by Danielle Tantone | 12:51 pm | Faith, Family & Relationships, Nursing, Night Shifts & School
His breaths had slowed to such an interval that by the time they stopped, I stood there for several minutes with my hand on his chest to be sure that it was no longer rising and falling.
I wasn’t entirely sure he really was gone until the nurse came in with her stethoscope and confirmed it. And even then, as I stood by his bedside a few minutes later and watched him, I kept thinking I could still see his chest rise ever so slightly.
Though I had previously sat with both family members and patients close to death, and had even had the strangely beautiful honor of bathing and caring for tiny babies who had died in utero when I worked in Labor and Delivery, this was the first time I had actually seen a person take his final breath, watched him cross over from life to death.
Being the one who stood by his bed in the moment he passed was a blessing and an honor to me.
His death was expected. He was on hospice and had been making the slow decline for months already.
I had only been caring for him for six weeks, laughing as he turned his nose at the pureed meals we tried to feed him and demanding instead a steak, a cheeseburger, a coke.
I couldn’t blame him. Those scoops of pureed food plopped on the plate were anything but appetizing. It seemed a cruel reality that in his final days he couldn’t enjoy his favorite foods, but he had no teeth and couldn’t chew or swallow well. He would aspirate if we tried to give him the foods he so desired.
Thankfully we were able to get him some soda. He would close his eyes and a smile would spread over his face as he sucked up a sip of ice-cold coke through the plastic straw we held in his mouth for him. I wondered what memories the spicy bubbly drink brought back for him.
Sometimes he would share bits and pieces of his life, and I could see glimpses of the man he once was, but it was like trying to imagine technicolor on a black and white drawing, or putting dialogue into a silent movie.
Laying there in that hospice-provided bed in his room in the long-term behavioral care facility I had been working in, I knew he was just a shell of the person he once was.
He could be taciturn and cranky these last few months as he declined. But I loved him anyway.
Even though he rarely wore more than a hospital gown anymore, he often asked me to check his armoire and count his clothes. I guess he wanted to make sure they were all still there. He wanted to wear his glasses and his watch, even though there was nothing much to see and he had nowhere to be.
Sometimes he called me Mama, and other times he told me I was a pretty girl and asked if I was married, praising me for my gentle care. Still other days he angrily swatted at me as I tried to change him or clean him up. He said he wanted to go home and demanded I call his parents. (I didn’t know his exact age, but I was fairly certain his parents were no longer alive.)
In the last few days leading up to his death, he was no longer drinking his Coke or Ensure. We would only moisten his mouth with those little pink swabs dipped in water. The nurses had alerted the hospice that he was in the active phase of dying. It would be a matter of days at most.
When I came in early that morning and checked in on him, I could hear the crackle in his breath, like there was liquid in his lungs – “the death rattle,” the nurse confirmed. He was close.
I asked her if he had any family who would come today. In the days of Coronavirus, imminent death is the only time patients can have visitors, even when they weren’t dying of Covid-19. But no one would come for him, she said.
“I guess we are his family then,” I said, my voice breaking just a little and tears forming in my eyes.
“Yes, I guess we are,” she said, smiling.
At that moment I decided it was my job to make sure he didn’t feel alone or afraid. And so, throughout the day, I peeked in on him frequently even though he was not one of my assigned patients.
I sang to him as I helped the other CNAs give him a final bed bath and change his linens and gown late in the morning. He was still breathing peacefully when they asked me to do a double shift, and I was happy to stay and be there with him, even though it would mean a 16-hour day and missing out on Friday night family time.
A few minutes into the afternoon shift, the nurse told me it would be anytime now, maybe only minutes, so I paused my rounds to stand by his bed and sing some more.
Aside from the hum of his roommate’s oxygen machine, his TV news reporting the latest Covid-19 stats and campaign briefings, and his light snoring on the other side of the curtain that separated their beds, along with various voices and noises from the hall as life went on out there, it was quiet and peaceful in that room. It was hard to even pinpoint the moment when he crossed over from life to death.
I saw him take a slow breath, then many moments passed before he took another. He was staring blankly toward the window, no longer squeezing my hand in recognition when I held it. He was slipping away. I said a quiet, neutral prayer and sang a few more songs.
There was no dramatic final breath. I just watched and waited for another rise and fall of his chest that never came.
After his death was confirmed, the nurse made the necessary calls and arrangements and we gently closed his eyelids and wedged towels under his chin to keep his mouth from gaping open. A few staff members came by to pay their respects.
I had other work to do, but I stopped into his room frequently over the next few hours until a van from the mortuary came to pick up his body. I was the one to answer the call from the front desk that someone was there to pick him up, then run over to the other side of the building where he had pulled up and direct him to the circular drive outside our unit instead.
Such simple, small tasks, but they seemed so important to me.
And then he was gone and his bed was empty. And I went about my day, taking care of all the other residents.
Serving then cleaning up dinner. Finishing the puzzle we had started in the day room earlier that week. Cleaning up messes. Diffusing anxious behaviors. Helping everyone to bed. Charting. Sitting for just a few minutes to visit with a resident and at the same time rest my tired feet. The hours passed quickly.
The next day after sleeping in following my double shift and emotionally draining experience the day before, I attended a virtual memorial service for a woman from my church who had also just passed away. She had been a missionary in Africa for many years – teaching a course called Mending the Soul to people who had endured trauma and abuse, before getting sick with metastatic breast cancer last year. I had only met her a handful of times, but had found her life and work so inspiring.
I had the privilege of visiting her at home a few weeks earlier as she battled her illness. I prepared a few simple meals for her while she rested in bed before my evening shift at the nursing home. I’m so glad I followed my instincts and said yes to the request to serve her, even though I was busy. I wanted to visit with her more that day, share our stories with one another, but she was very tired and I wanted to spend some time with my family before work, so we said we would do it another day. I was sad to hear that she died before I got the chance to visit again.
The memorial was a beautiful celebration of her life of service and love. And as I listened and watched from my comfy couch at home, contemplating her life, my patient’s life and my own life, I thought about how I’d like to be remembered when my time comes.
As I think is common in times like this, I felt both inspired and chagrined by the impact she had made on the people she touched. I felt like I’d only barely begun to make a dent on the great things I’d like to accomplish with my own life, and I wasn’t sure if I had made much of a difference so far.
But toward the end of the service, the speaker shared an African proverb which eased my anxious and constant pursuit to do big things and reminded me that what I was already doing every day was meaningful and important.
“Many small people, who in many small places, do many small things can alter the face of the world.”
I think this is a great reminder to us all to just be present where we are right now.
To do what we can even if it feels small.
To feel all the emotions and not try to numb them.
To love even the unlovable and to do the hard things.
To find and create acceptance, joy, delight and peace in the little things.
To take a breath when we are tired or overwhelmed.
To notice the beauty around us and then take another breath.
It was a reminder that the smallest things are sometimes the greatest things.
by Danielle Tantone | 8:05 am | Faith, Family & Relationships, Health & Wellness
I got tested for Covid-19 on Tuesday. And now I wait for results. At home, quietly. Without going out and about or even seeing extended family. Though I haven’t quarantined from my immediate family, I did have my ex-husband keep the older girls an extra few days until we know for sure. Even though I am almost positive it’s not going to be positive. Even though if I do have it, they have already been exposed because I was with them in the days leading up to the symptoms showing up. I’m taking no unnecessary risks and presuming guilty until proven innocent. And it sucks.
When I told my team leader at work that I was suddenly feeling sick Monday afternoon: headache, dizziness, little nausea, but no fever, though I felt “feverish,” she couldn’t get me out of there fast enough. She gave me a phone number to call for the employee return to work hotline, and pretty much no other instruction. Just get out – away from the moms and babies and the nurses who care for them – do not pass go, do not collect $200.
It was like going to the nurse at school as a kid feeling sick and hoping she would send you home, but instead of just reluctantly calling mom and suggesting you should go home and rest, she kicked you to the curb and told you not to come back until you could prove you didn’t have the plague.
I’m a nursing assistant in Labor and Delivery at the largest hospital in Phoenix and our state is currently experiencing a huge spike in Covid-19 cases, hospitalizations and deaths. They can’t take any unnecessary risks.
But at the same time, many of my friends on Facebook are complaining that they are required to wear a mask when they go out in public. Or even refusing to do so.
I wasn’t going to write about this until I had results…positive or negative. Or maybe not even at all. I haven’t been writing on my blog or even posting on social media much lately. There is so much noise and hate and animosity on social media right now, that I’ve just stayed quiet. Even on my own blog. Frankly I’ve been feeling sad and tired and even a bit hopeless about the state of our world and have far too much going on in my own life to focus on all the BS I can’t control.
A few people have said that they miss my heartfelt and inspiring words, but mostly there is so much noise right now that I’m not sure many people have noticed my absence.
I have friends on the far ends of both sides of the political spectrum, and I fit somewhere in the messy middle, and I have always loved the diversity of viewpoints. But I get so anxious every time I read the angry, hateful things my friends are saying, and how people are politicizing this current unprecedented health crisis. I have friends who refuse to believe what’s really happening and instead hold fast to the idea that someone is pulling the wool over our eyes and trying to take away our freedoms. I have other friends who spew hate toward people who are gathering at rallies and protests.
So much dissension and hate. I hate it.
After I changed out of my scrubs Monday, I sat in the locker room for a few minutes, slightly dismayed and not really sure what I was supposed to do. I had called the hotline but it had only been a recording. I left a voicemail and they said they would return my call within 24 hours.
Do I stop by Employee Health to get a Covid test? I felt tired and achy, and really wanted to curl up in bed. I had been hoping they would send me home, but really wasn’t thinking it might be Covid. Even though of course I have been exposed. We all have at the hospital. But we wear masks, wash hands, sanitize surfaces, and wear full PPE in deliveries and around known positive patients. I have felt mostly safe.
But I could have picked it up outside the hospital too. We have been out and about a little more over the last few weeks.
And though I have been wearing a mask whenever I am in close proximity to people outside my own family and close friends, I take it off whenever I can. It’s bad enough to wear it for 12 hours straight at work. I have been too lax about it, I realize now.
After I clocked out, I stopped by the screening station I walk past each day when I come to work, where they take my temperature and ask if I have any symptoms, and I asked them if they knew what I should do if I do have symptoms. They didn’t know.
I drove to the nearby Occupational Health building, parked in the garage and walked up to the elevator, but a big sign said not to enter if you had any symptoms. So, I turned back around and headed home.
On the way home I called my primary care doctor to see if I could get in there for a test. They were able to give me an appointment for the next day, Tuesday.
By Tuesday I was feeling somewhat better. Just low energy and still a little dizzy and achy. Plus a little sad that not a single person from work had bothered to check in and see how I was feeling. They are supposed to be caring and empathetic nurses and I didn’t feel very cared for. But I got over it. They are busy and focused on their patients. On top of that they are now short-staffed on nursing assistants, thanks to my absence. Most of them probably don’t even know why I’m gone. I’m working on getting a tougher skin and not taking everything so personally. It’s a work in progress.
The test wasn’t too bad. They didn’t swab quite as far back in my nose as I have heard they were doing. Hopefully it is still accurate. Who knows. I won’t have an answer until at least Friday, maybe Monday. They said test results have been running about four business days.
If I do have Covid-19, it’s a very mild case. But here’s the thing. Though my case may be mild, it also could get worse and have lasting effects.
More importantly, I have come into contact with dozens of people over the past few weeks, each of whom has also come into contact with who knows how many people. I saw my parents. I hugged my dad on Father’s Day. What if I gave it to them and their case wasn’t so mild?
I watched my uncle die of Covid-19 two months ago. I have seen patients with it in the hospital. Yes, even in Labor and Delivery. This is not a joke. This is not a political stunt.
Part of me hopes my test is positive, so my family and I will develop antibodies and have some immunity to this so little understood disease. But it most likely is negative. So I hope I get the results fast so I can spend time with my precious family this weekend and return to work next week.
This is such a scary time to be a nursing student and a nursing assistant. Part of me wonders what I am doing, why I would start over in a new career at 45, why I don’t just stay home and write, or focus on one of my many side gigs and business ideas. But I do really like making a difference in a person’s life, one person at a time. So I think I can deal with the red tape, rules, and even politics in order to do so. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can…
by Danielle Tantone | 4:10 pm | Faith, Family & Relationships, Nursing, Night Shifts & School
My precious four-year-old refers to this time as Coronavirus Time. To her it’s a happy time with lots of snuggles and baking.
Even when my Uncle died of Covid-19 last month, I don’t think the dots connected for her. And I’m OK with that. Frankly, I don’t think the dots connect for a lot of us. Even after watching my uncle struggle to breathe as he suffered from the virus, I find it hard to wrap my head around just how much this little virus has changed our society in such a very short time. And I struggle with what’s right and good and helpful, and what’s just not — just like you do.
But this isn’t about that. This is just a personal story of my experience dealing with the death of a loved one in “Coronavirus Time.”
I feel lucky to have been able to go in with my mother to see my Uncle Howie the day before he passed away from Covid-19 — in full PPE: gowns, N95 masks, face shields and gloves. I got to hold his hand (with gloves on), help his caretakers move him into an adjustable hospital bed provided by hospice, sing to him — from Hebrew prayers for healing to 60s hits to make him smile.
By the time we got there, he was unable to speak, though I could tell he was trying to. Whether he wanted to whisper a somber goodbye, an expression of pain or one of his trademark corny jokes, I’ll never know. But I could tell he was still in there, could hear us, and knew that we were there for him.
Not everyone is so lucky to see familiar faces as they breathe their last breaths these days, as hospitals and nursing homes have closed their doors to visitors in order to prevent the spread of Covid-19.Though some hospitals will allow loved ones to visit in “end of life” situations, as we were able to do, this is not always the case.
It was scary to arm myself in personal protective equipment and go into a building where the virus was known to have infected several patients, to come into direct contact with my uncle, who hadn’t been tested yet, but presented with all the symptoms.
Though I work as a nursing assistant in a hospital, I hadn’t yet experienced the donning of full PPE for protection from Covid as I was just coming back after a six-week leave of absence following breast cancer surgery. In my new job in Labor and Delivery, we now have to wear an N95 mask and face shield in most deliveries, as the pushing phase of labor and all that heavy breathing emits droplets into the air. I’ll admit, it’s not easy to breathe through all that, and I worry about the long-term respiratory effects of all of us nursing staff breathing through even the regular surgical masks for 12 hours straight.
But listening to my Uncle Howie struggle to breathe and not being able to do anything was excruciating. He was on oxygen, but his breath still came in quick, irregular and obviously painful rasps. We cleaned his face and mouth, removed his dentures, helped him to sip a little water from the little sponges that I asked the nursing staff to bring in for him.
In that moment, my nursing instincts kicked in and I didn’t really think about the gravity of it all. I just wanted to do whatever I could to make him more comfortable. I feel so very lucky to have been granted that opportunity, and to me it was well worth the risk.
While we were there, the hospice nurse came to check in on him. He told us his death was inevitable now and it wouldn’t be long. He increased his hourly doses of morphine to help his breathing and dull the pain. Uncle Howie passed away before dawn the next morning.
We found out more than a week after his death that he did indeed die of Covid-19. They tested him post-mortem. To me there was never a question. It was just like the images and descriptions I’ve seen of the way the virus ravages the lungs. Still, hearing the actual diagnosis affected me. And reliving the experience of being there, up close and personal, a wave of sadness and anger and grief I had pushed right through before came over me.
I had posted about the visit on Social Media. Here’s what I wrote…
A picture is worth 1000 words. They let my mom and I in to my Uncle Howie’s assisted living facility today in full PPE. (My wonderful sister was there, too, but she stayed outside per my mom’s request. She didn’t really want me to go in either, and I didn’t want her to, but we are both stubborn!)
The facility has been closed to all visitors for more than a month but they make exceptions when someone is near the end of their life.
We were only there for a few hours, but it was an emotional adrenaline rush followed by a big crash. He’s still hanging in there now.
Though he has not been tested, there have been confirmed cases of Covid-19 in his facility. He’s presumed positive based on his symptoms. They won’t take him to the hospital because he’s on hospice now. They are just trying to keep him comfortable.
It was horrible to see him struggling to breathe, but I’m so grateful I was able to be there with my mom. No one should have to face death alone. That’s one of the worst parts about this virus and situation. Hug your loved ones and stay safe.
My sweet Uncle Howie has lived a long and wonderful life, 50 plus years more than he was expected to live. He survived a bad car accident at 25 that put him in a coma for months and left him permanently brain-damaged. But he always had a smile on his face and a corny joke for anyone he came in contact with. He will be missed.
We spoke with the hospice nurse just now and he said he’s resting comfortably and will probably make it through the night. Big hugs
And the next day I posted again after he passed…
Our uncle Howie, Mom’s big brother, died early this morning at his assisted living facility in Phoenix. He would have been 79 this May.
As I said in my post yesterday, he was a loving, joyful man who lived more than 50 years longer than he was expected to after surviving a bad car accident at age 25 that put him in a coma for three months and left him permanently brain damaged. He always wanted to make people smile and told the corniest jokes.
I have so many fond memories of Howie. Before Grandma died, he lived with her in New York and I loved hanging out in his little room at Grandma’s house. He had so many treasures. He walked with a cane but really didn’t seem brain damaged to me. He was just my wonderful uncle.
After Grandma died in 1984, Mom moved Howie here to live in Arizona. He had his own private apartment in a large group home for many years. We would spend hours there on the weekends, mostly just hanging out while my mom made sure Howie was in good shape physically and emotionally. She was so amazing. His primary caretaker with so much weight on her shoulders for so many years. We all are lucky to have her in our lives, but she and Howie had a very special bond.
And having Howie in our life, spending so much time surrounded by the other people at his residence with various disabilities, we learned to love, respect and talk to people who were different. It gave us a compassion and an understanding that I didn’t realize was unique.
Mom moved Howie into the assisted living facility about 10 years ago. Of course he was loved there, too. He was loved everywhere he went.
My mom may not be a nurse, but she showed me what it is to be one, how to take care of a person selflessly, doing the messy jobs, sacrificing time and energy for another person. She taught us how to be a good sister and a good person.
The hardest part for us is not to be able to be together to mourn and celebrate Howie’s life. Because I’m sure he would say that it was a wonderful life. Rest In Peace, Uncle Howie. You will he remembered!
Mourning in a Pandemic
Everything is more complicated when someone dies now. All those things you need to coordinate and take care of, even the funeral or celebration of life, is affected. And there is a distinct lack of the social contact that is so very comforting to the mourning.
For Uncle Howie, we did a very small drive-by funeral at the cemetery. Only immediate family — my mom in her own car, my sister and her family in their own car, my dad in his, and me and my family in ours. The Rabbi, who’s also a close family friend, stood at the graveside maybe 100 feet away (I’m not good at estimating distances). Her words broadcast into our car via FaceTime so we could hear her as well as see her.
We emerged from the cars only briefly for a certain prayer that required us to stand. But mostly, the Rabbi said, for the first time in her life, all bets were off as far as what was “usually to be done” at a Jewish funeral. After the short somber service, each car went its separate way. We didn’t even gather for a meal together after.
We skipped the Shiva all together. Shiva is normally a sitting in time, a bit like a Catholic wake but different. It lasts a week, and relatives and loved ones come visit the mourners and bring food, reminisce and say prayers. Rabbi offered to do it virtually for us, but my mom didn’t want to do that. Some family members still wanted to send us meals, so we spread out in the grassy common area behind my mom’s condo with blankets and tables, and tried to keep the kids at least six feet away from their cousins.
A few days later, we met on my sister’s driveway and dined on Italian food.
I have seen friends grapple with the death of their own loved ones in recent weeks. Everything is hard. From not being able to visit them sick in the hospital, to recovering their things, to planning funerals and celebrations of life.
Life is just different now. And death is too. But we take a breath and we move on. And perhaps we are just a bit more thankful for each breath we do take.
by Danielle Tantone | 11:33 am | Faith, Family & Relationships
I awake in the middle of the night with a tightness in my belly, a heaviness in my chest. I have been working on identifying negative emotions and sitting with them for a while, rather than simply trying to stuff them or numb them. I ask my body what’s wrong, why do I feel this way? I take some deep, cleansing breaths.
This week has been tough. Emotionally draining. I’ve just spent two days straight - two emotionally wrought 12-hour shifts - in just one room of one hospital, caring for a dying patient in the middle of a pandemic. Though his illness had nothing to do with Covid-19, it was juxtaposed against its backdrop, which has become all-encompassing to us all, especially at the hospital.
But as I sit with my emotion and feel my heartache in the wee hours of the morning, I realize that my insomnia and stress have more to do with a different juxtaposition, one which is always poignant to me personally but feels even more so this year with social distancing and virtual services making it easier for the two sides of my faith to collide in a way that isn’t nearly as harmonious as I wish it were.
As most of the world knows, this is Holy Week, the week leading up to Easter. Yesterday was Good Friday.
But it’s also Passover, the Jewish holiday which commemorates the liberation of the Israelites from Egyptian slavery. As both a Jew and a Christian, the rich shared symbolism of the two holidays, to me, is too obvious to deny, the Passover story God’s perfect foreshadowing of the Easter story. They are intimately related and inseparable.
In French, even the word for the two holidays is almost identical. (Almost. But not quite. The subtle differences themselves strikingly symbolic and utterly interesting to me, a bit of a linguistic nerd.
Many of my Christian friends are fascinated by my Jewish background, and love hearing the details of the Passover Seder that the Jews have celebrated for thousands of years. They immediately recognize the history of the story and the symbols that correspond directly to the tenets of the Christian faith. It helps give context to what Jesus, a Jew, would have been celebrating during the Last Supper, and the significance of what was happening in Jerusalem leading up to his execution on the cross.
But for my family and friends who are Jewish - and not Christian, it’s not that way at all. They see it as putting a Christian slant on something that happened thousands of years before Jesus was even born. A festival that Jesus may have celebrated as a Jew, but that had absolutely nothing to do with the story of his life, death, and supposed resurrection.
And I’m caught in the middle between two sides of a coin, both of which I see and understand so clearly.
I usually bite my tongue and refrain from tying the two holidays and faiths together at our family’s Passover Seder out of deep respect and empathy for my mom, whose heart was broken when I became a Christian 16 years ago, but who loves me anyway and supports me even when it hurts her.
I generally keep my mouth shut about anything Christian when I’m around my family, even being careful not to mention church or bible study too much. I compartmentalize for their sake. Though for me there is no compartmentalization.
The other night our church did an online Passover Seder led by another member of our church who was raised Jewish and became a believer later in life. It was on Facebook Live and I joined the broadcast a few minutes late, on my way home from work. I had almost forgotten about it and I texted my husband to see if he and the kids were watching. He said yes, and your mom is too!
I felt a wave of hope and happiness that she was watching. I desperately want her to be able to see my perspective, even if she never adopts it as her own.
As I watched the intimate service on my phone, driving down the near-empty freeway, I was struck by the strikingly Jewish flavor and tone of the Seder compared to other Christian Seders I have attended, the way he went through the service sitting at his dining room table, just like the Jews do every year, but then added the Christian significance of the symbols.
He was sharing his family’s Seder (Family consisted of just him and his wife this year, because, well…social distancing) with a congregation of Christians who wouldn’t normally get such an insider’s view, inviting them into the experience, educating them about the Jewish history, the Passover story, and its significance to us as Christians. Being both Jewish and Christian, it was very special to me that our church decided to broadcast this.
But my mom was turned off at the first mention that one of the items on the highly symbolic Seder plate could have a double meaning and also point to something else, that God could have meant even more than what the Jews had been celebrating for thousands of years.
The fact that Christians could look at these Jewish symbols, at “her” holiday, as having a Christian significance actually offended her, and she promptly turned off the broadcast after the leader suggested the possibility that the three matzos, in addition to their Jewish significance, may also be symbolic of the Holy Trinity.
At first, I was sad and even a little angry when she told me she was offended. How could you be offended by hearing someone’s perspective that is different from your own, by listening to someone else’s beliefs, I asked her. You taught me to be open-minded and tolerant of others.
But I soon understood that this is personal. She feels robbed. She feels like Christians have stolen what was hers and tried to make it their own.
My husband, Michael gave a perfect metaphor as he thought about it and tried to understand what made her feel that way…
Imagine you write a book. It’s a memoir, your life story. You write it and you publish it, and it’s done. Read and studied by millions of people around the world. Then someone else comes around and writes another book. But they don’t call it another book. They call it the second half of your book, your very own life story. And they try to call the whole thing their book, our book, one whole book. They say that everything you wrote in your book points to what is in their book. But no! That was your book! They stole your book. They added on to your book, which was already written, complete. And they made up a whole new story, completely separate from anything you intended, but eerily tied to references in your book. Which would be easy to do since your book was already written! All they had to do was read it and write their new book to fit the references.
Wow. As an aspiring author, I can feel the pain, betrayal and even anger that would incite at such a visceral level. If I had written my memoir and then someone else tried to add onto it and call the whole thing their own, I would be furious. That’s outright plagiarism.
And at the very same time, I truly believe that the whole Bible really is God’s book, that though it (both the Old and the New Testaments) was written by men, God himself breathed it into life. And I really do believe that it truly does all point to Jesus, and always did. I believe God has opened my eyes to a truth that I just couldn’t see before.
But I cannot make my people see it that way, no matter how hard I try. And even the fact that I do see it that way is hurtful to them. And that fact hurts my heart and makes me feel all tangled up inside. Torn between two worlds that are more diametrically opposed than I’d like to believe. I’m both fully Jewish and fully Christian. An oxymoron and an impossibility. A paradox.
And it’s a paradox that even though I have so much to celebrate this week - both my ancestors’ exodus from slavery in Egypt and Jesus sacrificing himself for me, becoming the ultimate Paschal lamb - my joy is shrouded by pain.
But maybe joy is always shrouded by pain, and we are always surrounded by paradoxes. Especially during a pandemic.
by Danielle Tantone | 9:07 am | Faith, Family & Relationships, Health & Wellness
My, how life can change in a week! Last week I posted an article about how we were still going to Disneyland despite my recent surgery and the Coronavirus, which at the time, was just shy of an official pandemic.
We had a wonderful trip and made fabulous memories, rented an electric scooter which zoomed me through Disneyland and got us to the front of at least a few lines. I’m so glad we got to go before the world changed, social distancing became the norm and you could no longer buy toilet paper in the normal way.
Today, I’m relaxing on the couch in pajamas and a cuddly robe, an afghan over my legs, ignoring the emails that pop into my inbox every few minutes from every company I’ve ever done business with, letting me know how they are handling the Coronavirus.
Though the early morning couch time isn’t so unusual since I love waking up early to write while the rest of my family sleeps in, and I’ve been less active recently as I recovered from surgery, the world seems eerily quiet today – and the fact that I’m nursing a sore throat, headache and body aches is a harsh reminder of the current state of the world.
The only one up after a busy day of semi-quarantine with my three kids and husband, I just took the second dose of the antibiotic I was prescribed yesterday for strep throat. My 11-year-old daughter Kate and I both started feeling sick Friday evening – which would normally be far from blog-worthy, but as new revelations surface each day in this crazy modern pandemic freak show world we are living in, it’s hard not to be just a teeny bit worried.
Doc said Kate’s is a recurrence or residual of an ear and sinus infection she had several weeks ago that is making her feel dizzy and causing her headache and elevated temp. And my throat is classic strep. I’ve had it enough times to know what it feels like.
But I can’t help but wonder if we didn’t also pick up this dreaded Coronavirus from one of the many surfaces we couldn’t help but touch at Disneyland this week, or by getting just a little too close to an unknown carrier in one of the many long lines we waited. We were as careful as you can be with three kids at Disneyland, using hand sanitizer before and after each ride, just like I do when entering and exiting a patient’s room at the hospital, washing with soap and water also throughout the day, trying not to touch our faces.
They didn’t test us for Coronavirus at the urgent care yesterday. At this point, they are only testing people with severe symptoms and a known contact with a confirmed case of Covid-19, which of course are very few, since they are only testing a very few. And the fact that we were both diagnosed with bacterial infections makes me feel a little better. This we know. This we can treat.
I still feel very much in the dark about Covid-19, even as a healthcare professional on leave of absence who is consuming every article I can on the subject.
The PA at the urgent care yesterday said we should see drive-thru clinics start opening up in the next week and then testing for Covid-19 will be available on a broader scale. He said he believes this thing has actually already been around for several months and we just didn’t know it. He has seen many patients present with flu-like symptoms but test negative for the flu or pneumonia that kept coming back. But all this is anecdotal.
On some level, I feel like it makes no difference if we have the virus or not. There isn’t a medicine or specific treatment for it, and we are only supposed to go to the hospital if we have extreme symptoms. For now, we will assume we do, even though we probably don’t, and stay home, away from our older relatives. I will keep a close eye on Kate, who has asthma and a weak immune system, and always gets everything worse than the rest of us
But I think it would be helpful to know the real numbers of this thing. The hospital group I work for only had one confirmed case in its five Valley hospitals last time I heard. And latest reports show only 12 confirmed cases in all of Arizona. But I can’t help but believe that’s probably pretty far from the reality of the situation.
Also, if I do have it, does that give me immunity, like the chicken pox, so that I will be able to take care of infected patients without fear in the coming weeks? Or conversely, is it more like Dengue Fever or malaria, where subsequent infections can be worse? No one really knows yet, and that’s what’s so scary about this.
I think it’s very likely that the dramatic change that has overtaken our country this week – social distancing and staying home – will turn the tides and prevent this pandemic from wiping out mass quantities of Americans. Of course, the financial toll will be huge. But in this moment, it still seems possible that we will look back at this time and laugh at how we overreacted, a bit like we do when we think back to Y2K. We will never really know if it was precisely our (over) reactions that prevented the dreaded results we feared.
I wasn’t at all surprised to get the email just before I crawled into bed last night that our school district finally caved and has decided not to reopen schools on Monday after Spring Break. Ours was one of the last districts in the area to make the decision. I imagine they reversed their decision to stay open after receiving push back from parents and teachers. And I’m relieved. But I also know there are families who will suffer, parents who don’t have the option to take time off or work from home, children whose only meals are the free ones they get at school.
My first instinct is to do something to help. And I probably will.
But for today, I’m stuck on the couch nursing a killer sore throat and can’t do anything but write about it. While everyone else in my family sleeps.
by Danielle Tantone | 9:08 am | Breast Cancer, Faith, Family & Relationships, Health & Wellness, Mindset, Mental Health & Entrepreneurship, Nursing, Night Shifts & School, People Stories
I’ve been relatively quiet on social media the past few months and a few people have reached out to make sure everything is OK.
It wasn’t this big, planned out thing, nor was it a social media fast. I didn’t disconnect entirely, just became a little less vocal about all I’ve been doing and thinking, mostly because I was just so busy doing and thinking it!
Any time I would devote to writing blog posts or even basic social media updates and cute photos of my family, has been eaten up by all the unseen activities in a busy life.
I know it’s no longer cool to say, “I’m so busy.”
So let’s just say my life is jam-packed with all the things: from a full-time job as a Patient Care Technician (nursing assistant) that’s harder and more exhausting than any of the many jobs I’ve done in my life, to dealing with paperwork and applications for nursing school, cancer deferment for my student loans, financial and tax stuff, kids and family stuff…
Oh, and then I’m supposed to be…trying to be…deeply desire to be…a writer. So, I’ve been trying to carve out several hours a week to work on my first book. The one I have been working on – off and on – for close to 15 years.
I’ve also been learning how to turn my blog into an online business of sorts. And meanwhile not publishing a single post on said blog! But I’m not going to beat myself up. And I know no one really cares how many times a week or month I post in my silly blog anyway (0 in all the month of January and only a few in December, but who’s counting!) and no one has missed the welcome email I haven’t gotten around to sending out yet to all my friends, family, former clients and blog subscribers. Especially since I don’t really know who my “audience” should be anyway!
So now it’s the beginning of February and I wake up early on a Sunday morning to take a breath, spend some time thinking and contemplating, and then write a little update about the things I have been thinking and contemplating in my relative silence.
Of course there are those obvious things that lots of people have been thinking about recently, the big current news stories: fires in Australia and all those poor animals dying, the Coronavirus, the impeachment trials and election, Kobe Bryant and what to make for the Super Bowl party.
But the things that have really taken up space in my brain are both smaller and bigger, more personal and more universal, more general and more specific.
Maybe a few of these will become blog posts or articles soon, but for now, here’s a list of a few of the things that have been on my mind the past few months – a brain dump, if you will:
- Whether getting breast implants following my bilateral mastectomy is really the best choice for me…
- The amazing audiobook I just finished listening to, A Second Chance by Catherine Hoke…
- 5 Top reasons this middle-aged mom drives for Uber and Lyft…
- Why I ever thought I should and could become a nurse at 40+ years old…
- Why I inactivated my Real Estate License after 20 years…
- The fact that the young man who was shot and killed by police after showing up at one of my company’s hospitals brandishing weapons last week was an employee I had met briefly during training last year, a normal looking blonde-headed kid…
- My mixed emotions after receiving a postcard in the mail this weekend announcing a sex offender in our neighborhood…
- Working my last shift at the hospital last week and preparing for a new position as part of the float pool, which will have me working at all five hospitals in our network and all different departments…
- Why I keep showing up for this job, which should have the description: professional butt wiper, waitress, maid and counselor, and is the hardest job I’ve ever done and pays among the least…
- All the crazy things I saw while at this hospital – which serves a very different population from most of the ones I’ve been surrounded by – and where I regularly cared for homeless people, drug addicts, diabetics, amputees, and patients with mental illnesses of all types.
- How every single one of these people were just people, each with their own story and their own struggle, and how just acknowledging our similarities, connecting with them, allowing them some dignity as I cleaned up their messes – and smiling as much as possible, seemed to make a difference…
- The top 5 reasons I’m looking to switch nursing programs following my current leave of absence for breast cancer treatment…
- Paying off debt while in nursing school with an irregular income …
- How blessed I feel by our health insurance coverage in this difficult time…
- How parenting teenagers is sometimes harder than parenting toddlers…
- Contemplating the preciousness and beauty of life after attending a memorial service for a 12-year-old who lived life better than many of us…
- My book – Believe: a Memoir and a Manifesto…
- How I once became a runner and wonder if I’ll ever become one again…
- How I prepare meals for our family which includes both a committed 11-year-old vegetarian and a few hardcore carnivores and how to know what kind of eating is really the best: from Keto to Veganism, I’m surrounded by opposing views…
- Meanwhile, while I’ve been surrounded by healthy eating and an active vibrant community my whole life, I take care of patients who truly don’t know a carbohydrate from a protein and have no idea how each affects their body, blood sugar and overall health…and I feel like I should help people like that somehow…
- The similarities between suicide and drowning (How the moments leading up to each are so much more silent than you’d think)…
- Why I have secretly disliked phrases like “Kick cancer’s butt!” even though I’ve been praised for having a truly inspiring attitude as I faced my own little fleck of cancer, and how a conversation with a cancer patient at work validated my feelings, helped me understand them better, and sparked an idea of how I can truly make a difference in the fight against cancer…
- Why seeing the color pink doesn’t make me feel weak but rather strong…
- Why I make time to get together regularly with new friends and old, even when I feel like I have too many responsibilities, big dreams to chase and no time for me…
- How I can help others see their glass as half full instead of half empty and find the silver linings in their own circumstances…
This is not an exhaustive list. My brain is always gathering data, asking questions, formulating answers, dreaming big dreams and creating plans, even while I clean up sh*t, figuratively – or more often than not – quite literally!
Let me know which of these resonate with you and which ones you’d like to hear more about!
