A Nursing Kaleidoscope

On Thursdays and Fridays, I set my "harp" alarm for 5am and follow it up with a "fog horn" at 5:15. (I learned the hard way over Summer that the harp, while indeed a lovely awakening, can be easily slept through... and I am still having heart palpitations thinking about racing onto the floor at 0658 with two minutes to spare). I throw on my scrubs and try to do some upkeep to look halfway presentable (it's fine to be schleppy at that time of morning but by a more reasonable hour I'm always glad I put in some effort... even if it's just mascara and pomegranate burts bees lip stuff). By 6am I'm monitoring nextmuni.com for the 6:12 44-O'Shaughnessy, taking bites of cereal between tasking, and thanking my lucky stars I thought to pack my bag the night before. 6:09 rolls around fast and I'm sure my roommates hate me for my clog-heavy dash to the door.

Six months into MEPN, I know there will be a powder blue scrubbed guy at the corner of 6th and Clement in a Giants or Niners jacket depending on the season also waiting for the 44. I know there will be the same lady bus driver and we'll exchange familiar "Getting through! Almost the weekend!" pleasantries. I know four other scrubbed up men and women will get on at 6th and Geary. I lose track after that but once we get out of the park, I notice we are all peaking around the heads in front of us to see if the N is coming down 9th yet... and more importantly, if we can catch it. Half of us make the dash, the other half keep going on to Judah and hike up the hill to the hospital.

On Thursday I made the N, and by 0630 we pulled up to the UCSF stop. I love the moment right after the doors slide open and one by one we clunk down the three steps into the still-dark morning. Me in my green and khaki, them in powder blue, navy blue, and even some hunter green, slate gray, and crimson red scrubs belonging to other providers. Too early and too cold to chat with each other, we move staggered... yet together... from our respective muni doorways, through the most convenient ambulatory care doors, up the first elevator ride of the day, across Parnassus, and into the hospital through the main entrance or through the ED. We are simultaneously illuminated and shadowed under the orange street lights and fog.

That morning I was describing this phenomenon to the only person I will speak to at that ungodly hour, and Clint perfected my initial designation of it as a 'nursing migration'. "It's a nursing kaleidoscope," he counseled. Certainly you have captured its essence the most beautifully, sir.

30 Before 30: #30 Send one handwritten letter every week for a year

In High School, Kayti and Nora used to write me beautiful letters with perfect handwriting and intentional messaging. Certainly not your average sloppy-crinkled-silly-nonsense-notes the kids pass in class. These were elegant and high-sounding. And given to the recipient with the conviction that "the written word is a lost art" and we all have a personal burden to preserve such a rich and important heritage.

Last January 1st, armed with a fresh pack of "carrie elizabeth" personalized card stock and a black pen in hand (always black), I wrote the first letter, made a copy of it, and tucked it into it's envelope for sending. (This is actually a bad example of what the norm of this process was since I wrote my first letter to Jesus and kept it in my folder instead of ecclesiastically sending it into the whim of the cosmos, but bear with me O, Reader).

I had no rules or expectations or plan at all, really, other than to just pick someone each week and write them a note. Oh dear, strike that. There were two loose margins I mentally set for myself: the notes were not to be occasion-driven such as for a birthday, and I would try to say a meaningful thing to the recipient.

For the first seven months of the year, I was fantastically committed. I wrote to friends near (a town over) and far (Paris! Chile!), old DC colleagues, an author I read. I wrote to my parents friends and my ailing mentor from HS and a Lowell Lane neighbor and a childhood friend's dad who started a wonderful film festival in Orinda.

Admittedly, I fell of the wagon pretty hard this Fall. All of a sudden weeks were stacking on top of weeks, and my consistency suffered. But I would carefully count the weeks I was behind, make a mental list of selected recipients, and take the card stock with me to the corner laundromat to grind-write.

And now there are 51 letters out there. If you received a colorful, adorable, whimsical little note card this year with my first and middle name on it, you were one of the 51. I have you all on a list and each of your letters copied and in a folder. This is the selfish part of it, I suppose, because I have incidentally created a 51-entry 2011 journal for myself. I loved writing you these notes, friends. I loved thinking about you and our shared history as I wrote.

Two final (and unrelated) thoughts...
Of course I know there are 52 weeks in the year and I am thus a letter short by admitting I wrote only 51. The 52nd letter has actually always belonged to one recipient, but the letter can't write itself right now. And... that's all this author wishes to say on that matter. What's a literaryesque post without a little emotional mystery, hm? 

Lastly, and importantly... We are indeed a society at risk of losing our letters. The jeopardy the USPS finds itself in is the strongest reflection of this long-arriving paradigm shift. Out of 51 letters sent, I received 5 back. A response on any level was never part of this equation for me, but I am compelled share that pith with you nonetheless.

So... may this be an encouragement to you to splurge on lovely stationery, select your recipients, and share willingly with them as you push the pen.

An Annotated Photography of New Year's Eve

I spotted the ocean

 I watched surfers, like lemmings and then seals

And did not take this for granted:

 Is there anything louder than the whizzing of bees?

It's not a leg lamp, it's a lotus lamp. And now it's mine.

This "return to BevMo" became the main libation:

I exchanged a ball drop for this and a 10:15pm bedtime:

And woke up to 2012.