Author: delilalumbardy@gmail.com

What does a reunion of retired nurses talk about? Of course…the shifts from hell. Most nurses can come up with many through their careers, but there’s always the one that stands out above all others. This is certainly the case for me.

I was working the night shift at a 20-bed hospital in Cozad, Nebraska. Back in the late 70’s they staffed the night shift with one RN and two aides. Occasionally, an LPN would be scheduled instead of an aide. This was the case this notable night…which in many ways was a blessing because the LPN could pass medications and chart where the aides could not. At the beginning of the shift, I anticipated an easier night than usual because of this. But then….various formidable patients began arriving through the unlocked ER entrance. (Had it had a lock, I would have been tempted to use it before the night was over.)

The first one to arrive was an expectant mother, second time around. No big deal, except OB was my least favorite department. (I tended to get diarrhea when I would drive into the parking lot for my shift and see the labor and delivery lights on.) My confidence in this area left something to be desired. But in a small hospital in the seventies, you had no choice. The RN was responsible for all the areas – Med Surg, ER, ICU, and OB. So whenever an OB came in, I’d try to smile, say a desperate silent prayer, and get on with it. This second time mom was sprinting along fairly fast in her contractions….but not delivering before the second OB walked in. Ugh. The nurses had all heard about this particular mom that would be coming in at some point. She had a bicornuate uterus, meaning it is divided partway or all the way by a septum of tissue down the middle. She would be considered high risk when she came in. Her doctor had informed us that she would likely go into labor early. She followed the text book and was checking in tonight at 7 months.

Normally, I would have had my aide or LPN to help get her to bed, allowing me to stay with the first mom. But they were both in the nursery, feeding 5 hungry, crying babies. This many, by the way, was a capacity unknown to our small hospital. I don’t specifically remember, but I have to wonder now if it wasn’t a full moon. Nurses believe in such things.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one under stress. Because I was tied up with the two active OB’s, Marcella, my LPN was now in charge of everything else which included the nursery, the already delivered moms, and the fifteen patients on the med/surg floor. That’s a lot to deal with, even before the emaciated, elderly woman fell out of bed. The stress triggered Marcella’s lungs to protest and immediately sent her into a severe asthma attack. After the aide helped Ms. Crandall back to bed, and determining she was only mildly shook up, she ran down the hall to inform me that Marcella was off duty for a while puffing on a rescue inhaler.

In the meantime, my first OB delivered a thriving baby boy. I was now in the throngs of post partum care – massaging a boggy uterus, taking vital signs, foot-printing the newborn, etc. It had been a while since I’d been able to check on Risky Gal so I scurried down the hall between uterine massages to do just that. This weary Mom was hoping for a report of significant progress following the check. “No change,” I hated to inform her, but secretly glad I would have some time to chart. I stayed with her a few minutes before rushing back down the hall. After witnessing the strength of contractions, I elected to call her physician and give him an update. He ordered an xray to rule out cephalopelvic disproportion, ( too small of a pelvic opening to accommodate the baby’s head.) Back in the seventies we weren’t doing routine sonograms on OB’s in our area. Once the xrays were processed, Jerry, the tech, came to me and said, “Did you know she was having twins?” he said with a very straight face.

“You’re kidding,” I looked for any indication that he was, but couldn’t find it. He ushered me into the radiology department to see for myself. Oh no, I mused. This woman has a bicornuate uterus and a baby on each side of the septum and she’s only seven months along. I could only imagine how small these two babies might be. “Why me, Lord, ” I sputtered. “I don’t even like OB.” 7:00 a.m. wasn’t going to get here fast enough! And wouldn’t you know….now her cervix was beginning to do what it’s supposed to do.

The next call was to the doctor. I knew what he’d say. “Get the Kearney Neonatal Team notified that we are sending her their way.”

That was all fine and good, but that cervix wasn’t having it. She was now 8 cm’s and too late to transport without risking delivery in route. My only saving grace would be the morning shift arriving. I glanced out the window to a welcoming sight. I could make out the houses across the street. Maybe Risky Gal will hold out until reinforcements arrive.

I decided that morning, that Risky Gal deserved to be put in my will. She not only waited for the day shift to arrive but for the Kearney Neonatal Team as well. What’s that verse…oh yeah….weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning. Amen! I sighed with relief because high risk OB is really not my thing. The delivery room was in plentiful and very capable hands. I slipped out to do my night’s charting, and for once I wouldn’t complain about the paperwork.

Until next time, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

Those twin boys would be right around 45 years old now. They had no long term effects from being born early and coming from a bicornuate uterus.

Marcella recovered from her asthma attack soon after using her inhaler and finished out the shift.

The author recovered after a couple of good nights’ rest.

I was too young to remember this story as it happened, but Dad told it to me more than once; always with a twinkle in his blue eyes and a grin on his face.

Learning to hold my pencil correctly, I had worked quite diligently placing meticulous scribbles on a piece of Red Chief tablet paper. After laboriously scribbling my way to the bottom of the paper, I surveyed it carefully, gave a little nod and handed it to Dad.

“Read this,” I said, anxiously awaiting what I would hear.

He paused as if thinking for a bit and then handed it back. “I think you should read it since you wrote it.”

Placing my hands on my hips, I looked up at him and with little patience I said, “YOU KNOW I CAN’T READ.”

As I grew older and enjoyed writing, I of course, became more adept at actually putting down words that made sense. (Thank you to my many English teachers.) But there’s another story written about a message that was unclear to those that it was intended for. This one was much more dramatic than mine and it’s not hard to imagine that it could have been a scene from the “Frankinstein” movie. But alas, it comes straight from the book of Daniel in the Old Testament. Why Frankinsteinish, you ask? Because this message was written with a disembodied hand. And believe me, it got King Belshazzar’s attention as well as the 1000 nobles in attendance to his great feast at the palace in Babylon. Daniel 5:6 tells us King Belshazzar turned pale with fear and the fear gripped him so tightly that his knees knocked together and his legs gave way. These people had to have known that this was no natural occurrence. Whether they put it together that this was happening because they had brought out the sacred goblets the previous King had confiscated from the holy temple in Jerusalem to toast their idols, I’m not sure. What I do know is that this was a slap in God’s face and He was angry.

Even though the three words written on the wall by the disembodied hand – Mene, mene, tekel, parsin –were words these men knew, they had no idea how these words pertained to them. In English these words would mean: numbered, numbered, weighed, divided. Daniel was called to come, based on his reputation for the gift of interpretation. Daniel didn’t give the king what he wanted to hear, but he did give him the truth from God.

“God has numbered your days of your reign and has brought it to an end. You have been weighed on the balances and have failed the test. Your kingdom has been divided and given to the Medes and Persians.”

There was no dillydallying on God’s part. That very night King Belshazzar was killed and Darius the Mede took over the kingdom.

I can’t help but think about how the greatest empire of the time came to ruin in less than an overnight. I also think of how history repeats itself time and time again; yet we so often fail to learn from it. Just as King Belshazzar’s next day was not guaranteed, neither is ours. Today, I’m sitting in front of my computer writing this blog; but tomorrow I may be sitting in heaven at the foot of my Savior. That’s fine with me; it’s right where I want to be. How about you?

Until next time – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

FYI – Ever wonder where the phrase “the writing on the wall came from”? Now you know.

As I headed down highway 20 to the family ranch, I veered off at Johnstown. This was the week of Rodeo Bible Camp and my great niece and nephew were participating. It was only a few minutes after entering the gate of the Brown County Fair and Rodeo grounds that I spotted some of their clan. (There’s seven of them.) I learned rather quickly that Gracelynn – age 10 – was before the judges at that very moment in hopes of winning a saddle for memorizing and reciting the book of Philippians. Yes…the entire book! The saddle would go to the participant with the least mistakes. This was a closed competition, meaning no spectators were allowed so we waited patiently to see how she had done. The smile on her face as she approached us, reassured us that she felt she had done okay, but it would be hours later before the results were announced. When they were, Gracelynn was ecstatic – she had won the saddle!

This great aunt was proud, not to say anything about her parents, siblings and grandparents. I’ve done some scripture memorization myself and have considered it quite a feat when I put one chapter under my belt. I knew how time consuming and mind taxing it is. Gracelynn had been working on it for an entire year. I’m sure she gave up things she would have rather been doing while keeping her mind set on the goal.

In this world of instant gratification and parental indulgence, I wonder how many kids would have desired to take up the challenge this presented. Most of them can get what they want far easier than the way Gracelynn did it.

After witnessing Gracelynn’s excitement of winning the saddle as a reward for her diligent efforts, I had to wonder about the effects of handing over to our kids and grand kids the desires of their hearts. As it turns out, the effects may not be all that good. According to www.kidsinthehouse.com, children with too many things develop shorter attention spans because they have too many options to choose from and they place less value on the things they have. According to the author, spoiling kids doesn’t make them happy, it just makes them spoiled and spoiled children are more likely to grow up to be spoiled adults who will focus on their own needs before others.

Advertising to children is big business and billions per year are spent on targeting children’s desires. Our children and grandchildren see more than 40,000 commercials annually on TV. These advertisers do such a great job that if the child hasn’t wanted it yet, he/she will now. According to doinggoodtogether.org, research has consistently shown that materialism is connected to a decrease in life satisfaction, happiness, anxiety and antisocial behavior. And verywellfamily.com reports that many adults that were overindulged children are now over eaters and over spenders, all while dealing with chronic unhappiness and difficulty coping with reality.

On the upside of this, it’s not too late for parents and grandparents to change the way they do things. Instead of buckling under the pressure of the child’s desires, it would be to our benefit and the child’s to be doing damage control. What is really best for the child? It’s probably not a new toy he needs or in the case of the teenager, a new outfit. It’s our time and love that are the most valuable gifts we can give and they carry no risk of having to deal with the aftermath of materialism later. Children who feel loved through time spent with them are healthier mentally, emotionally, and physically. (extension.sdstate.edu) They are less likely to have behavioral issues and less likely to participate in risky behaviors as teenagers.

In this world of economic stress, it seems wise all the way around to avoid making Christmas something it doesn’t have to be. While keeping it simple and staying out of debt, it may increase your chances of having a well balanced child. Years down the road, it’s not the new toy or the new outfit that will be remembered. It’s the time and love that was given and the relationship that was developed.

Until next time – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

Every one has their favorite kind of story. Maybe it’s adventure. Maybe romance. Maybe sci-fi. Maybe a good mystery. My favorite is the pauper to prince; the underdog to victor kind of story. And if it’s based on truth – all the better. You might not be surprised then to know that two of my favorite movies of all time are “Hoosiers” and “Sea Biscuit”. I started young rooting for the underdog. My favorite children’s book was and still is, Watty Piper’s “The Little Engine that Could”. I’ve considered that these stories appeal to me because my own accomplishments seem quite ordinary…nothing too flashy. It delights me to read of others that have had more grandiose experiences in life.

Knowing this, it would come as little surprise to learn of my intrigue with the adventure of Conrad Reed in 1799. Twelve-year-old Conrad, a poor German immigrant’s son, was fishing in Little Meadow Creek where it meandered through their small farm in North Carolina. A large glistening rock in the creek caught his eye. He lugged it home and told his father where he had found it. His father agreed it was unique, but he had no idea it was a 17 pound gold nugget. What did they do with it? Well…it worked perfectly fine for a doorstop. How many times they walked past this rock over the next three years, not realizing it’s worth, is anyone’s guess. Conrad’s father, John, about this time, decided it might be worth checking with a jeweler to see if it had any value. The shrewd jeweler identified it as gold and after discussing price, they settled on $3.50! This was about a weeks wage in those days, but soon Conrad’s father found out that it was a actually worth $3600.00. He, of course, was not pleased that he had been taken advantage of, but on the upside, he was certain of where he could find more just like it. Thus began the start of the Reed Mine. It became known as the richest mine in the South and it boasted of the 28 pound nugget found there. It was here in North Carolina that the first United States Gold Rush happened. Over the next three decades, 150 pounds of gold was mined from the Reed Mine. Mr. Reed died at the age of 88 – a rich man. Had he not taken the initiative to finally have the nugget examined, he would have led a very different life.

How many times do we walk by our treasures and never give them a thought?

Matthew 13:44 tells us of Jesus explaining the parable of the treasure in a field. Unlike John Conrad, this man knew what the treasure was that he had found. He recognized it’s worth, so much so, that he sold everything he had including his home and used that money to buy the field with the treasure. What was this treasure? With a little digging (no pun intended) we discover that Jesus was using it to represent the Kingdom of God.

So many walk by this treasure every day. It’s not hard to find. A Christian friend can tell you where to find it. A pastor is well equipped to lead you to it. And the inspired Word of God (the Bible) outlines the path to receive it. It’s worth is so much more than Conrad Reed found in his large gold nugget. The gold was worth $3600.00 but no one can put a value on eternal life with God – simply because it’s immeasurable.

Until next time…keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

“Love requires vulnerability. There is no safe investment when a person risks loving. Loving anything will lead to your heart being wrung and possibly broken.” C. S. Lewis

When I read this quote by C.S. Lewis, I thought, “now, that’s a dim look at love.” But as I thought about it, it’s also very true. Love does require vulnerability. Second, it’s not a safe investment. Is there anything more risky than giving your heart to someone? According to the theologian, when we do give our heart to someone it will be wrung and possibly broken. I envision a dish rag being squeezed and twisted until not one more drop of water escapes. When our loved one hurts, we hurt. When they are betrayed, we ache for them. When they die, we grieve over their absence. And if we are the one betrayed by a loved one, it’s as if a large portion of our own heart has died. Bones and wounds can heal, but hearts are sometimes left in such fragmented pieces there seems little hope of putting it back together.

Had I read this quote before risking to love, would I have changed my mind? I don’t think so. It’s a gamble, but often the long awaited payout is worth the pain. Even though, my heart has been wrung and broken different times, I have to admit those same relationships have provided much pleasure and fulfillment at other times.

I believe that the love a mother has for her children is one of the the deepest kinds of love. Because of this, it is an investment that creates the greatest kind of risk …it can leave you flat broke or yielding great dividends. It can do both over the period of a lifetime. It is now estimated that one out of four adult children are estranged from their parents, for one reason or another. Most of the time the estrangement is initiated by the child.

There was a time when both of my sons, (for different reasons) and I had strained relationships. My oldest had undiagnosed bipolar 1 that caused chaos in our relationship and a period of months without communication. The youngest had addiction and homelessness issues that created obstacles in our relationship. Communication was basically limited to when he was desperately in need of something Mom could provide. These were heart wrenching times for me because my love never died; yet the relationships were broken.

I threw a lasso around Isaiah 49:18, pulled the rope tight and didn’t let go. It was a promise that I claimed and thought about every day. Look and see, for all your children will come back to you. As surely as I live,” says the Lord, “they will be like jewels or bridal ornaments for you to display.”

I want to give hope to those that might be in a hard place with their adult children. Hope is something no one can take away from us and indeed, we should never lose hope, no matter how hopeless it seems.

My oldest was diagnosed with his mental illness and treated when he was in his mid to late thirties. My youngest has had sobriety for three years and has a family. I can honestly say, without any hesitation, that I could not ask for better sons. The compassion and love that was once hidden beneath the afflictions has now been freed. Our conversations always end with “I love you” and we don’t take it lightly. I am very proud of the mountains they both have climbed and conquered. They are like jewels that I am proud to display. The difficult times we went through has only sweetened the present. I hope this for anyone that is experiencing detached relationships with their loved ones. Pray and don’t give up.

Until next time…keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

Blog written with permission of both sons.