Life in Mississippi, through the eyes of a transplant from California

I could write a whole series of posts on things I’ve noticed that are different here in the Delta, but here are a few:

Oh, the humidity! It is April, and 74 degrees outside. In California, this would be a lovely day.  Less so here, where it is also 71% humidity.  Andrew’s going to have to live in the pool in the summer.

Our water is brown, even after going through the Brita.   Apparently, there are so many cypress trees around with roots in water, they have stained the water brown.  I’ve been told it’s been tested for safety over and over and it passes every time, it’s just still brown.

People acknowledge each other in passing, and say “hi”, “good morning”, “how you doin’?”, or simply nod (it’s a specific kind of nod, too).

Employees of Walmart are occasionally friendly and helpful.

Kroger is the only grocery store.

If people are talking about a meal that involves meat, chances are it is either barbecued or fried.

There’s a bank, a money-order/check-cashing place, nail salon, and photo studio in the Walmart Supercenter.  You can tell it’s Friday because there is always a line of people at the check-cashing place.

(Maybe this is true elsewhere too, but I first saw it here.) About half the mannekins at JC Penney are “plus-size”.

I don’t think we ever really have patients who don’t have diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, or some combination thereof.  I’ve also seen several patients in the two months I’ve been here who are having open heart surgery (CABG) and are in their 40’s, early 50’s.

There are far more birds around (or maybe it’s partly that I can hear them chirping and singing more with less traffic noise?).

People (my age!) have never heard of Groupon.

The traffic lights are all on a schedule, none of them are triggered.  This also means that what time I get to work varies, sometimes significantly, because of how I hit the lights.

Jackson is a little over 2 hours away from Greenville.  San Diego is usually about 2 hours from Orange County.  The difference?  Driving to Jackson consistently takes about 2 hours and 15 minutes, and you’re moving the whole time!  Also, there are highways, but no real freeways til you’re basically on the outskirts of Jackson.

A Dictionary of the Delta

     I hope everyone understands that I write this post for the amusement of my friends, both in California who will see these as strange or different, like I did, and for my new friends here, who can feel free to laugh at the basic, common things I didn’t know or understand at first.  This is in no way meant to offend anyone, nor do I claim to be an expert (clearly) on the language or culture of the Delta.

“Nabs”
As in: “I have some nabs in the car if I get hungry.”
     My theory is that this word is derived from “Nabisco” because nabs refers to sandwich crackers, like the Ritz-&-peanut-butter kind, or the cheese-and-cheese-crackers kind, etc.

“Tee-tee”
As in: “I really have to tee-tee!”
This is the phrase used where some might say “pee”.

“Boo-boo”
As in: “I had a boo-boo today.”
     My patient told me this, and I started trying to ask her what kind of accident she had had or mistake she’d make, but that’s not it.  It’s also not the children’s “owie” phrase, though I’m not sure if kids say that here too.  This is a phrase meaning bowel movement.

“Take me a bath”
As in: “I’m gonna take me a bath, and be back here at 4.”
      An easy one to figure out, this phrase means to bathe, though I’m fairly certain most people (including the person quoted) shower, rather than take a bath. Go figure.

“Route 44 Sweet Tea”
As in: “…then she found out how many calories are in a Route 44 Sweet Tea…”
      When I asked what this meant, I got two dropped jaws and silence.  Sonic, the drive-in restaurant, is very popular here, and fairly rare (though heavily advertised) where I used to live, so I didn’t know that this just means a 44-oz sweet tea from Sonic.

“Use it”
As in: “I want to use it before we go.”
I asked, “Use what?”.  This phrase just means to use the restroom.

“Ma’am?” / “Sir?”
     In addition to being used to get a person’s attention, this is used as a way of saying, “What?” or “Excuse me?” if you don’t hear someone, only it confused me in the first weeks I was here because it is often spoken as nearly a statement, not a question.

“Snowball”
     Although I hear that this term is more common in other parts of the south, like Louisiana, some people in the Delta use it too.  This is what many people know as a snow cone (they’re quite popular here).

Repost: Mississippi, Here I Come!

     This post is a re-post, written in January 2012, from a blog I contribute to, a way to keep in touch with my former classmates. I want to make my blog more about things happening in my life as well as thoughts and ponderings, so here is a bridge.
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     So I think most of you have heard by now via Facebook that I got a job! I wanted to write a post to update you, though, to give you guys the full story.
     As you know from my previous post back in September, I have been applying to jobs and was turned down by the military. I pretty much just applied everywhere, barely noticing where I was applying except to keep track of how many apps I was putting in. I found that helped me feel productive while I was getting nothing back but rejection emails.
     In November, I got a phone call from a hospital in Greenville, Mississippi. At that point, the positive responses I had had were an in-person interview with CHOC and two phone interviews with other out of state hospitals. All of them had said no. This hospital, Delta Regional Medical Center, wanted me to come out for an interview. In the first conversation, the concern was raised that I was not from the rural South, and might come out to start a job and then leave after less than a year. (They have had problems with losing new grads to bigger cities after 3-6 months.) I was hesitant to spend the money to go out there, but I had few options and couldn't be picky.

     I planned a trip for the first week of December, and basically hoped for ANYONE else to offer me a job so I wouldn't have to go on my trip. I was so not interested in moving to a small town in Mississippi if I had the choice to be... well, nearly anywhere else. It didn't happen, so I left for my trip, anxious but trying to see all the positives about Greenville.

     When I got there, I felt overwhelmingly sad. This is a community that has been hit hard by the recession, with businesses closed on nearly every block and an unemployment rate of 13.5%, significantly higher than national average. That day, I visited apartments and stumbled upon a small nature preserve. I sat there and prayed and processed and it basically hit me, "Maybe this is why I have my public health nursing certification". I still felt sad, but almost instantly passionate about making a difference in this community, and ready to pour into it everything I learned from our community health semester. That night, I talked to Andrew [my husband] and he was right on the same page with me, ready to go for this adventure if that was what God had for us, seeing it as a mission field.

     The next day, I interviewed with the director of Med-Surg, the director of ICU, and the CNO (no pressure!). They all went well and I was amazed at how God gave me such a calm where before had been so much anxiety. I flew home that night and the next day I got a phone call. Not only did they offer me a job, but both departments had given good feedback so they let me choose! I chose the ICU. They have been very understanding about the license transfer process and me getting married, so they are letting me start after the wedding, and didn't even tie me to a specific start date!

     So here we are, just over a month from my wedding, and a move across country only 2 days after that. (Literally, we're getting married on Saturday and leaving Monday! Aah!) Andrew is amazingly supportive, just wants me to get this experience even though his job prospects there are limited and grad school options nonexistent. Since we should be able to do fine on my salary alone (Thank the Lord for lower cost of living! Also, Andrew has NO school debt, incredibly.), he is going to be looking for internship or volunteer opportunities related to his field, but really just planning to volunteer wherever there are needs, full-time.

     We are getting very excited about this new adventure, and I'm thrilled to finally have a job, and in the ICU at that! I'm glad to be just three hours from Clara and Luis as well as Cory and Joe. I am applying to a federal loan repayment program because Delta Regional meets the requirements, so please pray for me to get accepted as I could have 60% of my loans paid for a 2-year commitment! Oh, and I will most definitely have a Southern accent in about 2 days since I started to pick it up while I was there for not even 36 hours!

So that's the long version of what's new in my life.
Blessings,
Jacy

A Certain Uncertainty

     Well, it's been longer than I thought! Here is my newest, long overdue, next post:"The only certain things in life are death and taxes."

     Tax Day is April 15. Death, however, doesn't set a date. We never know when death will come, and we never know how much time we have to enjoy our lives as they are. This reality has been brought home to me in recent months due to two situations, as follows.I have had a client, in her 80's, through my caregiving agency, we'll call her Edith. I started working with her last summer after she was given a terminal cancer diagnosis and was in pretty bad shape. Her doctors gave her six months to live, so she began preparing for her death. She was on hospice care, she addressed all her assets, she said goodbyes to family and friends, and waited to die. Edith expressed feelings of frustration and helplessness to me, hating her pain and limitations, and wishing she knew when death would come. Through the consistent care of our agency's caregivers and hospice, I saw Edith improve. She started feeling better, doing more, and her spirits were up. By Christmas, she was going off oxygen support and even out of the house. Still, we thought she was dying inside, her cancer silently (though, wonderfully, painlessly) undermining her outer picture of health. Then, in February, that changed. I worked with Edith one day, helping her get ready and go to a doctor's appointment. She walked out of the exam room with a smile on her face and excitement in her voice - remission. That one word changed all of our perspectives. Now, Edith wasn't dying, we could practically count on her living to 100! She was cured, and immediately started planning her next vacation. Certainly, she was reasonable in recognizing her current physical limitations; after being home-bound for so long she has lost strength, but she told me how her whole outlook had changed. She described a new appreciation for small beauties and joys in life, and renewed interest in making every day count.  Her experience with death made her grateful for life.

     For me, this experience with death, expected within a certain time-frame and then still uncertain, brought me to understand how little we humans actually know and the complete lack of control we have over death. Even when our respected experts predict impending death, we can be so very wrong.

     The other situation that has brought the subject death to the forefront of my mind is the recent and unexpected passing of my boyfriend's grandfather. Up until three weeks ago, Mr. Carlson was a very independent, functional, and apparently healthy 87-year-old. Longevity is in their family, so no one thought much of the fact that he was fast approaching ninety. I had the opportunity to do a nursing school project with him and his wife last fall, and was blessed to spend several weeks getting to know them and hearing the story of their lives. Personally, I have lost several grandfathers, so I had, in a way, adopted them as my grandparents in my heart. In a moment, everything changed. One minute, he was attending a church function, and the next, he suddenly collapsed and he and his family were catapulted into the stress and emotional rollercoaster of the ICU. During the next week, he deteriorated and recovered, up and down; he coded and was intubated, he was extubated and then rallied. He went home on hospice, cheerful and chatting, and then he went downhill for the last time and went home to heaven, less than a week after the start of his health problems.

     His life was active, full, and lived to its best. In our conversations during my interview project, he expressed a desire to avoid the troubles and severe limitations of 'old age', to live as he was, and then die when it was his time, preferably painlessly and quickly. He expressed a calmness about death, because to him death meant going home to the Lord. For this reason, I am so glad he died the way he did, as hard as it is for his family, and as much as he will be missed.
     This experience made reality come crashing in: we never know when it's our time to go, and we never know how much time we have.

     It's been incredible to have these two situations bring death, life, and my own mortality into sharp focus. I am reminded to be grateful for every day, taking in the beauty of each moment and each stage of life. I am reminded to not take any of my loved ones for granted, to spend time with them because it is precious, and they will not always be around. Most importantly, I am reminded to never expect my life to be a certain length as if I am entitled to it, and to accept each day as the gift of life from God that it is.

My Parent, My Friend

     For this second installment in my parenting series, I’d like to expand on the partnership role I mentioned in my last post.

     At this point in my life, I’ve passed a good portion of that difficult transition stage. Thankfully, I’m no longer a teenager, overwrought with emotions, hormones, and other things I didn’t understand. Yet, I live with my parents for some of the year, and I’m still under their authority. The difficulty now is determining how much I’m under their authority, and how much I can have them next to me in an advisory role.

     We still argue, because there are times when my parents want more control than I’d like to give them, times when I want to tell them to leave me alone and let me do it my way. For the most part, however, I consider my parents my friends. They are my advisors in life decisions, my encouragers through all sorts of struggles, my resources of practical wisdom, my unconditionally loving and reliable foundation, and my examples of all I want to be as a parent (and some things I don’t want to be). I have said many times, and had many friends concur, that I probably have the best parents ever. I admit that I do not know a lot about parenting, because I am not a parent. I would contend, however, that I have a very good idea of what it looks like to be a good parent, because of the examples I have. When I think about my relationship with my parents (now, granted, not when I was a teenager), I can honestly say that I want my relationships with my children to be just like ours.

     How does one get there? I’ve certainly wondered why my relationship with my parents looks the way it does, especially as compared to several friends. For instance, I have a close friend whose parents want to be deeply involved in her decisions, including those regarding her relationship with her boyfriend. This type of parenting led to anxiety and stress for both sides, and a very strained relationship, even after the couple broke up. Another friend has expressed envy of families with parents who want to be involved in their children’s lives at all. How involved is too involved? How does one cultivate a good relationship with an adolescent child?

     My answer comes to mind in several parts: trial and error, contained failure, and it’s up to the child.

     The first part probably needs no explanation. Every parent makes mistakes, and every kid grows up and realizes (or should realize) that his or her family has issues. This is why I think everyone should go to counseling at some point in their lives, but I digress. Parenting is difficult, and no one has the perfect way all figured out. Being able to see one’s errors, acknowledge them (especially to the child, when appropriate), and learn from them in order to move on is the take-home point here.

     The principle of contained failure is one my parents were told when they were young parents, and one that has carried through the years. Essentially, it’s a “pick your battles” principle which says, if it’s not harmful to the child or others, let them do it. I have many memories of saying to my mom, “But I want to do it this way!” and her saying, “Okay, contained failure”. I can still picture her hands going up like she was physically letting go of the issue. It told me that she believed she had the better way, but that she would let me try it my way if I really wanted to. Interestingly, that was often all she needed to say for me to give in and do it her way. Recently, I had an interaction with a 4-year-old I babysit which affirmed my belief in the benefit of picking your battles and, more importantly, listening. I had in mind one way of doing things, and he wanted another, and started to whine and argue. I told him I didn’t want to argue with him, but I did want to hear why it was so important to him. This stopped him in his tracks. We calmly discussed both ways, and I decided it would be fine to do it his way this time. Yes, my way had better rationale, and his way ended up being more of a hassle, but the open, calm method of communication I initiated was worth it.

     The third point in having a healthy, low-stress relationship with an adolescent may be the most important: it’s up to the child. No parent can make a child want to talk to him or her by requiring it. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve seen this tried, and seen it fail miserably. The mother of one friend in high school made it clear to her daughter that she was not allowed to have secrets from her parents. Instead of fostering a relationship in which her daughter could tell her anything (which I’m sure was what she wanted), her daughter kept more from her. Another friend was required to come home from college for the entire weekend, every weekend of the first two years. He hated it. I’m certain that, once his parents no longer required it, he would almost never go voluntarily. I am absolutely convinced that the best way to encourage a child to involve her parents in her life is to allow her the freedom to decide when and how that happens. When I was a freshman in college, my parents told me they would enjoy seeing me home for a weekend when I could make it, and they would look forward to hearing from me often. There were no requirements, no guilt-trips, there was no emotional manipulation. The result? I called my parents every day, even for five minutes here or there, and went home about every other weekend. I adjusted to college, got busier, and relied on them less and less. The content of my phone calls changed from “what laundry setting should I use?” to “I got a great score on my test; how’s your day going?”. Now, in my fourth year, I don’t make it home very often, and I make many more decisions without needing my parents’ answers. Do you know what hasn’t changed? I still call them every day or every other day, just to say hello and to catch up. My parents know what’s going on in my life, have met (and like!) my boyfriend, and know many of my friends (and my dad is friends with them on Facebook). [As an aside, my dad is not on Facebook to stalk me, and I willingly became his Facebook friend.] If I don’t call for awhile, they’ll call me or send an email, but they don’t sound worried about me, upset with me, or say I’ve hurt their feelings. Sadly, I don’t know very many other people who can say that.

     Some people may think that this sort of relationship is bad in relation to respect and authority, but they couldn’t be more wrong. In my case at least, I respect my parents immensely, and honor their authority because they do not force it upon me. At 21, I feel blessed to have the kind of adult relationship with my parents that many people do not have until their late 30s, if ever.

     True, my parents aren’t perfect, and my family has issues. At the same time, I can truly say that I love my parents dearly, and I know with all my heart that I can tell them anything, and they will love me and accept me. I’m proud to call my parents my friends.

Remember?

     Although September 11th was last Friday, I have no life outside of school and sleep, so this is late. Hopefully, its reflections are worthwhile even on a less significant day.

     It was an ordinary morning, a Tuesday at the beginning of the school year. I was 13 years old, and in the eighth grade. The first thing I remember of that fateful day, now imprinted on our national memory, was my mom, waking me up urgently. Later I would realize that those first moments reminded me of another strange day in my childhood, in which my mom woke me up and asked me if I wanted ice cream for breakfast. The freezer door had been left open overnight and the ice cream had melted, so my mother thought it might as well not go to waste, but it was quite surreal. It was a similar feeling when the first words I heard that morning were, "Get up and come watch the news - there's been a terrorist attack."

     Through the course of that day, I was confused, stunned, fearful, sad, and numb. I was struck by so many things out of the ordinary. When I went downstairs, my dad was still there, dressed for work but his gaze locked on the news. That afternoon, I went to the first day of choir practice, and all the kids were abnormally quiet. My mom told me that, "this will be for your generation what JFK's assasination was for mine. Years from now, people will ask you where you were."

    
     As far as I can remember, I started watching the news just before the towers fell. It's hard to say, because it was difficult to determine what was live and what was replayed over and over. Before that day, I had never even heard of the World Trade Center, but now the images I saw are burned in my memory. The towers, smoking...the shaky amateur video from the ground of the first plane hitting the tower...the skyline of New York City obscured by a huge cloud of smoke, ash, and debris...people on the ground, covered in white ash...bodies falling out of the towers -- jumping, I realized later. I remember when the news anchors realized the significance of the date.

     I remember being afraid, because LAX and Disneyland were possible targets, and our home was within the danger zone if that attack was nuclear. Afraid, because no one had any idea how many people had died in the towers and the surrounding areas, and I wondered if anyone I knew had been there, or lost family members. I felt terrorized. One of my coping mechanisms was to pull out my sister's Christian magnetic words set, and along the stove top I placed something to the effect of "God is in control".

     I remember feeling strangely more a part of the world of adults than children, when I realized that my 4- and 6-year-old neighbors would have no clear memories of this momentous day. I remember watching the rescue effort, and hearing some amazing stories, and many sad ones. I remember seeing the missing person boards, and all the American flags. I remember when they found the steel girders that formed a cross at "Ground Zero", and the thousands of people flocking to churches.

     Looking back, now eight years, I remember thinking then that "9/11" would be a day that changed everything, the Pearl Harbor of my generation. I remember that the American flags everyone put on their houses and cars faded, and were eventually taken down, and not replaced. I remember that of the thousands of people who flocked to churches, so many returned to normal life, and to attending church at Christmas and Easter. I remember the country fired up about fighting terrorism, and seeking justice, and then losing vigor and determination in the face of the difficult and long-term task of war. I remember forgetting we were at war, because it felt like something so far away, something I heard discussed, but never comprehended. Even numbers of deaths and prayers for soldiers my friends knew was unconnected to my normal life, the idea of war meaningless in my everyday reality.

     I remember stories of heroic deeds of civilians on a plane now known as United 93, and T-shirts and hats honoring New York City's firefighters, and policemen. I wonder now, how many have been truly inspired to be courageous and self-sacrificing in less obvious, more continuous ways.

     I remember the first wave of "9/11/01: We Will Never Forget" bumper stickers, freeway posters, and more. I wonder if we content ourselves with having "not forgotten" by holding memorials every year, and watching TV specials on how the tragedy could have been prevented, instead of learning what it looks like when the country comes together, when communities support each other, when people give blood and their time to heal and rebuild. I wonder if we have forgotten after all, less than a decade later, because I'm not sure that we know what it truly means to remember.

Growing Up is Hard to Do

. . . so is parenting. This post is the first in a series in which I will be ambitiously tackling a topic that is both close to my heart and relevant to my stage of life: The Transition to Adulthood.

     At 21, I’m considered an adult in many ways. But am I? I’m a student, so I don’t have a full time job, meaning I’m very financially dependent on my parents. I’m mature, but enough to admit I’m not completely an adult emotionally. And for several months of the year, I live at home, becoming more physically dependent on my parents (or at least their resources) than when I live at school.

     In college, I’ve had the opportunities to see my parents and family from a different perspective and to hear about and observe other people’s parents and families. I cannot begin to tell you how much I feel I’ve learned from this alone, setting my formal education aside entirely. Through my observations and my friends’ experiences, I have seen families ranging from emotionally manipulative to the point of abuse to those that are emotionally absent. I’ve seen a variety of parenting techniques regarding decision making, from allowing an adolescent to make all their own decisions in the middle of high school to holding on tightly well into college. One thing I know for certain: parenting is hard. All of these families care about their children, and want to do what’s best for them, and knowing when to let go is probably one of the most difficult parts of parenting.

     Teenagerhood is widely considered the most difficult time for a parent (and a child). I would propose that it doesn’t have to be as horrific as it often is. The main reason teenagers are so difficult to deal with is that they are trying to find out who they are and asserting their independence. Therein lies the struggle: the teenager striving for control, while the parents struggle to determine when it is best to let go. Here are a few things I’ve noticed about this transition.

     It’s always gradual, so there’s no “right age” to let go completely.

It’s greatly dependent on the maturity level of the adolescent, because a parent shouldn’t let go when the young person can’t handle it on their own.

It helps immensely to have an open relationship with good communication.

It helps to be emotionally understanding and loving.

     I think it also helps to view your children as little people from the beginning – that is, if you think of your baby as a baby until age 5, and then think of him as a child until he’s 15, you’re going to run into problems. Five-year-olds are not babies, and at fifteen, that “child” is trying to become a young man. When you perpetually have the perspective that you are the parent and you always know what’s best and he/she’s still a “child”, it makes it harder to transition to thinking of your child as a young man or woman. Granted, I don’t have children, and I imagine it’s easier said than done. However, I babysit frequently, and I can guarantee that you will make life difficult for yourself if you treat a five-year-old as a baby, let alone if you treat a fifteen-year-old as a child. Children, at any age, have their own thoughts and ideas about the world, and they want them to be heard and valued. How many times have you heard teenagers say, “You just don’t understand me!”? I can’t tell you how often I’ve heard friends say of their folks, “Why don’t they listen?”.

     Although in every family struggle, there are failures on both sides, the majority of the time, so much trouble could be avoided if the parents just listened. Let me clarify. This is not to say that the parents ought to listen so the child can dictate what happens or when, but listen and try to sympathize. Adults have experiences that should enable them to be emotionally understanding, putting themselves in that place. Listen to acknowledge feelings, even while disapproving of actions and offering alternatives. Listen to express to the child that his or her thoughts, ideas, feelings, and priorities have value.

     The bottom line is that this transition to adulthood is difficult for both parties. For the child, it’s learning new responsibilities, finding identity, and fitting in to a new role, even while we want to hang on to the old. For a parent, it’s acknowledging that you no longer have the primary role in decision making, but a partnership role. After all those years of deciding what’s best for this little person, I can imagine that the habit is hard to break, let alone how that change must feel. It’s hard, but necessary, and with cooperation and a whole lot of patience, love, and forgiveness, it can be done.