Numbers: a Thursday Thirteen.

Me, at six

Dear Diaries,

1. SIX. Does anyone being six? I have a vague recollection of being given a Barbie, which was boring and stupid and was immediately put in all manner of peril for me and my friends to rescue. I wore Sears Tuffskin jeans, which made climbing trees easier. I was loved. The world was a safe, predictable place. That was pretty much my world.

I ask you to hold onto the idea of being six for a moment while I share a little about where I work.

2. FOUR. In the state of New Mexico, there are four acute-care hospital units where children under 18 go when they are out of control, psychotic, or suicidal. There used to be more, but nothing is more non-profit than children’s behavioral health, so they’ve all shut down, until just four are left, for a state of over a million people, a state with the seventh highest youth suicide rate in the United States.

3. TWO. In New Mexico, only two of the four acute units are non-profit. Both in Albuquerque, each takes patients from Albuquerque and most of the rest of the state.

4. TWELVE. We have twelve beds total, on the unit.

5. SIXTEEN. We would like to have sixteen beds, but that requires remodeling. Re: above and non-profitability of children’s behavioral health. We make enough to pay the bills. Nothing's left over. Every corner than can be cut has been cut. Most of the children we see live well below the poverty level--New Mexico has the second highest child poverty rate in the nation. Many are in state custody, having been abused, and many have mental retardation, or autism, or both. Every staff member in the unit has bought toys or other supplies out of the their own pockets.

6. ONE. We are the only private non-profit acute psychiatric unit for children in the state. The other non-profit, a university medical sciences center, sends us kids they don't feel they can handle.

7. ONE. I used to be puzzled as to why a major state university health sciences center couldn’t handle a pediatric behavioral patient. Then, one day as we were considering whether to take a patient who required one-to-one staffing, I realized that we needed only to consult one suoervisor, and then a staff member is called in, usually within one day. I suspect that at this other, university-affiliated hospital it requires several requisitions, forms, and an act of the state senate to get more staff.

8. EIGHT. The entire hospital system I work for is run by a foundation. They use extra money to build other hospitals, and now there are eight.

9. EIGHT. I have an ER list set up on my computer that gives me the ages and reasons for being in the ER. No names—just age and reason for being in the ER. It keeps me prepared for possible admissions, because I alone on the unit am the therapist, social worker, and insurance reviewer.

10. ELEVEN. Eleven people are on the board of trustees. Every year they hold a major fundraiser, which benefits some part of the hospital. This year, they chose our unit. The benefit is held in August of every year, and includes a fancy sit-down dinner, comedian, silent auctions, and raffle. Here’s a link.

11. SIX. Remember six? Last week I received a call from a local therapist asking me if I could do a suicide assessment on a six-year-old who is in child protective custody. This child is in treatment foster care and had been hoarding knives and threatening to kill himself. I told the therapist to take him to our emergency room for an evaluation.

12. SIX. Before I left for the day, I consulted the ER list to see if any six-year-olds had been brought in. There was, indeed, a six-year-old who was in the ER for a suicide assessment.

13. In fact, there were TWO.

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Ironically, "Keep Breathing" by Ingrid Michaelson was on my ipod when I rounded the corner and came up on the guy standing just beneath the crest of the hill.

I'd noticed as I ran south in foothills the group of people, but was too far away to see what they were doing. I figured it was hikers, or even a group of folks out praying since, after all, it was Easter.

I switched off my ipod and walked up the hill toward the man, who had his back to me, staring at something I couldn't see. I saw the helicopter, and the EMTs standing in a semi-circle. They were doing chest compressions on--on what?

"Is this a training exercise or a real emergency," I whispered. I'd just had my refresher training in CPR so right away I was thinking: they're practicing on a CPR dummy. But most of those don't have legs.

"Real."

Two others were in dirt-bike riding attire, and there were three dirt bikes. I wasn't sure what to do. It seemed insensitive to walk on by. It seemed insensitive to stop and stare.

EMTs talking to each other in low voices, and into a radio. "They started doing chest compressions when he went down. That was at 9:35." I looked at my watch. It was 9:55. One EMT said something to another in a low voice, "probably not much heart muscle left."

Who would get the call on Easter Sunday, that their husband, father, or brother was gone?

The other two bikers were with him when he went down, after climbing a long hill. From what i could see, this wasn't a frequent activity. One of them told me that whenever they stopped CPR, the guy's pulse would immediately stop. I told them in a low voice that I was sorry for the loss of their friend, and walked quietly away, down a long hill. About 20 yards from the scene I came upon a lone helmet. I left it there.

About a mile later, the helicopter lifted off over the hill and flew south, toward University hospital.

I spent the rest of the day emersed in writing final papers for classes, but during breaks, my thoughts wondered to the mountain biker. Who was missing him already? Or had he, by some miracle, been recusitated? It's not likely. I don't know if I'll know who the guy was.

You hear people talk about how they "want to go" and I suppose that some might think that a beautiful morning in the northern foothills would be it. I don't know. Frankly, the guy's dark hair made me think he should have had more time left than that, and he oughtn't to have gone at all that day. He looked like he might have been my age, although it is hard to tell sometimes.

I don't know if all that I do will actually extend my life. Science says it will. I don't know what kind of genetics I have because most of the people in my family are overeaters and alcoholics, but i do have one Aunt, a retired physician who at 85 still walks to yoga class. She gives me hope that at 46 i am, indeed, middle-aged.

But overall, when I do go, I want to be certain for my family's sake that I did all I could to stay around.

Location:At home.

Tag-ged, I is.

I was tagged by Pirate. Here are the rules:
1) Write your own six word memoir.
2) Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like.
3) Link to the person that tagged you in your post, and to the original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere.
4) Tag at least five more blogs with links.
5) Don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play.
6) Have fun.

So, what to write about in writing about myself. Should I write about my love life?
Kissed some toads, found my prince.

Or, should I write about my professional life:
I clerked, then studied, then taught.

Maybe the whole motherhood thing:
I raised three kids. Oy, vey.

Actually, my 6-word meme won't be as fun as Pirate's were. I'm all introspective and serious and stuff lately as Ironman Coeur D'Alene approaches, like a roaring train in the distance. The whole triathlon/ultra running distance endurance craziness. Some people who know me know that I've had problems in the past with anxiety and that I'm riddled with insecurity. Little thoughts pop into my head from time to time, "You really aren't that special. You just got lucky" anytime I manage to achieve something, anything, that might be considered extraordinary.
If they knew, they'd be unimpressed.

I'm also a bit agoraphobic. I used to be a lot more. Like, I would avoid errands that were very close to my house. I don't think I realized what it was, I just knew that I didn't really feel like going to the cleaners two blocks away, or running an errand for Sweet Baboo that was a mile from home and would have taken all of 30 minutes after work. I was too tired, or just didn't feel like it.
I didn't go the gym. I would sit in bed, all day, on my day off, not even leaving my bedroom.
I don't feel like being outside.

Endurance sports have caused me to face those demons, my "buttons" head on. We talk about people or situations that push our buttons? Endurance sports stomp on on my buttons full force with both feet and I learn, as I deal with it, that it's not as scary as I thought to face them head-on. When I'm running in the woods or biking 100 miles I have to be outside my comfort zones for a long period of time an push, push, push onward even though I'm not all that convinced that I will succeed.

So here's my 6-word memoir, with respect to how I've tried to live my life so far:

Buttons were pushed; I pushed back.

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Anyone reading this: consider yourself tagged!

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