Coffee With Paula

I ❤️ Social Work

Make a difference…I suppose that is the biggest reason I chose Social Work as a career path. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to know that when it’s time for my huge Retirement shindig, the folks that get up and do the talking have worthwhile tidbits to say. (Disclaimer to those that need to know: when I say huge Retirement shindig, I mean it better be a BLOW OUT, the party of the YEAR, an affair to which others compare their affairs for years to come! Ha!) But I wanted to know that the days I spend stressed and tired and squirming because I haven’t been able to find a clean bathroom all day would be worth it. At the end of each day, I want to be able to say, “damn girl, you rock, you still got it”. Do I do that everyday? Heck no! But on occasion, there are those opportunities to feel good about something I accomplished. With all of that chatter about how I want to make a difference in this world, I’d be remiss if I didn’t address how all this “making a difference” business effects my family. Am I really making a difference if my family suffers in the long run?

I missed my kiddo’s sporting event today because I got a call that I needed to add one more patient to my schedule because the spouse was put into the hospital unexpectedly, the patient is chair bound, unable to take care of personal needs alone and has been home alone for a few days now. Yikes!

I was so torn. My social-worker-heart-strings were being tugged…but my poor kiddo. If I left work that second I could get to that game perfectly on time; if I went on that extra visit, I would get home late and miss my kiddo. I say I was torn; the “torn” only lasted approximately a nano-second. My immediate answer to my clinical manager, “send me the information as soon as you can so I can get en route”. I let said kiddo know that mama wouldn’t get home in time to get to the game, that I was sorry and that I hate to miss it but I had to take care of my patient. Are you wondering the response? “Love you too and it’s okay”.

After all was taken care of; visit made, family rallied, physician phoned, clinical managers notified, me seatbelted snuggly back into the car to head to yet another patient (they were so close to the area I just couldn’t pass them by when I was going to already miss the kiddo anyway); I had an epiphany. I have poured enough love and time and interest into my wonderful kiddos that one missed event wasn’t going to squash any little hearts.

You just have to pray that you’ve invested enough time in your spouse and children’s lives for their whole hearts to KNOW that you love them more than anything else in the world; to hopefully make it okay that sometimes, as a Social Worker, there may be someone who needs you more than they do in that one specific moment in time.

Am I sad that I missed my kiddos sporting event? Yes, of course. But do I regret missing that sporting event to help that kind soul that needed someone to intervene and show compassion? Not one ounce. Did I make a difference in that life? Yes, I absolutely did.

That simple reply, “Love you too and it’s okay”, made me smile. That simple reply let me know I may be doing something right. Maybe I’m making a difference in both worlds.

Is Social Work easy? Most certainly not. Is Social Work rewarding? Most days. Do I make a difference in the lives of my patients? Some days. Can I picture myself doing anything else? Heck no…unless they could pay me well enough to be a Walmart greeter…I could totally rock that job…as long as I didn’t have to go smile and make nice before I had my coffee. Ha!

I think I may ponder that greeter position until we meet over coffee again. ~paula

Hot Pants

Stuffing groceries into an already stuffed backseat in the pouring rain is not exactly how I anticipated my afternoon to flow.

The expected afternoon went more like…get groceries, go home, put them up, sip a cup of freshly brewed coffee while curled up on the couch to brainstorm new blog ideas, AT WHICH TIME the rain begins to softly patter onto the year old emerald green metal roof, as relaxation commences.

But, my reality was that the more the rain pounded, the more pissed I got and the harder I slung groceries. Eggs and bread? Who knows where they were; probably under the milk. Did I give one fat rip at that point? Nope. All I cared about was getting home, drying off and trying to recreate a better version of the afternoon. We’ve eaten sandwiches shaped more like kites than squares before and lived through it…we can do it again.

Finally the last bag was tossed into the pile and the car door was slammed tightly shut. The buggy was quickly shoved into its proper place to endure the pelting rain drops until its life is saved by a poor teenager paid to come out into the monsoon.

Turning to head toward the car for a quick escape from the pelting rain, I hear a female voice yell “STOP”, paired with the deafening sound of a car horn blasting. Before I could fully turn to see what transpired, the female voice swiftly moved into my personal space as arms engulfed my being and slammed me to the ground. Her weight and heaving breath sounds surrounded me. Trying to compose myself while lying on the asphalt with sheets of rain and puddles all around, was near impossible. Incredulous, I demand, “What the specific hell do you think you’re doing?!”

As water dripped from her face to mine, incredulous tones met incredulous tones as she spat out, “Saving YOUR ass from getting hit by a Ford that swerved to miss a kid that got loose from his mama. Any chance you could locate a THANKS in that pretty head of yours?!”

As to why we continued that thirty second tyrade still lying crushed together on that drenched asphalt, I’ll never know, and the thought came and went as quickly as the distant lightning bolts; but I wiggled free from underneath her weight and stood up, as did she. Holding onto the side of the car, I steadied myself from the weight of the rain soaked clothes that now clung from head to toe.

Guilt washed over me as nerves settled and thoughts cleared. This tatted, jean clad woman had sprung into action to save my life and I lashed out when only appreciation should have been uttered. I looked down at the ground as the drops slowed to a sprinkle. I could feel her piercing gaze heat my face, as indignant fisted hands were forced into her hips, waiting. Slowly forcing myself to face her again, I gazed up into beautiful browns that had a hint of kindness, but a piercing quality of stern resolve that an apology AND a thank you would be received before she was willing to walk away…I provided both.

My right hand, along with a name was offered with the expectation of the same in return; and that became the second unmet expectation of the day. Deafening silence was all that remained as her eyes scanned my face, a face that was most likely branded with mascara in grotesque smudges. But unwilling to allow the awkward, yet jolting silence to continue, I smiled an uncomfortable smile and whispered “thank you again”. She nodded, turned and walked toward her motorcycle.

Paralyzed in the exact spot she left me, I watched her quickly towel dry her hair, slip on a dry doo rag that she dug haphazardly out of the saddle bag, towel dry the black leather seat, strap her helmet securely under her chin, swing her leg over, right her motorcycle, heel the kickstand into place, and maneuver the machine into position to crank and take off. She gave one last look in my direction that startled my paralyzed stare. And as fast as the encounter had been set into motion, her engine roared and she sped off.

Realizing that my drenched shirt and pants were steaming hot and scalding, I notice the weirdness; rain should be cold. My thoughts become a little more clear, less hazy and as I blink drowsy eyes, I see no parking lot. Only my living room that still needs new paint and new curtains, a television that is still spinning the old familiar hallmark tale of unrequited love that is miraculously turned around approximately two hours later and, of course, a million pieces of dog bedding still remaining on the floor that the miniature dachshund decided he no longer needed while we were out. I must’ve dozed off to sleep as I sipped coffee with you today…the coffee that I now wear on my shirt and in my lap. Headed to change clothes and definitely pour another cup. ~paula

The Chicken or the Egg?

Which came first? I most certainly have never had the desire to debate that age old question. But if I were to find myself in a position where it was necessary, my reply would be something similar to, “You have to have an egg for there to be a chicken, but you also have to have a chicken to lay an egg that would hatch a chicken…but I’m pretty sure Genesis says God came first and created that chicken…not an egg”. I would then, of course, add a quietly whispered and smugly calm “boom” to the end of my 10 second spiel. And because I know that I can sometimes be a solid King James Donkey, I’d simultaneously mimic a mic drop for effect. (King James Donky was totally stolen from a dear cousin. Thanks Jennifer! Ha!)

With all of the loss that has been experienced around me lately, I’ve chosen to get another tattoo that I will get in memory of my precious Mama. My vision is a flowing music staff with the first few notes of Amazing Grace, in the key in which she always played it and a quote that flows with the music, “Music is the sound of life” which was certainly my Mom. Music. The numerous hours I’ve spent thinking of what this tat should symbolize and express also made me begin thinking of my others and their significance. The significance of each was so deep that tears appeared along with the question, “Which came first, the tat or the pain?”

My first tat is a memorial tat for my best social worker friend, Kim, who lost her battle with Leukemia in 2006. I was able to get the original artist to recreate the sun he made just a few years earlier for her. I changed the rays of the sun and added a couple of other touches to make it my own, but that jolly smiling sun reminds me of that never-without-her-lipstick, beautiful, happy soul that has gone on to be with Jesus. It also reminds me of the laughter she created within our little circle and I cherish it to this day. I got it one year after her death and every time the process became too painful I would just remind myself to suck it up because that 45 minute tat process was nothing compared to her pain during that year long battle with Leukemia.

My second tat is a simple quote that I have always loved because it embodies everything I believe manifests a life well-lived. Live, Laugh, Love. I got this tat in memory of two nephews who chose suicide as their answer and a dear friend who used cutting as his. “To Write Love on her Arms” was a movement that I felt so strongly about so I chose to use Live, Laugh, Love as my way to shed light on a dark subject, share the story of hope and write love on my arms for these beautiful souls who can’t seem to find the light.

What came first the tat or the pain? For me, the pain was the beginning. Finding and creating beauty in the midst of pain seems to be the common denominator. Kim’s tat is a beautiful reminder of a life well lived with smiles in the midst of pain. Live, Laugh, Love on my wrist is a beautiful reminder that there is hope and there are other answers that can be chosen. And my “mama tat” will most assuredly symbolize her clinging to a Savior that provided the most Amazing Grace that could ever be provided and her sharing the love of music with her family and countless other families through church and 34 years of teaching elementary music. What a legacy!

Needles and skin are a painful pairing, but often the painful pairing creates beautiful reminders of hope and wonderful memories to be cherished. The pain of depression and grief created my desire for these tats but the pain in the process created a quiet resolve that all can be well again. Not today, but one day.

Hopefully, as we sip our coffee and remember, healing can begin. ~paula

To Write Love on Her Arms

To Write Love on Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide. TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire and also to invest directly into treatment and recover.

http://www.twloha.com

Why do I care if the Young Dr. Brantley has a Pinky Nail?

Overwhelmed and drained, I plopped my behind down on a coffee table in the ICU waiting room yesterday around 3:30pm to embrace, and be embraced by this group of crazies that I call my own. Now don’t worry, my behind was safe from hitting the floor in an embarrassed heap because that coffee table was as sturdy and strong as my Aunt who had just lost her husband of 26 years, unexpectedly, just moments before. Sitting on the edge of that coffee table, as conversations drifted around me, my mind began to ponder what a whirlwind the last several months had been. My Father-in-Law’s death on December 6th, my Mom on January 28th and now my Uncle on April 8th…surreal seems to be the word of the day for us lately. But as I sat amidst the timbre of the huddled whispering voices, I allowed my thoughts to run rampant; thoughts of how my Aunt had embarked on her grief journey just moments before I arrived at the hospital. She had planned to cook meatloaf for lunch, but life dictated that she call the ambulance instead. She had planned to go to Physical Therapy today, but circumstances deemed it necessary for her to make funeral arrangements instead. We plan, we arrange, we schedule as best we can, but when God’s timing says it’s time; it is time.

Have you ever been sitting in a restaurant staring into space, fully lost in your own thoughts as you wait on someone to join you, but suddenly realize you’re staring straight into the eyes of a complete stranger? As fast as your brain can scramble to attention and convince your eyes of the need for retreat, Operation Divert Your Gaze commences. Well, as I sat and pondered on the edge of that laboring coffee table, I found that my gaze had been locked onto an oil canvas of father and son, Dr. Brantley and Dr. Brantley. Two stares looking directly toward me; as entranced with me as I was with them. As I scrutinized father and son, I realized that not only have I never truly looked at that painting, I had also seen it a million times. Why in that moment in time, did someone ordain that I look at that portrait for the first meaningful examination? Why did I need to know that father and son do not really favor, forcing me to then ponder if their lack of similarity on this canvas came from real life truth or was it a choice made only by the artist’s brush stroke? Realizing those answers would not be provided this day, the craziness that is so typical for me erupted and I was fully sidetracked with the fact that it appeared that the young Dr. Brantley had no pinky nail in the portrait. Apparently the deep reverie on life and death and how quickly things can change, had evaporated into thin air as comical thoughts and comments erupted between my Dad and I about the young Dr. Brantley’s pinky nail. (Incase you were wondering, upon closer scrutiny, it appears that the young Dr. Brantley does indeed have a pinky nail and all is well; no artists must be called and chastised.)

But this life on earth is nothing more than a series of happenings; some good, some bad, but all very necessary to make up what is called life; all orchestrated by a God that meets our every need. What became very evident to me is that the same God that supplies all of our needs, provides us with little defense mechanisms that enable us to step away from some of the sorrow that comes our way. Little distractions that seem so mundane, but so appreciated as they hoist some of the load from our burdened shoulders.

I’m giving Him the glory for the young Dr. Brantley’s pinky nail and for what it stood for…His brief little distraction from the sorrow of the day.

Matthew 11:28: “Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” NKJV

Until the next pot is freshly brewed. ~paula

In the Closet

“For the rest of my life I will search for moments full of you”- Anonymous

Nothing could stop my heart from carrying me into her closet. I had to see her clothes, the personal effects that were simply her. Hands that look so much like hers yearned to feel the soft sweaters she had worn, fuzzy socks that kept her feet cozy, crocheted caps that provided warmth for a head no longer covered by hair. The loss felt in my soul was so deafening I could only hear the deep thud of a broken heart and the splash of tears cascading onto the old faded Troy T-shirt I wore.

Moments in time burst through my mind of days past, happier days, when she had worn each article and the memories were a sad but necessary calm to my spirit, a calm that I seek so consistently but I’m rarely able to find. Softly clutching sleeve after sleeve, I allowed the tears to flow and memories to set me free from the labor pains of grief.

When would the next labor pain happen? If it were only that simple. Scheduled labor pains of grief, that only occur when it’s safe, when no one is around, when I’m not busy, when I have time. On the contrary, labor pains of grief happen when you least expect them; when they are ready for you, not when you are ready for them.

What have I learned you might ask? I have learned to just relax through the ebb and flow of grief, much as a laboring mother who toils to bring her newborn child into the world. The pain in labor is not constant, there are moments to catch your breath, moments to enjoy the reprieve. But when the labor pains demand results once more, you have no choice but to allow them to do their work, prep for what is to come, make way for what is new.

If a laboring mother is rewarded with a newborn, what is the result from the labor pains of grief? They, too, give newness in life. When grief has completed its journey within your heart, you will be a new person. No longer the same. You slowly present yourself to the world. A person who not only has loved, but has now also lost. A person who has not only laughed, but has now also cried. A person who has not only felt joy, but has now also felt sorrow. A person that once only thought she could, now knows she can. A person who once was broken in loss, is now finally healed.

Thinking of cups of coffee I’ve shared with my sweet little mama over the years, and smiling. ~paula

Watch your Mouth Young Lady!

Early in my Social Work career, I had a close friend who was a fellow Social Worker. Incase you didn’t know it, us Social Workers tend to stick together. There are not too many that can understand our rude and crude senses of humor; therefore, it takes one to know one. Get it? But back to the topic. Over lunch one day, we were joking and trying to blow off steam from a particularly demanding case load and I remember chuckling through this comment, “When I grow up, I want to have the ability to tell someone to go straight to hell in such a manner that they actually look forward to the trip”. We laughed at that for months to come. And 10+ years later, I still think of it with a fond smile as well as of that dear friend who has since gone on to be with the Lord.

Within my 18 year career as a Social Worker, I have pretty much perfected the ability to discuss topics with families and patients in such a manner that they understand that my heart has their best interest in mind even when I speak words they do not want to hear. No, your precious Mom will most likely not make it through the weekend. Yes, your courageous father who fought in WWII must now have 24 hour caregivers to help with toileting and making certain his meds are given appropriately. Yes, I will be making a DHR report today because I am concerned that you are neglecting the needs of your Uncle who has entrusted you with his care. Yes, my nurse is going to have to begin counting out your narcotics upon each visit as we are concerned that meds are being taken inappropriately. Yes, you must provide a clean workspace for our nurse to provide wound care in an effective, sanitary manner; no dog feces can be visible in said workspace. Yes, I’d like to discuss funeral arrangements with you today, have you thought of where you’d like to be buried or who you might want to conduct your service. I have literally conducted hundreds of conversations where I’ve addressed these specific issues and countless other topics equally difficult. The topics are ever changing. My goal; however, does not. My goals are for these families to feel my compassion, grasp my stern resolve that the issue must be addressed no matter how uncomfortable it must feel and for them to finally feel a compelling pull toward finding a resolution or understanding that meets the needs of all that are involved.

While driving in to work this morning, I was mulling over some of the cases that I would be seeing for the day, preparing my mind for whatever my to-do list put in my path and I had an epiphany while considering a particularly difficult patient. Girl, you finally lived up to your long years ago dream. Now, granted, I don’t find myself telling my patients or families to go straight to hell, though there have been a few that perfectly tried my patience on just the right day and beer and cigarettes were written IN BOLD on my “after 5p” to-do list. But, I have the ability to speak to others in a manner in which I would like to be spoken. I have the ability to convey my thoughts and expertise and experiences and knowledge to these families in a manner in which they can understand so as to make their own decision. I say hard things, but always in the appropriate tone.

So, yes, I confess that there are times when working particularly difficult cases, and wonderful resolutions are implemented, that I may sit back and pat myself on the back briefly. Not long enough to get the “big head” but just long enough to keep up morale. (Ha!) Those are the times when I sort of think to myself, yep girl, you got it.

If my sweet Mama were here to read this, she would definitely have already said, “Watch your mouth young lady”. But then she’d remember where I get my sometimes less than lady-like mouth, and that is my Father who she dearly loved. So, all would have been well…until the next time I spouted something off without thinking.

I’ve enjoyed sharing a cup of coffee with you. I’ll let you know when another fresh pot is ready. ~paula

The Journey Begins

It is actually the most stressful thing in the world, deciding the first sentence of the first blog you have ever created in your life. As the pressure mounts, your mind whirls with topics and phrases that are intended to capture your audience and set the stage for future entries. After you’ve driven yourself almost to the point of insanity, it hits you like a sledge hammer, the first sentence shouldn’t be the most important thing. What happens and transpires within you, as you write, is the most important thing.

So, now that the tension has melted and I can simply share, I need you to know that I am so excited to begin this journey. Grief after the loss of my precious mother on January 28, 2018 is what pushed me to the decision to write. Not to mention, I have always loved journaling, I OWN the gift of gab and have ALWAYS loved to say things for the shock value…so here we are.

To let you know a little about me, I’ll share some of the things that I love, enjoy and of which, can’t seem to get enough. I love worshiping Jesus by serving with the praise team at our church. My mama taught me the love of music and singing and I intend to carry out that life until God says it’s enough. My next love is my family; nothing better than time spent with the folks I call mine. My favorite place on this earth and where I can hear “me” best is a good ol’, white sanded beach where the waves crash out every distraction; leaving only thoughts that are my own. I have many other loves, but these are a great beginning and will have to be enough for now.

Maybe there’s more to learn; maybe we can do that together. We’ll take this journey together and maybe, just maybe, it will all be worth it and become a little more clear as we share a…..cup of Coffee with Paula! (See what I did there? Ha!)

I’ll let you know every time there’s a fresh pot! ~paula

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton

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