Supermodels In My Midst

    

     The shift had started out fairly routine on the inpatient psychiatric unit I worked on. After getting my patient assignment I went to speak to each of my patients. One of my patients had very serious substance abuse problems and had told me about being a dancer and an artist* overseas in her earlier years. So, of course, I googled her name and yes, she had, in fact, been a very beautiful model at one time. The years of alcohol abuse, eating disorders, drug abuse, and multiple medical issues had aged her significantly. She had been physically beautiful with strawberry blonde hair, chiseled cheekbones, and clear aquamarine eyes. What remained was shades of her former beauty, wrinkles around those beautiful, now-faded blue eyes and blotchy skin. The most attractive thing about her was a sharp, intelligent and slightly sarcastic wit.  I liked her. We talked extensively about her life and I found her charming and brilliant, if not sad and aging in a most melancholy way.

     I went to my next patient to check on her. She had no psychiatric history but a dabble in recreational drugs landed her in my psychiatric unit. She was very bizarre and stunningly beautiful. She worked in the government sector,* but could've been a supermodel. She was slender and without one bit of makeup she had beautiful skin and cheekbones with bright green eyes and silky, rich brown hair which flowed over her shoulders in soft curls. She took her hospital issued green pajama top and tied it above her navel and wore tight bicycle shorts. She was rather flirtatious and limits had to be set on her clothing and her behavior. She was also very strange in what she talked about and how she acted. However, when her friends visited her, they were stunningly beautiful as well. They were a sight to see, worried about her, showering her with gifts and expressing worried exclamations. The whole lot of them glowed in loveliness and museum-like paintings of beautiful, perfect people.

     The next order of business I was assigned to was to round with the treatment team. This team included, but was not limited to, the attending psychiatrist, at least one or two resident psychiatrists, one medical student, one social worker, a nurse (me) and possibly a nursing student. It was a big group! I was assigned to a team which rounded on a patient whom I was not assigned to. I entered this male patient's room with the rest of the psychiatric professional entourage and, thankfully, was wearing a mask as it was the end of covid. This young male patient was short and rotund, with messy blonde hair and patchy facial hair with spotted acne over his forehead.* His facial features were pleasant, but rather plain from a purely aesthetic view. The resident psychiatrist began asking the patient why he was in the hospital. The patient answered, straight-faced as can be,  "Well, I'm a star athlete at the college I go to. I'm also one of the smartest people at that school. And I'm a supermodel." As I mentioned before, I was thankful to be wearing a mask because I couldn't help but smile broadly underneath that thin piece of yellow paper and suppress a chuckle. He didn't look like a supermodel, but adamantly and confidently asserted that he was one. Talk about delusions of grandeur! I exited the room earlier than the rest because I was so worried I'd laugh out loud.

     It was an interesting, and dare I assert, beautifully bizarre day on the psychiatric unit. 

*All descriptions of any identifiable data of each patient have been drastically altered to comply with HIPAA laws. If you think I'm referring to you or someone you know, you would be completely wrong. 

"A Cord of Three Strands Is Not Easily Broken"

Tim and I had a wedding celebration in late November of 1992 after we married in Las Vegas several months earlier. It appeared to be a normal wedding, complete with a wedding program. On that program the verse was written: "A cord of three strands is not easily broken." We liked that verse because we added Jesus to the other two strands that made up me and Tim. With Jesus intertwining our marriage, we would be a strong unit, so the sentiment and hope went. But "not easily broken"  is not "not broken."

     

 It was November 8, 2020 and I was walking into Wal-Mart early Sunday morning. I felt a sharp sensation as my finger touched my wedding band. What was that? I looked down and there was a crack in the outer band of my wedding ring. I tried to twist it off my finger but found it too sharp for the fingers trying to remove it. Soap in the Wal-Mart bathroom did nothing to help slide it off either. I finished my shopping and went home - or that is, to the home we had just moved into the day before in Arcadia. Our house in Sierra Madre had sold in 10 days  for full asking price with an all cash offer. We tried to get out of the sale, having changed our mind that there was no bidding war and that the price had not gone higher, but we could not. We moved out about two weeks later.

     It was a long, grueling move. We only had two hired helpers and it was a rainy day. It took all day long, but finally, we were moved out and the Sierra Madre house was cleaned. I was exhausted from the move, but needed to get some things from Wal-Mart the next day because I was scheduled to work on Monday morning. When I arrived back home, I tried in futile pursuit to remove that ring, but the sharpness cut into my other fingers. I knew I had to go to Urgent Care.

     It took three people and a huge tool from REI to cut and twist those two thick gold inner and outer bands off my finger. I remember the PA holding my arm up to reduce the swelling and so facilitate the removal of the ring. The two nurses and one tech pushed, pulled, yanked and finally got that ring off my finger. They handed it to me and I looked at it all twisted up and open. I said my thank yous and walked out the door.

     "You are free to go. So tightly have you held on to your marriage that it took three people, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, to set you free. I want you to know that I have done this; you had no part in the end of your marriage." I was a little puzzled by the impression, but knew that it meant something. I doubted that I had heard accurately.

     Two weeks later Tim came to me and told me he wanted a divorce. I was shocked and said, "Why don't we go to counseling? We have the money now to afford a really good counselor." Tim solemnly and with no expression shook his said. His mind was made up and our marriage was over. I was part stunned and part elated. I know what the Bible says about letting an unbelieving spouse leave a marriage if they want to go; let them! God had heard my desperate cries to deliver me from such a miserable, painful and hopeless marriage. I had brought up divorce when we were cleaning out and fixing up our house to sell it about a month prior. My heart had been utterly broken when Tim sided with Elena in a disagreement she and I had. His lack of support and care for me was more than I could bear. I told him the marriage was over. He didn't say anything. And he said nothing when I told him a few days later that I didn't want to divorce him because of how devastating that would be to our finances and the kids college money. He said nothing, just waited till after everything got settled in our new rental home.

     Several weeks later I appealed to him again about a divorce eating up the money we had gotten out of the sale of our house in a divorce and two separate households, as opposed to our children's education. He listened to me and appeared deflated, but didn't say a word. The tension in the months to come was palpable, even when he spent weeks at a time up north helping his elderly mother out. The boiling point came several months later when he yelled at me and came very close to my face. He was so angry and I knew: let him go. It still took me a couple of weeks later to approach him and ask him if he wanted to still be married to me, if he still had feelings for me as his wife. The answers were yes and no, respectively. I clarified and repeated the conversation just to make sure he was sure. He was sure. 

     Thirteen months later, at the end of July 2022, I got the notification from the court that the divorce was final. It wasn't a happy moment then and it still isn't now. However, I am much happier and freer in so many ways. Tim and I are good friends and we are kind to one another. He is remarried and I am single. I love the peace of mind, heart and soul I have being single, but early post-divorce dating foolishness wounded me deeply these last two years. I'm not sure if I'll find someone, but I do miss physical closeness, intimacy and the companionship that comes along with marriage on the better days.

     For now, I'm content and trusting God for whatever and whomever he has for me. I just noticed that the indent on my ring finger has finally lessened to where you would never know from my ring finger that I was ever married for almost 30 years.

It's Been So Long

Smiley me in the sunshine next to the San Gabriel River this morning in Azusa Canyon.

     Blogging has gone out of style in 2025. It's been over a decade since I've written in this blog, primarily because my creative writing juices have dried up, so to speak. There are many reasons for this; busyness, stress, time suckers like social media and massive life changes.

     I don't aim to update this blog, per se, but to pick up at this spot, so many years later since the last post. I am aiming to post more regularly, knowing it will probably not be read by anyone IRL - a new acronym since I stopped blogging. The fact that it could be read by someone is enough to motivate me to put some effort into make it interesting and something that I would like to read in the years to come. I'd like it to be an accurate reflection of where I'm at now in whichever way I choose. It's so different from social media where people know others will see what they post. The temptation to only post "Instagram-worthy" photos and to present an ideal image is quite intense. This blog has never been about that. I didn't intentionally put ugly pictures of myself and my children up for the world to see in my various blogs, but I was honest about what was happening in our lives, mostly.

     I'm not on social media anymore, which is a recent occurrence. I'm so relieved. I feel like my life and activities and even my appearance can be cocooned away in the world that used to exist - a world in which people far away could only see what you looked like that day from photos or, well, I don't really know. There are plenty of people who post things online without ever posting photos of themselves as they are currently. That's not really the point. The point is that recently I deleted all of my social media apps from all of my devices. I had obsessed over a man in which I was hoping to rekindle a relationship with for almost two years. I just recently discovered that he had another woman he seems to be in love with and she posts pictures - fabulous looking photos - of her life, her accomplishments, her children, and her happy, ebullient-looking boyfriend. She, of course, is beautiful. Of course.

     But that is all in the recent past. To reshape my habits of checking if he had returned from his extra long deployment, when he indicated that he "might" call me when he got back, getting off social media altogether, vigilantly, and completely was my only hope for moving on, healing and recovering. And I absolutely did not want to be tempted to peek at his girlfriend's Instagram page and see happy photos, engagement photos, wedding photos, etc. I can be kind to myself.

     This whole discussion begs the most obvious update on this blog: where is Tim in all this?! He and I divorced in 2022, one month before our 30th wedding anniversary. I felt relieved and set free after a semi-challenging divorce process. Two and half years away from it I've begun to think about what actually happened. So, here goes: Julia was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes in 2019. She was just 10 years old and it was a very scary and hard adjustment. It mandated a job change for me to a more challenging working environment with an awful manager. I was so miserable and stressed out at that job. I gained about 40 pounds and was miserably heavier than I had ever been. Work pressures at Tim's job were getting worse and worse. He was being bullied by his students and his administrators. He was having severe, debilitating, long, depressive episodes, drinking hard liquor and our communication and sex life plummeted. We were having a hard time getting plugged in to a church where we could have a supportive care group and pastor to help us. Leanne was still struggling with psychogenic seizures and I was also trying to recover from my brother's death in 2017. Life was just hard. Miserable. So difficult.

     Then COVID occurred. Nothing improved with COVID. The girls were miserable not being in school and the lawsuits Tim had filed with a Worker's Comp attorney were going nowhere fast. The pressure cooker of life during COVID was almost unbearable. One late night, Tim was rearranging all of Julia's cords and chargers in her room - including her cell phone and insulin pump charger, when she started screaming at Tim to stop. Somehow, Daisy was upset because her cords and chargers were getting rearranged, too. I tried to intervene then walked away, but it was almost 11 pm and I so desperately wanted everyone to go to bed. Nothing I was doing could settle anyone down - the girls were screaming and Tim was completely ignoring them, causing them to scream hysterically. This was not unusual of Tim to ignore our pleas to change something about his irritating or inconsiderate behavior - he simply ignored us or defended himself. In my exhaustion and desperation to get all the screaming to stop - I shoved Tim as he was bending down right in front of the piano. I was instantly horrified at what I had done. He screamed and the girls looked terrified. I began to apologize, but Tim was furious. An ill-fated family meeting the following day where I tried to apologize to Tim and the girls for what I did and discuss what led up to it failed with Tim storming off and blaming me for everything.

     Several months later we put our home on the market for sale. It sold in 10 days. We moved out about 1 week later. What follows is a story for my next blog post. Writing all of this down is rather wearisome. This is a good stopping point.

A beautiful scene near the river bank. I desperately needed some nature time. It was uncrowded and I was delighted to take in how beautiful and serene it was.

Near the water's edge. The gently gurling water was so delightful!

Tiny Seeds

 

Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. He who goes out weeping, carrying seeds to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with him. -Psalm 126:5-6 

tiny mustard seed

   

     I have a picture of tiny mustard seeds in my hand. I'm clutching to them because that's all I have. The year 2015 that lay before me seems entirely daunting; finishing nursing school, getting a job, seeing Camille graduate from high school, sending her off to college - or having her stay home, deciding where Leanne will attend high school, Elena possibly leaving for the entire summer, Dad's cancer recovery, Julia's learning challenges - so many significant endings, beginnings, comings and goings.....I'm weary already.
     It's such a contrast to last year where I pictured myself standing in great faith and praying bold prayers. I have done that this last year. But as 2014 wound down, I felt wound down by a brutal 3rd semester, a cruel and unpredictable instructor, painful friendship challenges and my dad's cancer diagnosis. I stumbled through the holidays emotionally numb and muted.
     At this juncture, right after the new year, as our family schedule is about to reset into predictability, I'm having a hard time knowing where to begin praying. So, I've had tearful, desperate moments of feeble prayers. I have scolded myself for not believing that God wants to hear and answer. I've had this mindset that I must work very hard at praying and pouring my heart out to God, writing all my detailed prayers down and having pages and pages of requests to bring to him. Because you see, the needs are so great, so specific, so important....
     But all I have are these tiny little seeds of prayers to plant in the garden of time where I go to him as I am. Here I am....and scripture tells me that he takes all seeds of prayerful faith and does with them what he will. I do trust him. I do believe he wants to help me with each concern, worry, fear, need.
     I suppose the best prayers are prayed as I go along. And so I will. Moment by moment, day by day.

In faith, I'm looking forward to the harvest.

 

massive mustard tree



I want to make an arrangement
from my garden like this.

   Today is one of the last days of 2013 and I am reflective. So indulge me a bit, won't you?


I love ranunculus flowers!
I planted 18 of these.

     Last night I attended Elena's church and as I was standing and worshipping, moved by the music and the Spirit, I saw a picture of me standing and raising my arms like I was at that moment, but instead of singing, I was praying. I had this clear picture that this next year was to be a year of fervent intercession with a very proactive stance - literally standing and asking God for mighty and bold things, powerful and obvious displays of his nearness, and definitive answers to prayers for deliverance for the people he would bring my way...
     ...As I was kneeling forward in the balmy, breezy intoxicating sunlight this morning and digging dirt out of holes to plant my bulbs, I was pondering how prayer is so much like planting. The intentional times and thoughtfulness required to bring people and circumstances before the Lord often takes effort., much like planting does as well. When I planted my bulbs I had to clear and level the ground, lay out fertile soil, lay out the bulbs, dig the holes, add fertilizer and the bulbs, fill the holes back up, water and clean the whole area up afterwards. I soaked in a hot bath after I was done and took a well-deserved, needed nap. Ahhh...that was delightful! And as I placed those ugly bulbs in the ground it was with the hope that they will blossom into beautiful flowers that are fragrant and lovely to behold, displayed on my dining room table or given away to others.I thought about how so often times of intense, fervent,  passionate prayers this last year were accompanied with tears, pleas - desperate at times. Prayer can look so ugly, like those bulbs I wedged  6 inches into the ground this morning. And yet, there is God, in the midst of it, summoning forth my honesty, my heart, the truth of the matter. Somehow, in the midst of all that sowing of tears and words, God hears my prayers.
   And he answered so many of them.

Daffodils are delightful!
I planted about 20 of these.

  He answered this year in surprising, delightful and unbelievable ways. Why am I surprised? This is the God who created the Heavens and the Earth! It is no difficulty for him to move people's hearts, their circumstances, their attitudes...
     Of all the things that I have delighted in the most with a depth of soul-satisfaction, it is the answered prayers on behalf of others. I recall those precious moments where God exposed the heart of the matter and brought forth love, kindness, healing, understanding....
     I discovered something astonishing and so fun! It can be only A FEW WORDS spoken in truthful, loving sincerity that can totally change EVERYTHING. Now, I am not a person given to just a few words, and it is an area that I can grow in. But in this matter of prayer before my Savior, many words are just fine. So, I am listing my goals and desires below. We shall see how this year plays out!

GOALS FOR 2014



1) I want to get down to the weight on my driver's license (!) which is about 12 pounds lighter than I am now and maintain that weight consistently by September.
2) I want to work up to consistently running 3 miles in 35 minutes at the gym by June.
3)I want to get help developing several good weight workouts and build upper and lower body strength consistently.
4) I want to get straight A's in nursing school 2nd semester.
5) I want to get a 3.5 GPA in nursing school 3rd semester.
6) I want to work this summer as a student nurse in labor and delivery at Huntington memorial hospital.
7) I want to wipe out all credit card debt and stick to a monthly cash budget.
8) I want to give regularly to at least one charity.
9) I want to take each of my daughters out once a month, talk and pray with them and keep a notebook of issues they are dealing with and how they've progressed.
10) I want to visit at least 5 very beautiful, luxurious, architecturally spectacular buildings this year; hotels, houses, stores, office buildings, etc.
11) I want to hear a live, full string orchestra in a large music venue.
12) I want to see a professional ballet at the Music Center this year.
13) I want to go snorkeling with Tim in Laguna Beach this summer.
14) I want to go camping and rock climbing at Joshua Tree this spring.
15) I want to spend focused time (at least 5 minutes - this takes real discipline for me!) before the Lord each day quiet, still and waiting on God.
16) I want to hear God speak hope into my heart everyday and remind myself that he has promised to help me in all circumstances. I want to write down at least weekly what he speaks to me.
17) I want to be committed to hug each of my children and husband everyday.
18) I want to listen twice more than I talk in everyday conversations.
19) I want to host an all-out, over-the-top tea to bless some very special people. I have no idea who these special people would be, but God does!
20)I want to go sailing! This is a long shot. I have never been sailing before, but I really want to learn.

    

Hope...
 

    

On White Robes and a Mother's Private Boast

          Commencement exercises for Elena's high school graduation were rapidly approaching. She was studying for her final exams as talk about graduation ceremonies was making its way to my awareness: location, tickets, letters and official calls from school about the details regarding time, clothing requirements, seating specifics, etc. And this announcement from Elena: "So, I was chosen to wear a white robe because I'm in the top 10 of my class, but I'm not going to." Then she elaborated about how she didn't feel she deserved that special designation because in her words she "hadn't earned it." My reaction:

!!!....HUH??!!??!!   

Tim and I so proud of our graduate

     "Mom, they don't weight the grades."
     (That is, a student earning a "B" in an Advanced Placement college level English class would have the same GPA as a student earning a "B" in a regular English class. No acknowledgement would be given that the AP English "B" is a significantly larger amount of work than the regular English B. Other schools do weight grades to acknowledge the rigorous nature of AP classes. So, for example, all things being equal between two hypothetical students, one with the AP English "B" might have a 4.0 and the one with the regular English "B" would have a 3.8. Furthermore, GPA's are what determine your class rank.)
     "So?" I argued. "If the school determines that you have earned a special academic designation according to their guidelines, then take it!"
     "But I know students," she countered, "that have worked really hard in AP classes who are not in that category and other students who took regular classes all throughout high school and they are. It's not fair that they don't weight the grades. I really don't think I earned that distinction. I've only been at that school for a year and I only had one AP class." On and on the impassioned discussions proceeded with not just me, but her friends and classmates. When the time finally came to pick up her cap and gown, she approached the counter to speak with the gown attendant. "So, it says here that you get a white robe?"
      "I spoke with my counselor about it last week. I don't want the robe because I really don't think I earned it. You really should weight the grades." She began a strong, but respectful appeal for a more fair grading system that accurately represented student effort and achievement. In the end, the bewildered administrator looked at her and said, "So you don't want the white robe?" Elena politely declined and was handed her red robe and mortar board.
     Graduation at the grand and impressive Pasadena Civic Auditorium arrived. As I walked into the facility I noticed all the graduates lined up and ready to proceed into the auditorium. But I especially noticed the white robed graduates at the front of the line. I winced in a small heartbreaking moment of reality: my daughter was not among them. I had accepted her decision and was supportive of her convictions. I had told her earlier in the week that if she felt strongly about not wearing the white robe, then she should stick to her conviction. After all, her Dad and I knew the truth. Still, seeing all the students lined up and not seeing my daughter among them was rather painful in a surprising way. Furthermore, as all 474 graduates filled the seating area on the stage, complete with the requisite brass band playing "Pomp and Circumstance," Elena came in almost last because of her last name starting with a "T."
     In an ironic twist, she and her fellow friend and choir member sang a duet that not even they knew they would be singing. She and her friend were the only ones who had shown up for the rehearsal, and now they both were singing a fun, celebratory duet in front of about 3, 000 people. Here was the catch for me: her friend had a white robe.
     Her friend had been number 11 in the line up. How proud her parents must've been.
     My private boast is this: my daughter had earned that special designation. She had worked tremendously hard in very rigorous writing and physics classes taught at her home school academy classes. She had also taught herself algebra and geometry with excellent textbooks during her sophomore and junior years. Her score on the CAHSEE  in mathematics was a perfect score. More importantly, though, is that my daughter cared about fairness and justice and was willing to forego the outward appearance of success in order to stand up for principles that she felt strongly about. I was very, very proud of her. Even if no one would see it from the outside.

Elena's duet with her friend

"Woosh woosh" goes the heart...

     It was one of the most engaging topics I studied in last semester's Anatomy and Physiology course: the pathway of blood through the heart. Unlike the daunting nervous system with different pathways and mechanisms for making my muscles move, with that complex brain and all of its centers added in, the heart has a predictable, (sort of)simple path. We won't talk about reading EKG's with their QRST pattern. I'm not so looking forward to that in nursing school, but I'll get through it. I have to. But I digress.

     Additionally, one of the more unique aspects of my volunteer work on different units at various hospitals is the ob/triage unit at my downtown hospital. I've been on telemetry, couplet (postpartum) care, and the emergency department. But on OB triage as I walk through the halls to the resident's lounge to assemble patients charts, I hear that distinct whoosh whoosh whoosh sound by the nurse's station. I see the monitors with their blue and red squiggly lines and I know that somewhere, a baby's heartbeat is being recorded and monitored for safety and informational purposes. If that heart rate changes and the line tracing becomes concerning, information can be gained about how that baby is tolerating labor. (Although, Electronic Fetal Monitoring is not an exact science and is rather subjective in the "gray areas.") If a baby does not appear to be tolerating labor well, various things like re-positioning the mother can be done to improve the baby's heart rate. Sometimes a cautious "wait and see" approach is appropriate. At other times, a c-section is performed to avoid what could be a deteriorating, life-threatening situation.
     It's the baby's heart beat that indicates these decisions.

A fetal monitor "strip" that records a baby heart beats
 and  the mother's contractions.

     A baby's first heart beat begins about day 22 after fertilization. That's about three weeks from an egg and sperm meeting to that first historic, significant, tiny  whoosh whoosh whoosh sound. I have begun to ponder this incredible event. God starts that heart beat and programs exactly how many times that heart will beat until it does not beat any longer. This is an incredible thing to ponder. It sounds so simple - the opening and closing of heart valves that gives that whooshing sound is pre-programmed with a distinct beginning and end. Of course, some people's hearts do stop and they are revived. Eventually, though, every dead person had that last, pre-determined whoosh.
     Oh....the reality of this is soo painful. It seems most painful when that apportionment of heartbeats is much smaller than the average. I looked up some information and did some calculations. The "average" person has about 42, 075, 840 heart beats per year. If someone lives to age 70, which is young compared to the increased average life span in the U.S. being in the early 80's, then that heart will beat approximately 3 billion times. If this is a hard number to wrap your brain around, imagine being given $3 billion dollars to spend however you wanted. That's a lot of money! Those are a lot of heartbeats.
     Sadly, though, with my two miscarriages that number was much smaller. My first miscarriage ended at about 11 1/2 weeks. I don't know when that baby's heart stopped beating, but at around 6 1/2 weeks pregnant we saw her (I'm sure it was a girl - what else?!) heart beating. I don't know the exact number of beats, but at 9 weeks gestation her little heart would have beaten about 4,320  times. And there was a moment when it didn't. When the obstetrician (not my regular doctor) did the ultrasound she keep pressing the transducer around my belly and stated, "Are you sure you saw a heart beat? I don't see any heart beat now. Are you sure?" This woman was seriously lacking sensitivity and compassion  - UGH! With my next baby the pregnancy ended shortly after it began and there might only have been a heart beating for a couple of days. Everyday  however, was precious to me and to God. For whatever reason, God gave me a little life and then He took it. I do have much peace about those losses. It is particularly helpful that God generously gave me so many more healthy and happy babies after those two that departed before they saw the light of day. Now, they see the glorious light of their Creator and my sweet Savior, Jesus. But I digress.
     Several weeks ago a young man in our community shockingly died of complications from a sudden heart attack. It has devastated our little town. He was a popular, well-liked young man. I remember him serving me coffee on a study outing one evening in late fall. He seemed very sweet. He was 23. And he is gone. I calculated the average heart beats he was given and it was around 967, 744, 320. Being so young, he didn't even hit the 1 billion mark.
     I'm not exactly sure where I am going with this post, only that I am trying to tie some strings together and find comfort in this young man's premature demise. As I proceed with my nursing career, eventually working on labor and delivery, I will have the pleasure of hearing that trademark whoosh sound many times. In fact, I will go through rigorous training to view those heart and contraction patterns to detect any possible problems that will require me to consult with an obstetrician to promote the best outcome for mother and baby. What a weighty calling! And I feel like I am being primed for it - one heart beat - WHOOSH - at a time.