Stir It Up

I step out into the crisp Brooklyn air to view my first glimpse of morning rays. Half-limping to the subway, I get lost in the ramble of day workers making their commute - coffee cups and newspapers in hand - Manhattan bound. My eyeballs are half swollen shut, too tired from the chaos that ensued the previous evening, but I manage to inch, step-by-step, to the subway.

The train is packed.  45 more minutes of standing. Ahhh, today is the day I test my ability to sleep/stand. My desperate inquiry searches for vacancies only to find disappointment. People! Just feel sorry for me and give a girl a seat already. And then all of a sudden, one man does. I try to resist at first, as I tend to do when men are chivalrous, but my tired gaze is obvious and all I can think is what a nice man and how incredible that he is also a mind reader. Whether it was my tired face or my disheveled mismatched outfit that pinpointed my night shift demeanor, I do not know. 

I analyzed what it felt like to be heading home when everyone else was headed out. Fresh faces and well-rested bodies in ironed and pressed clothing infiltrated my surroundings, singling my limp limbs to a party of one. High heels and 'killer boots' border my blue striped havaianas. Jeez, I don't ever look professional. Scents of French perfume, vanilla lotion and pine aftershave wafted though the crowded car as people shifted awkwardly in their almost synchronized train waltz.

My attention turns to the various genres of reading material that flourish in their hands. One man is fixated on his iPhone, glued like a kid to a video game, deciphering a text message that looks to be angering him. A teenage girl, with high pigtails, dark eye-liner and knee-high socks reads a magazine that seems to be in Japanese. She smirks and laughs out loud. The man to her right is reading the bible. Now...that...is...boring. And that is all it took. My head drops back and I gracefully fall into a slumber, ebbing and flowing with the bobble of the railway. 

Even with the bombardment of busy work, I quite like my job. Give me enough dark chocolate and I easily triple my average 3:00 am energy. It is unsafe, most definitely, particularly with 4 unstable patients (normally, a nurse has no more than 2 in the baby factory), but when less is expected of you, you tend to discover ease hidden in the quandary. 

New York Methodist is in a state of constant disarray. It is one of the thousands of healthcare facilities that have been shafted in result of budget downsizing, like so many of it's national counterparts. Along with multiple buildings in this city, I have taken notice of the ever so subtle slant in the infrastructure as evidenced by the runaway IV poles that always make their way to the south end of the rooms. The walls have seen more jarring hits than state fair bumper cars and unfortunately it suffers from a slight fly infestation dilemma. The equipment is archaic. While listening to the rapid beat of their babies heart rate, patients also hear the static clammer through the decades-old fetal monitors. It baffles me that in the OR, instead of splurging on, lets say a properly working anesthesia panel, they opted for a state of the art stereo system...no joke...that plays non-stop Bob Marley.

One thing is certain though, it is not where you work, but rather with whom you work, that make the long hours and environment worth while. I would say around 90% of my fellow nurses are Jamaican bred. (Brooklyn is the new Kingston town) Some are old and the others young and if strung together, the mileage of dreadlocks could circle upstate at least three times. Everyone be straight up CHILLLLLLIN'...without a care in the world other than what jams 'they be playin' on the radio'. What would most likely drive a charge nurse to suicidal ideation in most facilities, just don't phase the Caribbean sistas' of labor and delivery.

The doctors, are of a slightly different thread. The Fiasconaro family are two Obstetrician brothers that wear jeans with their scrub tops and regularly smoke like chimneys between their scheduled C/sections. With their tan and leathered skin, they look as though they come straight from the cast of the Sopranos...as do all of their patients. I asked one of them where a certain patient was (as she was 100% missing from her room 10 minutes before her surgery). "Doll, let me show you." He walked me down the hall into the waiting room where she was sitting, in her gown, IV inserted and barefoot, shootin' the shit with her family. The funniest part...she was chomping on ice chips...a major no-no prior to any surgery. But, no one seemed to care and it didn't seem to matter. "Just a quick smoke and we will be ready to roll!"

It is safe to assume that this hospital has never received national accreditation for exceptional care (or even knows what is means and how you get it). There are signs all over reading "Eat Healthy. Stay Active. And ask us about surgical weight loss." Sort of like one step forward, two steps back when you're ask your 400 pound, nicotine addicted doctor about how to live healthy. Oh the paradox.

I am sitting on my quasi-front porch which is made up metal prongs not likely suited for human weight, watching the sun diminish in the sky, illuminating bright colors over the East River. For a mere second I forgot I was a.) in a bustling city and b.) on the 5th floor and thought nothing of it when I threw the yoke of my hard boiled egg over the railing. (On African busses...a normal thing to do, in New York high rises...not so much.) Luckily, it landed without notice, just next to the dog-walking couple. Can I blame it on delirium? 

Which is exactly what I was thinking when my Korean neighbor knocked on my door. I opened to see him instantly thrusting a cup and bowl in my direction. His shy eyes turned towards the ground as he softly re-introduced himself. (Our first encounter was a slightly awkward 20 second moment in the hallway last week.) His few words in broken English made me want to package him up and place him on my shelf. 

"My name is Kim (slight bow...mysterious cocktail still in hand). I have here brought you some peach tea and strawberries. I work as graphic design in this building for more than fo' years. My girrfriend is two weeks here from Korea saying she offers you services." 

I take the gift and thank him.

Services? Services? Services? I ponder over and over. What does he mean by that? Laundry and cooking? Massage? Human trafficking? Is this a poisoned syrupy concoction? What have you dipped these strawberries in? Am I a loud neighbor and this is your way of remedying it? Oh no, I have nothing to give in return.

We chat for a few moments and he gently bows out. What a sweet offering from one of my many friendly neighbors. And who says you can't make friends in New York? Pok (the girlfriend) and I will be the best of friends when her 'services' show me how to pickle orange rinds like the ones brewing in this beverage. I can't wait until I can afford a 'thank you' card to slip under their door. 

The weather is migrating in the direction of my favorite time of year. The air is chilling and I see Fall right around the bend which always simmers the intensity within; a seasonal cool-down of my feisty summer blaze in order. I will light my harvest candle and know that even though I am tired and can't seem to fall asleep, there is ease with new friendly neighbors and...'dat evertin' is gonna be alrigh' mon.

The cost of a New York Minute

I am not exaggerating when I say that I spent $15 on laundry last night. New York is sucking my pockets dry...but today, those pockets are clean in every cents of the word. 

The only good news to counter with such aggravating assault on my finances is that I am no longer jobless. (Can I get a virtual high five?) You are reading the words, of the thoughts, from the fingers, of the newest addition to the naughty nurse crew at New York Methodist Hospital. Starting Monday night, I will be bringing into the world Brooklyn's next generation of hipsters and posh bike messengers. I can't say I will be all too surprised when they come out already donning their black, skinny jeans and vinyl belts; so quick to make their parents proud. Here are a few reasons why this job could potentially be very ass kicking...

1.) Brooklyn is one of the more diverse neighborhoods in the country. (Queens trumps it like the royal ace that she is, but this isn't a competition people) I am sure to find a cultural buffet within this particular facet of the big apple: crackheads, Hasidic Jews at least 3-4 times a shift, celebrities, first-time-parents, 8th-time-parents, really sick ones, really paranoid and dramatic ones, maybe a celebrity or two and everything in between.

2.) I will be working the night shift, which at first made me really nervous because I am worse at daytime sleeping than I am at updating this blog regularly, but I was assured by the nurse manager that the night crew is "green". This terminology within the field of nursing guarantees a fresh enclave of coworkers and an instant group of friends. What better place to work the graveyard than in the city that never sleeps? This may be a new beginning for the clubber in me that never was. Time to pump the jams...?

3.) Health insurance. with a lifestyle like mine, I can't believe I have gone over 9 months without it. Jamie + long boarding in crowded areas + biking with no helmet - health insurance + placing hands on dirty subway poles X previous exposure to illnesses that weakens immune systems = bad choice. But it wouldn't be the first one I have made and more than likely, not the last. 

4.) Timing. I start on September 8th and if I hate it (but shall we not be so negative to think that is even an option?), I only endure it for 12 weeks or so because my contract is done on December 6th. Ahhh the beauty. Someone actually had the nerve of saying I was "afraid of commitment". Now would we call it that? I won't even share with you (yet) where the next destination will be. You will have to stay tuned for the Winter update :)

5.) Shelter from the storm. My havoc is not close to the devastation that Gustav has left our southern half, but that all really depends on who you are asking. When I look at the pile of my belongings nestled in Sam and Scott's corner, I see nothing but a couple bags, a random shirt here, a pair of shoes there. I am sure if you were to ask the Mr. and Mrs. though, a different picture would be painted. I soon will be residing in a room of my very own. Free to sling a sock in any direction and able to tromp nude ad lib. I have been assured the space is tiny, but location is everything to a Manhattanite and my new digs really can't be topped. If by rare chance there is room for more than one human to fit, I extend an open invitation to you all. (One...or maybe half...at a time please.)

The adjustment process is still coming together. The nice woman I spoke with today at a bookshop I was perusing, mentioned that it took her FIVE years to acclimate to the craziness of the city. I was taken back by her comment and was just then hit by the unbelievable force this mega-center has on people. What effects will this have on me now and in the long run? I like to think that I am just keeping myself young, preserved in an invisible cocoon of adventure that will one day sneak from the clear blanket, into reality, willing to age like the rest of civilization. Could the constant honking of that bus and the eternal emission of exhaust be counter productive to my life long goal of living to 100? How many healthy cells is this costing me? I pondered this all day as I flirted with both pedestrian traffic and degrading air quality.

I saw where she was coming from when I thought about my first yoga class. It should have sent me on a fast back pedal to Chicago, recognizing all the signs of retreat. There is something about Union Square and downward dogging that just don't mesh and 'Natalie', the she-devil instructor herself, would be the poster child. Her tone and approach were all wrong. No one must have told her that being rude is actually anxiety producing...not reducing. And that criticizing her assistant, a fairly new student, is no way to build a class rooted in exploring personal fears. As she stood, gothic and scary in front of the class, demeaning everyone of us, I glanced around and laughed. Did anyone else notice her lack of niceness? Her un-soothing voice?  The judgment in her stare? No? NO! If her tone were actually a venomous snake, we would be rushing to the hospital. I am not sure any of the other benders even took regard. All she did was 'bullshit, bullshit, bullshit'...the type that loves the sound of her own voice.

So what do you do when you're mining for gold and you strike coal? You simply go elsewhere. Today I found a studio which introduced stretch back into my over-walked legs and subtly infused tranquility back into to my over-stimulated mind. All in a sanctuary that blissfully reminded me of my yogic upbringing.

If I continue to laugh out loud though, as much as I have the past week, I am sure to live long and strong. I saw a man with hair to his knees, on a pair of rollerblades, playing table tennis on the Hudson River. I counted his smile in minutes and it lasted an hour...that is how content he looked. With his shirt off and his man boobs exposed to the world, he was more carefree than most toddlers which made me twinge with jealousy as I struggled to breathe and jog by.

I foresee the next couple weeks being a rocky road of assimilation. I will be pulling more all-nighters in the next three months than all my years in college combined. But I have begun my preparation. I have read the tips that the wise Deepak Chopra has expensively revealed to the common folk and I am fully aware that warm glasses of milk and a fond addiction to sleep aids, are in my future. When those sleepless nights stir within your own sheets, know that a friend to make...is the friend awake. God bless free night time minutes...the one thing that New York can not charge me for.