More on the Wii

If there aren't too many preteens/teenagers in the specialty clinic, I wheel in the Wii console and set it up. At least three times over the course of the afternoon, there will be a fight over playing rights; only two kids can play at a time. Most of the time, the child (usually a 13-year-old boy) who is hogging the Wii has a Wii at home. The younger kids and the ones who don't have Wiis often end up watching, in the background. It's a sad sight, because many of the younger kids' parents say, "it's okay, we'll just watch," rather than asking if their kid can have a turn.

This is when I get up from one of the child-size chairs at the art table to negotiate turns. Efforts to achieve peace, or at least recognition of another kid's desire to play, are more exhausting than convincing a posessive toddler to give up a set of crayons. When two kids *finally* agree on a game they both sort of like, it takes a while to set the game up. By then, one of the kids may be called by his nurse, or his specialist, and often insists on playing for "just a minute" in a tone used by petulant five-year olds who don't wanna go to bed at 7:30.

From time to time, I've had the chance to teach younger kids how to play some of the simpler games, such as Wii Sports, and to play multiplayer games with kids who have allergy tests (who have to keep their arms moving) but the main Wii-related duties are drawing peace deals and showing the nurses how to switch the console and TV on. Hopefully, the day will come when the thirteen year old boys have better sharing skills than toddlers. At least in the clinic.

10 Summer Goals: Update

On May 19, 2009, these were my goals for the summer:
1. Get through Chemistry I and II.

2. Refine my inner mother voice at the clinic (the one that tells kids to stop climbing on chairs).

3. Finish weeding the front/back yards and plant tomatoes, peas and flowers (probably snapdragons).

4. Spend time drawing on non-construction paper. Perhaps get some crayons/pastels.

5. Go out and take pictures of the pretty flowers.

6. Get basic kitchen and cleaning supplies/vacuum/pretty lights for future college apartment.

7. Learn how to cook stuff that isn't pasta or brisket.

8. Have quality time with friends, which I had so little of last summer.

9. Read at least 1 book/week.

10. Continue re-learning to ride a bike.

How am I doing?
1. Still in progress. Making the adjustment from liberal arts classes to the hard sciences has been difficult, but having fun bench-mates in lab ("can we make a promise to not have any more explosions?") has made it better.
2. In my early days at the clinic, using my "inner mother voice" meant telling kids to stop climbing on chairs. Since the introduction of the Wii, it has meant telling 12 year old boys who have Wiis at home to play with other kids and take turns. Sadly, it's easier to tell 2 year olds to give back crayons than to tell 12 year olds to take turns playing video games.
3. The garden is progressing nicely; there is 1 tomato starting to grow, some ripening strawberries, and a lot of mint and basil. But it does need weeding again.
4. I'm still drawing on construction paper. My only non-construction paper drawings this summer are diagrams of electron orbitals for Chemistry.
5. Done.
6. Not there yet.
7. Not there yet.
8. This might be difficult, since most of my friends have jobs/internships and/or are out of state, but my one day off (that isn't Shabbos) matches up with at least someone else's usual day off.
9. I've learned the difficult art of making refried bean and salsa tortilla wraps in the microwave.
10. I went out on my mom's bike one Sunday afternoon with my dad. My dad tried to be my training wheels by holding onto the handlebar and jogging along the bike while I pedaled. I didn't fall, but my balance was off and I looked like a total dork.

Glad I'm Not in Public School Anymore

Just finished reading about the Supreme Court ruling on the case of Savana Redding, who was strip searched at her middle school for prescription ibuprofen*. Thankfully, the Court ruled in favor of Redding, 8-1. What was truly disturbing was Clarence Thomas' dissenting opinion, in which he argued that strip-searching was okay because the Court had already passed rulings giving school officials a lot of "leeway" in searching students. He went on to suggest that the ruling was awful because it would suggest wanna-be drug dealers that it's possible to conceal drugs in one's undergarments. As though teenagers would have never heard about the extremes to which people go to conceal illegal drugs inside their bodies.

Another issue the article mentions, but does not elaborate on, is school restrictions on OTC and prescription medications. Redding's school banned OTC and prescription drugs (with the exception, presumably, of the nurse's office). While these bans have the intention of preventing drug abuse/selling, this seems like a small problem in comparison to the needs of students whose well-being, and in some cases, their lives, depend on prescription drugs. Forcing students to excuse themselves from class to go to the nurse's office to get their prescription medicine or to get Tylenol for a headache seems ridiculous after elementary school. For a diabetic with a high blood sugar, or a student with a seizure, who need their medecine immediately, a 3-5 minute wait for medication could have life-threatening consequences. In the much less serious case of a student with a headache, whose ability to concentrate and work would be greatly improved by an OTC pain reliever, the trip to the nurse's office is a waste of missed class time.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090625/ap_on_go_su_co/us_supreme_court_strip_search

The Challenges of "Membership Fees"

When I regularly went to church (two weeks old - sophomore year of high school), the definition of being a church member seemed fairly simple. Babies got baptized, school age children went to church school, 7th graders finished Confirmation and, confirming the promises their parents made for them when they were infants, became church members. On my Confirmation Sunday, I stood with my class and promised to be a good, committed Protestant. I was not expected to pay for the privelege of membership in the community in which I was raised. Some months before I converted to Judaism, I formally ended my church membership. I received a wonderful letter from the senior minister who wished me well on my new path. When I have visited to see family friends and church school classmates, I always felt welcome.

Throughout my conversion process, I was a "regular" at my synagogue, which meant that I attended Sabbath services nearly every week. In addition, I had several meetings with my rabbi. I felt like an "unofficial" member, which was good enough for me. Outside of attending worship services, I was not involved in the synagogue. My freshman year of college, however, I was offered a membership application on Rosh Hashanah. I took it and filled it out, figuring this was my way of paying back. While it felt nice to be "official" at the time, my involvement didn't change or suddenly feel different. Except, of course, when I got letters about membership fees.

In contrast to the Protestant system, in which members give voluntarily during (and outside of) the offering, most synagogues expect people to contribute a fixed portion of their income, or a pre-set fee, in order to be members. At many congregations, there are also charges for seats at High Holy Day services. During my first year of membership at my synagogue, I didn't have a job, so I arranged with the treasurer to pay $15 per month instead of the standard membership and building fees, which added up to over $500 annually.

I was grateful to be able to make this arrangement, since some synagogues don't make exceptions for lower-income or young members. At the same time, it felt embarassing to have to make a special request for the arrangement. While these arrangements are always confidential, they unintentionally set up a dichotomy between those who can pay the membership fee and those who cannot. Letting each person to pay what he/she is able to/wishes to allows people with limited budgets to not feel embarassed or a burden and people with larger budgets to not feel "forced" to support their synagogue financially.

"Discovering" Family Memorabilia

One of the main differences between my house and my paternal grandparents' house is the number of old pictures on display and in storage. Our displays of family photos are limited to a collection of photos on the top of the TV cabinet and a family portrait on top of the piano. The standard display photos are up there - my parent's wedding portrait, high school portraits of my brother and me, a picture of me when I was about 2, and a few pictures of my mother and her sisters. The other photos are stored in neatly organized boxes or albums, in contrast to my grandparents' house, where it's impossible to take 2 steps without seeing a set of family photos.

I thought I had seen most of the family pictures at my house when I was doing the laundry the other day. Some of my maternal grandparents' belongings sit in boxes in the basement, so from time to time I've looked at them while waiting for a load of clothes to finish. One box had a few random, mislabeled manila folders. I lifted up the folders to see if there was anything else, and found an off-white photo album bound with generic yellow tape. There was an assortment of pictures of my mother, her sisters, and their cousins, my two ex-uncles, my maternal grandparents and my great-aunts and great-uncles, photos that had probably been unseen for over 15 years. And all it took to find them was a little laundry-induced boredom.

Moving On Up (to Another Floor)

After four months of coloring and playing video games, I got a call about a possible new assignment, as a volunteer surgical liaison. The position was described in a way that made it sound (to me) like I would be counseling patients' families during/after surgery, and relaying messages from the nurses. The volunteer supervisor thought it would be a good fit; I thought it would be interesting, and give me a better glimpse of what pediatric nurses do. I said yes.

I was told I would be shadowing a retired nurse, who is the current liaison, and pictured a gentle, practical woman with greying hair and little makeup. I was somewhat surprised to see a bright woman with shiny auburn hair, sparkly earrings, light silver eyeliner, and red lipstick. We toured the waiting room, the pre-op unit, the small inpatient unit and the PACU (post-anesthesia care unit), where we spent most of the time.

I learned that the job would entail not only bringing families to the PACU when their children were semi-awake, but also transporting patients to the inpatient unit (if they needed to stay overnight) or to the lobby (to go home). There were also the fine details of the contents of the PACU fridge (juice, ginger ale, popsicles) and where to put dirty laundry. It was noisier than the clinic and it was more intense, for obvious reasons, but I realized that it wasn't overwhelming. 

Part of it, I'm sure, was that you expect small children coming out of surgery to be squirming and crying, appearing both totally unaware of everything and painfully aware of everything. The other was that all the children coming out of the OR had undergone routine, hour-long surgeries and were otherwise very healthy. I knew they'd be okay. 

The realization that I could handle it was a relief. I once came close to giving up on pursuing any "helping" career fearing the emotional burden. I thought I had a choice between avoiding any helping role and being carried away by other people's problems. It's taken a long time to realize that it's not about me vs. everyone else. It's about everyone, in every place, in every time. A pediatric recovery room just happens to be one place.