Mistakes and Misunderstandings

I love sewing.

When I make mistakes, I can just take the stitches out. No one can ever find out that I messed it up maybe 3-4 times. I just restitch, put a nice press in the seams, and no one knows I was too dumb to figure it out the first million times. Not that it’s defective when it’s done. It’s just easy to make it perfect even with past mistakes.

With nursing on the other hand, mistakes kill people.

I remember once when I infused total parenteral nutrition through a peripheral IV. It had 15% dextrose in it, and basically ate through the kids’ vien. It hadn’t been infusing long though; I noticed early on that his hand was a bit puffy, then pharmacy called and said the kid needed a central line.

One time I infused a unit of blood too fast. Without incident though; I’d been monitoring the kid every 15 minutes. Don’t know how the hell I calculated the rate incorrectly, or never noticed as many times as I’d been in the room.

Mistakes in both those areas have helped me learn to make fewer errors.

Interpersonal relationships don’t take kindly to mistakes. And mistakes in this area really haven’t taught me anything, or rather, I haven’t learned.

Misunderstandings were the undoing of my relationship with my mom. Somehow she has memories of shouting matches between us that I don’t recall ever happening. Since I’m unable to own those actions, she can’t totally forgive me. Being unforgiven is a poopy feeling.

I haven’t spoken to my sister or brother in a week. I’m sure they feel really poopy about that, and it hasn’t made me feel great. In sha Allah I’ll three-way them when I get off work, see if they want to go see “Jobs.”

The difficulty in undoing mistakes and resolving misunderstandings makes developing interpersonal relationships a real task. I’ve gotten better professionally, since nursing requires a bit of extroversion. But on a personal level, I still need work. The least I can do is try to keep the relationships I have intact, in sha Allah.


Parenting: Ready or not

I was 22, going to college, working, getting my deen straight, etc, when I had an 11 month old kid. Did you double read? I know.

My kid had been in foster care since she was 2 weeks old. The state of Arkansas had removed her from her parents custody. Her dad (my bro) called one night, drunk, begging our parents to “get his baby.”

First thought? “Oh hell naw! A baby? We don’t have the time or capacity for that! My parents are too old for this!”

I listened to my brother beg and beg our parents. It was pathetic. I don’t mean pathetic as in “ugh, pathetic,” but “*sigh* pathetic.” Ya know? Our parents agreed, and my younger brother and I both knew what that meant. We were going to be responsible for a very young child. I told my mom “If we get her, they better not ask for her back.” Attachment issues.

After almost a year of battling the state of Arkansas, Aaliyah arrived.

She was really chunky, didn’t have much hair for an 11 month old, was afraid of water, and couldn’t sit up very well. It was obvious that she was suffering some developmental delays. She had huge dark marks all over her; bruises we assumed. Nursing school later learned me that they were Mongolian spots. Aaliyah didn’t say much, didn’t crawl or pull up like a regular 11 month old. This, I thought, was gonna be rough.

Since I love bebes, and bebes (babies) love meh (me), I was constantly in her face. She wasn’t very interactive, and would only look at me like “what are you doing?” Her foster mom had a dog, so she would pant like a dog. The only other sound she’d make was crying.

Aaliyah was a really sad person. She would just eat and sleep. She never smiled, didn’t respond to playing, and wouldn’t babble. I remained constantly by her and I have no idea why. I just needed her to understand social interaction. I knew that she would come around, and I needed to be there in her face every second.

On the fourth day, I left her in her room so I could go in mine to get dressed. She cried and screamed like it was nobodies business. My mom and brother got her, but it didn’t work. I took her, and she was fine.

The mode was set. I was about to embark on a crazy 5 year journey.

The “born Muslim” assumption

I get tired of being labeled under the “born Muslim” assumptions, as if my life growing up was like that of an Arab or Desi kid. I constantly feel like I’m progressively being marginalized into a smaller and smaller category every time a new “group” of Muslims goes on a crusade. That’s my rant for the day.