Yes folks, I'm actually attending a university. I'm at the University of Indiana, in Bloomington, IN. The campus is old and beautiful, inspite of the rain. There's flowers here. I haven't seen a flower since last October. We still have snow in Michigan.
I'm taking a course on people with disabilities. There's around 100 people in my class, from all over the U.S., from Hawaii to New Jersey, from Idaho, Oregon, Florida, and several other states. Mostly parks and recreation departments are here. I'm here to learn what my job is all about.
I'm enjoying it very much, learning a ton. My questions are being answered.
I'll fill you in with more later. I'm very tired. Drove 6 1/2 hours to get here last night, and had 8 hour of class today.
Have a good night and don't forget to recreate.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Yes, I'm stealing....
I am going to post another bloggers words. At this point I don't have her permission, so if she answers my email with a NO, I'll have to delete it. You see, today, I had a rough day at the office. In fact, the whole week has been a mess with various situations. But after reading Notes of an Anesthesioboist, I reconsidered. Compared to her day on March 14, my day was a walk in the park.
I read this gal's writings all the time. I don't know her at all, not even her name. I stumbled upon her blog by accident. None the less, I think of her as a friend, since I read her all the time. I believe she's from the Philippines, and now lives in Boston. She's an anesthesiologist and takes her job very seriously.
When she retires, I hope she becomes a full time writer. She deserves to be published! I sure wish I could write like this, was educated like she, and have the musical talent she has. But if I were, I guess there wouldn't be a need for me anymore, since she is already here and established. Does that make sense?
So, without further ado, here goes...
The Last Day
Today I had to deliver a deeply painful message.
What do you do when you have to tell someone this: I'm sorry, but if we operate on you today, you'll die tonight; if we don't operate, you'll die tomorrow?
The surgeon who called me to confirm this devastating news for a patient was my friend Caroline Walsh, with whom I shared another tough, sad situation described in my Veteran's Day post.
Caroline was asked to evaluate an elderly woman with a terminal illness and a perforated bowel. The woman had a whole host of other conditions that made her what we, with our jargon, would call a "poor surgical candidate." From what Caroline, the ICU nurses, and the chart told me, this was someone who might not survive induction of general anesthesia. In fact, the clinicians who knew her best didn't feel she'd even survive the ride home in the ambulance unless she took with her the drug infusion that was maintaining her blood pressure. The woman had a DNR/DNI order in place.
When I arrived inside the ICU I met the woman's son and daughter-in-law, who was in tears. I spoke to them with Caroline, then was introduced to the woman's husband, who looked weary with grief. Then I went and spoke to the patient herself, a lovely, alert woman with short, wavy, snow-white hair and kind eyes.
I told her if we proceeded with surgery, I would have to intubate her and would likely not be able to remove the tube - ever.
I said the induction of anesthesia posed grave danger to her. Caroline had also already told her she might not survive the surgery or its foreseeable complications under the circumstances.
I told her I was concerned that if we proceeded , we would be unable to honor her wishes - namely, to spend meaningful time with her loved ones, aware of their presence, holding their hands, talking to them.
I told her that what Caroline and I wanted for her, and what she and her family also appeared to want, was for her to be comfortable, and to be able to share in her family's company, not to be hooked up to a ventilator and pressors in the hospital with Caroline and me.
She agreed.
Her husband, son, and daughter-in-law stood by, heavy-hearted, taking this all in. Her other child, a daughter, was on the way. Caroline and I promised to be available to all of them if they had questions, then took our leave. As I exited the ICU I hurled my protective gown and gloves into the trash with a bitter kind of resignation. Another patient for whom we could do nothing. Another family left broken-hearted.
She may have found her way back home with her family as I write this. Tomorrow, or the next day, she will die. As I drove home I had a jumble of thoughts in my head, none easy. Did I say the right things? In the right way? Why is it so hard to remain unruffled by emotions - as Caroline and I did our best to remain, as we were professionally obligated to do - when others are weeping in pain around us? Did the woman and her family feel supported despite our "professional" demeanor? If it were my last day on earth, would I want to know? What would I do? Whom would I want beside me? What do I want to see, do, experience, before that day arrives? How could I bear the pain of knowing I would never see my children's smiling faces, feel my husband's arms around me, again? Never another starlit sky, another warm fire in the hearth at Christmas, another passage of my favorite music, a moment of irrepressible laughter in a cozy home or over a favorite meal... Never again the scent of fruit newly opened, or the aroma of smoke from a candle just blown out...
I know this: the O.R. was not the right place for this lovely woman to spend her last moments, unconscious, bleeding out, with a tube in her windpipe and a bunch of stressed-out docs and nurses scrambling to try and help her survive. She belonged with her family, among those who knew her and loved her best, encircled by love, affection, and human comfort, and I hope that's where she is now.
I read this gal's writings all the time. I don't know her at all, not even her name. I stumbled upon her blog by accident. None the less, I think of her as a friend, since I read her all the time. I believe she's from the Philippines, and now lives in Boston. She's an anesthesiologist and takes her job very seriously.
When she retires, I hope she becomes a full time writer. She deserves to be published! I sure wish I could write like this, was educated like she, and have the musical talent she has. But if I were, I guess there wouldn't be a need for me anymore, since she is already here and established. Does that make sense?
So, without further ado, here goes...
The Last Day
Today I had to deliver a deeply painful message.
What do you do when you have to tell someone this: I'm sorry, but if we operate on you today, you'll die tonight; if we don't operate, you'll die tomorrow?
The surgeon who called me to confirm this devastating news for a patient was my friend Caroline Walsh, with whom I shared another tough, sad situation described in my Veteran's Day post.
Caroline was asked to evaluate an elderly woman with a terminal illness and a perforated bowel. The woman had a whole host of other conditions that made her what we, with our jargon, would call a "poor surgical candidate." From what Caroline, the ICU nurses, and the chart told me, this was someone who might not survive induction of general anesthesia. In fact, the clinicians who knew her best didn't feel she'd even survive the ride home in the ambulance unless she took with her the drug infusion that was maintaining her blood pressure. The woman had a DNR/DNI order in place.
When I arrived inside the ICU I met the woman's son and daughter-in-law, who was in tears. I spoke to them with Caroline, then was introduced to the woman's husband, who looked weary with grief. Then I went and spoke to the patient herself, a lovely, alert woman with short, wavy, snow-white hair and kind eyes.
I told her if we proceeded with surgery, I would have to intubate her and would likely not be able to remove the tube - ever.
I said the induction of anesthesia posed grave danger to her. Caroline had also already told her she might not survive the surgery or its foreseeable complications under the circumstances.
I told her I was concerned that if we proceeded , we would be unable to honor her wishes - namely, to spend meaningful time with her loved ones, aware of their presence, holding their hands, talking to them.
I told her that what Caroline and I wanted for her, and what she and her family also appeared to want, was for her to be comfortable, and to be able to share in her family's company, not to be hooked up to a ventilator and pressors in the hospital with Caroline and me.
She agreed.
Her husband, son, and daughter-in-law stood by, heavy-hearted, taking this all in. Her other child, a daughter, was on the way. Caroline and I promised to be available to all of them if they had questions, then took our leave. As I exited the ICU I hurled my protective gown and gloves into the trash with a bitter kind of resignation. Another patient for whom we could do nothing. Another family left broken-hearted.
She may have found her way back home with her family as I write this. Tomorrow, or the next day, she will die. As I drove home I had a jumble of thoughts in my head, none easy. Did I say the right things? In the right way? Why is it so hard to remain unruffled by emotions - as Caroline and I did our best to remain, as we were professionally obligated to do - when others are weeping in pain around us? Did the woman and her family feel supported despite our "professional" demeanor? If it were my last day on earth, would I want to know? What would I do? Whom would I want beside me? What do I want to see, do, experience, before that day arrives? How could I bear the pain of knowing I would never see my children's smiling faces, feel my husband's arms around me, again? Never another starlit sky, another warm fire in the hearth at Christmas, another passage of my favorite music, a moment of irrepressible laughter in a cozy home or over a favorite meal... Never again the scent of fruit newly opened, or the aroma of smoke from a candle just blown out...
I know this: the O.R. was not the right place for this lovely woman to spend her last moments, unconscious, bleeding out, with a tube in her windpipe and a bunch of stressed-out docs and nurses scrambling to try and help her survive. She belonged with her family, among those who knew her and loved her best, encircled by love, affection, and human comfort, and I hope that's where she is now.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
As I wait, I'll rise up like an Eagle...
Okay here goes. I have to write a story about myself. Secretary and web master (me) Kathy Beebe joined Rotary in 2004. I was recruited by the imfamous Ken Schaeffer. From the get-go I took an active leadership role, as newsletter editor. As other things came up and needed to be done, I always seemed to have my hand up, volunteering to serve the club.
I do a bit of everything. From set up to take down, paper work, record keeping, board meetings, music, computer programming, and writing, I do it all. This includes running around town willy-nilly, soliciting items for the auction, of which I am chairman. I am there for every project and event, doing my best to fulfill my pledge for “service above self”. Needless to say, I love Rotary, but more than the organization itself, I love the Rotarians.
In my “real job” I am Coordinator of Access to Recreation for the Mt. Pleasant
Community Foundation. (See below.) That has led me to work with the Women's Initiative's Speaker Series. Also, I am serving as chair of publicity and promotions for the Isabella County Sesquicentennial, to be held in August of 2009, and will again serve as Rotary Auction Chair this year. I help my pastor's wife with projects for her Women's and Children's ministries when I have a few extra minutes. I am secretary of the Mt Pleasant Women's Forum, which meets once a month as well. (Wow...no wonder I never have time to clean my house.)
In my “real life” I take care of my elderly parents one day each week. That is especially hard since my 86-year-old mother has Alzheimer’s and my father has suffered three strokes. The love of my life is Dr. Bill Beebe of MidMichigan Health and my four very accomplished children, aged 29, 31, 33, and 36. The joy of my life is Leah and Susanna Beebe, my two incredibly beautiful and brilliant granddaughters. I have the priveldge of caring for my two year old Leah on a fairly regular basis.
Joelle, Billy, Hilary, Me, Doc, Jon at the Eagle Award Ceremony. (Ainsley was in Florida)
"I thought we moved to Mt. Pleasant for you,” I recently said to my husband, “But now I know, it was for me.” 
anniversary on March 2nd. Yay Us!
Few couples have what we have. Love, admiration, respect, and high regard for each other. It feels like we just got married yesterday. Praise the Lord! We are truly blessed.
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