing assistants. Something special about everyone who works in healthcare. Something that you only see if you're in healthcare, or if your sick. There's a different kind of resilience, a kind that perseveres regardless of situation, emotions, or fears. It's something that your average Joe won't notice, but everyone who works with it does. 

They are superheros, in every sense of the word. 

Hospital Doors

Here's the thing about hospital doors. If they could tell you what they've seen, you would be amazed.

These doors don't discriminate. They have seen wonders and miracles. They have seen tragedies and heartbreak. Sometimes they barely open in time for a trauma to run in. Sometimes they can't open soon enough for a parent to see their child. Every person who crosses that archway has their own story. 

If only these doors could talk. They'd tell you of the horrors of accidents and crashes. They'd tell you of the tangible heartache from the mother sobbing on her knees. They'd tell you of the secret tears of the staff and the way their heart breaks every day. They'd tell you of the struggling lungs' each raspy breath, the babies hearts that never beat, the old mind that will never recover. They'd whisper the heartache after heartache, and death after death.

They'd shout the new lives they saw come into the world. And tell of the lives that were saved. They'd show you the smiles and laughs and hugs. They'd play movies of steps being taken again and of families being reunited. They'd show you the love and the peace that surrounded the rooms. They'd tell you of the millions of miracles they see every day. 

If only you could hear what they hear, and saw what they saw. Maybe then, you'd realize just how special a hospital is.

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

Contact kirstenlake3@gmail.com to order a custom commission, craft, or premade print.

Hey, friends!
I'm so glad you found me! Take a look at some of the designs I offer and shoot me an email if I can create for you. I'm just a lover of hand lettering and crafting and I would love to make something you can enjoy too. :)

Happy trails
Kirsten

Hand Lettered Phrase:
5 x 7: $6.00
7 x 9: $7.50
8 x 11: $10.00
9 x 12: $12.00
With added Water Color: +$3.00

Water Color Print:
Family: $15.00
Family with Background: $20.00
Mountain Home: $10.00 
Moon Phases: $10.00
Custom: Contact me for details

Cards/Invitations:
Birthday: $5.00+
Thank You: $5.00+
Wedding: $10.00+
Holiday: $5.00+
Custom: Contact me for details

Crafts:
Seasonal/Monthly Wreaths: $25.00+
Book Pumpkin: $20.00
Custom: Contact me for details
Hand Embroidered Hats: $30.00

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.