Rumble… Rumble… Roar… Crash… is accompanied by noticeable shaking of the house.
Hubby appears in the bathroom door, “Did you hear that noise? I wonder what that was?”
It is dark outside, so it is hard to see anything. Hubby dons his shoes and disappears out into the blackness. I am wondering if there has been an explosion or fire at one of the neighbors. He soon comes back in to report that it is much simpler than that. The temperature has been above freezing for the last few days and there has been a huge snow slide off of our new steel roof on the back side of the house.
The next morning, I am awakened around 6 a.m. to the same deafening noise again. My heart is pounding at breakneck speed as it attempts to prepare me to flee this terrifying event. Sleep has also fled away. As I peer out into the filtering light of day, there is a huge pile of snow on the deck and on the ground behind the house but nothing serious seems to be wrong – just another snow slide. Then I notice a strange sight. Small pieces of grated metal stick out of the snow at various angles. I soon identify them as the leaf guard sections that we had installed last fall on our eves during the installation of the roof. Well that lasted all of two months.
We have had eves on the house for most of the 23 years we have lived here. As the trees have matured around the house, plugged eves has become more of a problem. Last year, some well-developed trees sprouted high in the sky. The eves on the back side of the house are about 30 feet above the ground so cleaning them is a bit of a challenge. Standing on a ladder on the deck and shoving a garden hose down the length of the eves seemed to provide the most efficient means of cleaning. But there is always a hang up at the downspout. Of course, we had heard of leaf guards and decided that maybe this would be the perfect solutions to our problem. And why not have them installed while having a new roof put on. Problem solved, right?
Our winter came early this year. By early November, zero temperatures and a five-inch snow fall had arrived. A few weeks later, we had a weekend where it alternated between rain and snow for several days. It was just warm enough to produce rain intermingled with the snow. I noticed while looking out our large back window that the snow was melting into the eves just enough to freeze at night intertwined with the grating on the leaf guards. Then one day, I notice that the eve had stretched outward so that it was no longer U shaped but more of an L. Finally, the snow load must have provided enough pressure that it came crashing down, tearing off most of the entrapped leaf guards. I pick up the pieces and slam them on the stone walk to loosen all the ice pieces. With sadness, I dropped them into a garbage bag. I would say this experiment was a failure.
“I hope they didn’t cost very much,” remarks Hubby.
I don’t know and I don’t think I want to know. In the spring, I think the next project is to take the eves off completely and let the water run.
“Can we get together and do something, just the two of us, while you are home from college?” I plead of my daughter. She is in her first year of studying veterinary medicine at Iowa State University in Ames, Iowa and I don’t get to talk to her much, let alone see her.
“You can go with me to Ames on New Year’s Day to pay my lot rent if you would like,” she replies.
“I would love that.” I am excited about spending a day with my daughter. She and her husband have purchased a trailer in a mobile home park that lies just behind the vet school. She lives there during the school year and then she comes home to Minnesota during breaks from school to spend time with her husband.
We drive the 150 miles on a crisp sunny winter day. The temperature hovers around ten degrees. The cold has moved in after a week that began with 50-degree temperatures and ended with a cold front ushered in by rain and high winds. Glare ice on the road of the trailer park greets us as we make the last turn and park by the trailer. Questions of what we will find inside swirl through our minds. Daughter has only been gone two weeks, but her furnace has this habit of going out when the wind blows. We gingerly pick our way up the ice-covered steps and press the storm door handle button. It is covered with ice and does not respond to Daughter’s touch. Great, the door is froze shut. Even a couple of fist poundings does not loosen it. Do we have any de-icer in the car? No, we don’t. Time for a well-aimed kick. This causes it to let loose enough to spring open.
Freezing cold air greets us inside. Not good! The furnace is out. A few steps to the kitchen sink and a quick test of the faucet. Both faucets offer total resistance and will not turn. Oh dear! Not only has the furnace gone out but the water is also frozen. A quick check of the bathroom reveals that the sink there puts out a small trickle, the commode flushes, and the shower runs. So maybe, the situation is not as dire as it seems. The first order of business is to relight the furnace which Daughter has become quite adept at doing. Soon, it is pumping warm air back into the rooms.
“We are going to town to buy you some backup heaters,” is my decision that I share with Daughter. I am hoping that the freezing occurred just over this last night when it turned really cold and that it is not so complete that the pipes have cracked.
Soon, we have two electric space heaters cranking out their heat along with the furnace.
“Just let the water run if it is running at all,” is the advice of my hubby, “and it usually thaws out by itself.”
“The instructions with the space heater say ‘don’t leave unattended’,” I inform Hubby by phone, “and the whole reason we bought them was to leave them unattended. What should we do?”
“They are probably OK to leave if they have a high-limit shut off on them,” is his thought, “but you should probably shut off the water and open the faucets when you leave.”
“I don’t really want to crawl under the trailer looking for the water shut-off,” Daughter storms. “I have no idea where it is.” And it is cold and miserable.
Oh, the joys of owning a trailer. “I will help you.” Together, we venture outdoors to remove some of the skirting to allow Daughter to slither under the dark dank claustrophobic causing space. “I don’t see anything,” She finally informs me. Alright, give up on that idea.
As we relax and wait for the water to thaw, a light bulb goes on in Daughter’s memory. “When I was living with the other girls, their trailer water shut-off was in the closet.” This calls for a trip to the bedroom and a removal of the panel covering the water heater in the closet. Sure enough, there it is. Inside and accessible from the warmth of the bedroom.
A couple of hours later, we really need to head for home if we are to get home in a timely manner. The kitchen sink has thawed to the point that one can turn the faucets on and off and a slow trickle of water is emerging. We are making progress. We turn off the water, leave the faucets open, and leave the space heaters set at 60 degrees. Hopefully, when she comes back in another two weeks everything will be thawed out and back to normal without any issues.
“Safe in Ames. Trying to thaw the trailer,” reads the text two weeks later on her return to Ames, “Nothing has thawed. Kitchen has pencil width. The bathroom has drips.”
Not good! This doesn’t make any sense. The temperatures have been above freezing for most of the two weeks since our trip there and the heaters kept the trailer warm even though the furnace had gone out again. “Dad wants to know if you want us to come down tomorrow and check things over.”
It is a beautiful mid-January day when we pull up at the trailer in Ames. The eves are dripping water as the latest snow melts under the warmth of the sun. A hand turn of the kitchen faucet yields only a small trickle, not even a stream as big as what was running when we left it on New Year’s Day. And now the bathroom faucet has no flow either. How perplexing!
Hubby begins a thorough investigation. The water is definitely on. He crawls under the trailer and looks around. The pipes seem well protected in the floor. There is no water dripping or worse yet, flowing. He removes the panel behind the washer and dryer but can’t see anything. None of this adds up. The water should have thawed out long ago. “You are going to have to call a plumber tomorrow as I can’t find anything wrong,” is the verdict to Daughter.
Unwilling to give up and in desperation, Hubby begins to tear the kitchen faucet apart. Surprise of surprises, brown water pours out! He quickly screws off the little aerator that covers the opening on this and most faucets. It is packed with brown sediment. A bee line to the bathroom reveals the same brown sediment obstructing the faucet there. How silly! This whole time we have had it stuck in our heads that the water is still frozen, not even considering this simple solution to what seemed to be a continuing problem but is actually a different problem. The freezing and thawing have apparently stirred up a bunch of sediment in the pipes and deposited it in the aerators. A plumber would have been laughing all the way home with a tidy sum in his pocket from such a call.
I am reminded of how much of life is often like this. We are so focused on our preconceived ideas about various things that we can’t see the truth because we are stuck in one way of thinking.
At least our journey is not in vain. We get to enjoy the day with our daughter, and she gets to start her new semester with several problems in her trailer resolved. No pipes have burst, and all is well.
“Relieve OR 108,” says the note written on the assignment board as I return from lunch on this scheduled day of surgery. Today is like any other day in my work life as a nurse anesthetist. I make a bathroom stop and then stride into OR 108 to relieve the anesthetist that was previously assigned there. The patient is already asleep and positioned, so all the physical work is pretty much done. The surgical staff is casually chatting as they wait for the surgeon to show up. I take report from my colleague and get settled in for what seems like it should be a rather routine anesthetic.
I now have two places to sign into when entering an operating room- into the charting system and into the drug dispensing system. In just the last couple of weeks, what is called Pyxis A has been installed in some of the rooms. Pyxis A is a drug dispensing system that is stocked with pharmaceuticals that we might need in caring for our patient during the course of an anesthetic. Most of these drugs used to be freely accessible without charging the patient or were gotten from a central drug dispensing system in the hallway or supply room. Now the patient will be charged for each drug used. Definitely, more cost effective for the institution, I would assume.
Change seems to be the order of every day in my workplace. In just one more month, we will be getting a whole new billion-dollar charting system throughout the hospitals. Change always has been a part of the Mayo system for whom I work but changes seem to be coming faster and faster in the last few years. Maybe it is just that I am getting older and no longer have the resilience and energy to quickly make the transitions. My brain is stressed by the continual changing of the rules and policies and systems. There are days when my head literally spins.
As preparation for any emergency that might occur, I make a quick survey of the setup of this room in order to establish in my brain where each supply or drug is located. This is necessary as all the general supplies for patient care have also been relocated to different cupboards and drawers in an effort to make way for the new drug machine and to “standardize.”
Soon the surgeon arrives, and we stop for our “pause” – it always reminds me of the practice of bowing our heads before digging into the food to thank our Heavenly Father. The “start” button is clicked, and we are off… I plunk into my chair to take the load off my feet. Ugh! I realize this is one of the chairs that I find causes my back to ache after about 30 minutes of sitting. I make a call to the anesthesia lead, “Can you bring me one of the chairs from the work room?” I am sure they are rolling their eyes at my request. I have come to realize that if I don’t want to be in agony for 10 hours and want to be able to work a few more years, I have to make some really strange adaptations to preserve my back. Five minutes go by and then a chair is pushed in the door at me with the comment, “Your funny!” Yes, I am.
As I monitor my patient, most of the time I don’t pay much attention to the chatter that goes on on the other side of the drapes, but today I begin to pick up snippets of conversation that grab at my attention.
“I just can’t get this in,” says the surgeon. And to the nurse, “Can you call interventional radiology and see if they can take this patient directly from here?” OK, I need to be part of this conversation. THIS affects me. “Are you thinking of taking this patient to IR?” I question.
“Yes, and it would be in the best interest of the patient to go directly from here rather than waking him up and sedating him again later.”
I would agree with that, but this is not something I was planning on. I have not been to IR more than once in the last 2 years since it was moved downstairs to the main level of the hospital. I don’t usually work there, and I don’t even think I can find it. My anxiety level has shot up a few notches and heat begins to creep out of every pore. Off comes my scrub jacket. This is not how I foresaw my afternoon beginning. I make a phone call to the anesthesia lead and soon the transfer is coordinated and finalized. Now to have someone fetch a monitored transfer cart and get the patient ready.
I turn to find Sam, another nurse anesthetist, standing behind me. “I am supposed to help you take this patient to IR,” he informs me. That sounds like music to my ears. We move our patient to the cart, get him hooked up, tucked in, and I am ready to go once I switch over to the Ambu bag for ventilation on the trip. As we start down the hall, I am struggling to ventilate the patient with my right hand and to steer what seems like a semi with my left hand.
“Sam, can you help me guide the cart before I crash into the wall. I have this habit of paying attention to my patient and not paying much attention to where I am going.”
Kinda like this, not quite this bad
“Why don’t you let me push and steer,” he responds, “And you run ahead and make sure the doors and elevators are open and ready?’
I hesitate for just a second and then I willingly turn it over to this strong young man. It is time to stop trying to be the macho woman I have always been and let the younger generation help me. Soon we arrive at our destination. Many hands are waiting to help flip our patient prone onto the Interventional Radiology table and he is soon comfortably repositioned. Sam helps me with all the tasks of getting the patient in the computer and settled. Before he leaves to go home, he takes the extra time to point out where all the items I might need are stored. My stress level has settled back to a comfortable hum. I can do this. As I think about this whole situation, I realize how just one person has made what seemed like an overwhelming situation into a manageable and even fun one. My co-workers are the best. I think I will nominate Sam for a “Best at Helping Old Ladies” award.