The Teacher Gets Some Schoolin'...Online Style

That's right. I'm back in school, working on pre-recs! This new adventure has taken me to Tidewater Community College and Nashville State, where I am enrolled in Biology and Statistics. Go me. Why the schoolin', you may ask? Well, I've gone loony and decided to switch career paths...completely.

After much consideration (and plenty of hesitation), I have decided to apply to PA school.

Yup.

I want to be a Physician's Assistant.

Q. How does one go from teaching dance to becoming a PA?
A. She moves to Norfolk, can't find a dance educator position in a public high school, starts teaching pelvic exams, thinks back to her younger days before she decided to become a teacher, spends too much time around med students and realizes - hey, I think I can do it if that guy can, and VOILA! There you have it.

* Anecdote 1: When I was a junior in college, I met with my adviser, Stacey, whom I adored. It was my second semester, and I was gearing up to begin my internships in the Fall. I went into the meeting feeling a little sour. It'd been a rough year and I was jaded, to say the least. So, when she asked me in what level - elementary, middle, or high school - I'd like to do my internships, my response was as follows:
"I don't care. I just don't wanna be around little kids. I don't like them." She stared at me, baffled. I was generally a good student and very respectful of my professors. But not that day. I was acting like a tool. "Oh," she said. "Well, then, I guess we'll look into middle and high school positions." Not good enough, Stacey. I didn't get the reaction I wanted...I don't really know what that reaction was, but that wasn't it. "Where do you see yourself after graduation? We have lots of job fairs coming up and I know that various schools with Dance Arts programs will be in attend--"
"--I don't plan on teaching," I interrupted.  "In fact, I'm kind of over this whole thing. I'm just completing my degree because I'm so far into it that I feel obligated to finish for my parents." Yep, I went there. Naturally, she inquired as to what it was that I did intend to do upon matriculation. "I want to be a midwife."

Say what?!

I held onto this idea for a while until I realized (thanks to my internships) that I actually enjoyed teaching dance. That, and I eventually did thorough research and realized that I didn't want to go back to school and get my RN degree immediately after the four crazy years I had just put into my Dance Ed. degree. So, that was tossed on the back-burner, then scorched when I got my first teaching job. Furthermore, I fell so in love with teaching during my internships that Stacey had me talk at a meeting for rising seniors majoring in Dance Ed. She also told them what "Miss Attitude" had said in that lovely meeting--that I didn't want to teach younger kids. (Yep. She went there.) Regardless, the idea of becoming a midwife never completely left me. (P.S. - I did my student teaching in an elementary school, and loved it. Oh, and I'm the blonde on the right, hugging the shorter chick.)

Q. Well, how long will it take you to fulfill all of those pre-required courses?
A. If I kill myself (and the clock is ticking), my goal is to be able to apply and begin Fall semester 2013. I have to complete a year of Bio., a year of Anatomy and Physiology, a semester of math (hey Stats!), and complete a few lovely "recommended" courses, which include (at least) a semester of Organic Chemistry, Medical Terminology, Microbio, Genetics, Immunology, Biochem, and/or Psych. Clearly, I won't be able to manage all of them. The good news is, I have already completed a year of Chem.

Anecdote 2: Chemistry. When I think of Chem, I think of one person: Ms. Kimberly Wright. Ms. Kimberly Wright is a Vanderbilt graduate and the auditor for Fine Arts majors at Winthrop University. She is a lovely woman, and well-liked in the WU community. Well-liked by all but this gal, that is. We got off to a bad start when she looked at my transcript from Sewanee and informed me that I had "plenty of electives." In other words, I had to start fresh at Winthrop, because none of my Sewanee classes counted for beans. So, I busted my rump for four semesters. My parents paid one hundred and something bucks so I could CLEP out of freshman composition, because apparently reading and writing on the themes of Shakespeare's works doesn't count at WU. (According to my husband, who has the audacity to agree, it doesn't meet the argumentative writing criteria of most colleges.) I took 8 or 9 classes per semester at WU (which required me to request and attain the special privilege of taking excessive amount of credits each semester...AKA--I sat in the registrar's office for obscene amounts of time) so I could graduate in four years. On top of that, I did "independent studies" on top of my regular class schedule. AND I was told that even though I tested out of two beginning levels of French, which moved me to intermediate level French at Sewanee--WHICH me, the "French Falcon," made an A in--I still needed a beginning level of a foreign language to graduate from Winthrop. So, imagine this lady, who hasn't slept in two years, who has exceeded her limits of patience, who has started her day at 8 a.m and ended it at 11 p.m. due to rehearsals during this time, and is just friggin' ready to graduate, entering Ms. Kimberly Wright's office in the Spring leading up to her senior year. This lady was tense.

I sat on the other side of Ms. Kimberly Wright's desk, and she dropped the bad news about the foreign language credit, which I contested (and lost). Then, she brought up my lack of science classes. I knew it was coming. Wasn't as big of a shocker as the French ordeal. After I calmed myself down after the aforementioned French problem, I informed Ms. Kimberly Wright that I had been planning on taking my science classes at Tennessee Tech in the summer. She thought it was a good idea and pulled up Tech's curriculum. Then, she wrote down two course numbers and handed them to me. "Take these classes at Tech (along with a beginning foreign language class), and you should be good to go for graduation in the Spring." Rock on, I thought. Done.

So, I consulted my parents on the situation, who told me in a three-way conversation that it was OK if I needed to take an additional semester at Winthrop. But I was having none of this. I had promised them I would graduate in four years, by golly, I was going to do it. So, at the beginning of summer vacation, my daddy, his checkbook, and I marched our happy rears to the registrar's office at Tech, and I enrolled in Chemistry and Spanish. And for two months, I went to Chemistry class at 7 a.m., five days a weeks, with lab meeting twice a week. I did well in both sections...and I did well in Spanish, but I don't remember a thing.

Flash forward to my Senior Fall audit at Winthrop. I waltzed into Ms. Kimberly Wright's office with a grin on my face and my Tech transcript in hand. She looked at it and....grimaced. "Ohhhhh....."

I flinched.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"You took two lab sciences. You only needed one."

Well, crap, I thought. Eh. It was fun. At least I learned something. Sucks my dad paid for it.

"You're still lacking a non-lab science credit, though," she said.

My face turned red and I envisioned lunging over her desk and smashing her proudly hung Vandy diploma over her head.

I wanted to say, "Ms. Kimberly Wright, you owe my hard-working, lower middle class daddy X amount of money for that superfluous class! Get out your checkbook! And while you're at it, you press whatever special button you have there and make that class count!"

I wanted to go to my apartment and find the piece of paper Ms. Kimberly Wright wrote the course numbers on and make her eat it. Instead, I said, "Pardon?"

"Yeah, you still need a non-lab science credit."

"I can't take classes next semester. I'm doing my student teaching, and I can't take classes."

"Well, then, you'll just have to spend another semester at Winthrop."

Like Hell I was going to spend another semester at Winthrop.

"All the classes are full by now. What can you get me into? I will graduate on time."

"Um, looks like there's a space in Nutrition."

"Done. Get me in there. And I'm taking it Pass/Fail. Make that happen."

I drove around after that meeting and cried. Thank you, Ms. Kimberly Wright. You still owe my father that money for the superfluous class. At the same time....Thank you, Ms. Kimberly Wright. Now that I want to apply to PA programs, I have my Chem credits taken care of.

God works in mysterious ways....

Q. Don't most people who go into medicine have a motive? I mean, why do you really want to be a PA?
A. I'll be honest, part of the reason I want to become a PA is money-based. My husband wants to be a writer, and I don't doubt that he'll do just that. But, let's be honest with ourselves, there's no guarantee that he'll make it big selling his works. Just like there's no guarantee that I'll get into a PA program. Just like there's no guarantee that I'll wake up in the morning. Life's a crap shoot. Regardless, the idea of pursuing a career where I can be financially supportive is appealing. On the other hand, when it comes down to motivation that counts, the reason I want to pursue this field is simple. I want to help others. I want to make a difference in people's lives. I want to deliver babies.

The great thing about becoming a PA is that I have tons of options. A PA can basically work in any branch of medicine. However, my goal is to work in OB/GYN.

*Anecdote 3: Birth. When my sister, Katie, called me to tell me she was leaving for the hospital to be induced, I hopped in my car and beat her there. I waited for ten minutes for my sister and her husband, Patrick, to pull into the hospital parking lot at Cookeville Regional. I watched her get into her gown. I watched as the nurse hooked her up to an IV. I watched as she smiled at, "One centimeter dilated." I called school and requested a substitute for the next day. I went home. I came back at six in the morning. Katie was still smiling, but obviously tired. I watched as the nurses administered Pitocin. I watched as the contractions began. I saw my sister become incoherent and say nonsense words--"Stink-c-c-c"-- in lieu of curse words. And my mother and brother-in-law and I all made faces at each other. I watched her nap. I saw my sister endure pain and scream "I'm going to have a BM!" And I saw my roommate and dear friend, Erin, act as bed pan girl. And I heard Katie say, "No, I'm OK." And Erin removed the bed pan. And five seconds later, Katie screamed again, "I'm going to have a BM!" And Erin quickly put the bed pan under her. Then, she said, "No, I'm OK." Then, I saw the contractions come on stronger. I heard the nurse tell her she was fully dilated.  And the nurses broke Katie's water with a giant crochet hook and Patrick and I both looked at each other with wide, disbelieving eyes. And I watched as cool, calm, and collected Dr. Casal entered the room. I stood over Dr. Casal's shoulder - on his left. I heard my sister scream in pain, and I flinched and grabbed the straps of my sundress. Dr. Casal stopped and turned to me and said, "Are you OK?" And I nodded and looked at my sister and he continued. He told her, "Katie, put that energy you used to yell into pushing your baby out." And she nodded and did. And I saw my mother and Patrick holding Katie's knees and comforting her. And I saw Beth Mannle tearing up and smiling and taking pictures what would soon be the first appearance of her first grandchild.

And then, I saw her.

I saw the top of her head, full of Calico-colored hair. I saw her tiny hand breaking through. I saw her little shoulder and her face. Her closed eyes. I saw her little torso and her legs. Her umbilical cord.

And I saw my sister, who had struggled and fought with infertility, hold her miracle baby.

I had the privilege of going into the waiting room to tell two anxious men that they were now grandfathers. And I held my daddy and cried as he asked me if they were OK. I got to say, "Yes." Then, I led them into the room where the blessing occurred. I watched my sister as Dr. Casal administered the episiotomy and I went to her side and whispered, "This is the proudest I've ever been of you."

I left the delivery room that day thinking three things:
1.) My sister is amazing. She has always been my hero, so strong, and she just out-did herself.
2.) I am in love with Meredith Jane Mannle.
3.) I think I could do that. I think I could deliver babies.

Through my job, I've learned so much about women's health. On multiple occasions, I've inserted the speculum to locate the cervix. I've performed bimanuals and rectovaginal exams. Palpated ovaries, the uterus. I've checked Skenes and Bartholins glands. I've performed multiple breast exams - even one on a woman with implants. I'm proud of all of this, but it doesn't compare to seeing a live birth. It's amazing. What's more amazing is knowing that women who struggle with fertility can receive help.

So, that's why I've chosen this path. I may not even have the great fortune of working in obstetrics. Regardless, no matter what the health-related issue is, I want to be there. I want to help.

The Other Side of Twenty-Five

On our way to UVA at six this morning, I announced to my three fellow co-workers that my birthday is tomorrow. "I'm looking forward to the other side of twenty-five," I said happily. That got a chuckle and approval from my "partner in crime," the comma-loving, future Dr. Diaz (who is, by the way, a mere twenty-three). I never thought I would happily admit to turning twenty-six. If you're older than me, your probably scoffing at my vanity right about now. Well, you must realize after my eighteenth birthday, I "turned" eighteen until my twenty-first birthday. I've struggled with Peter Pan Syndrome for years. Funny how after the hips fill out and the law pronounces you legal, you suddenly want to drive your car down a flight of stairs and streak through the neighborhood. Well, maybe you don't or didn't, but I did...and did. (Momma, if you're reading this, keep in mind that I graduated college with a 3.8 GPA and only one broken toe. Not too shabby for Wild Child.) Point being, I have a hard time letting go of the past. I have a hard time letting go of my youth.


I'm not saying it's time to break out the application to Shady Pines, but I will admit it's time to dig out and pull on the Big Girl Pants I hid under my bed (next to the stolen traffic cones and restaurant coasters). And, so help me, I'm looking forward to it. I'm ready.


No, this does not mean I have decided to give up all things fun. And this certainly doesn't mean that I can't come out and play anymore. And the piercings stay. The blanket, too. The blanket ALWAYS stays. *When I was seven or eight I told some of you I'd wear that blanket as a veil on my wedding day. Well, I didn't. But I still have it. Bet some of you didn't think I was serious, did you? HA!


What does it mean then? It means taking a deep breath, saying a little prayer, and taking a moment to think (and repress my ADHD), and....


- Take better care of myself. Truth of the matter is, I'm not 18 anymore, and my body knows it. My brain's starting to realize it, too.
- Make better decisions. Gone are the days of "what the heck!" Spontaneity's a beautiful thing - when it can't jeopardize my career, my health, or my relationships.
- Stop complaining. Rolling my eyes, whining, and fighting back the urge to scream because I have to change the oil in my car or go to work is unacceptable.
*When I worked at CHS, I remember very vividly walking to the copy room in the Fine Art's wing at seven in the morning with my wet hair flopping in my face and my jazz pants stained with coffee I spilled on the car ride to school. I was carrying a stack of wrinkled, unorganized quizzes and my shoe laces were untied.  I had woken up on the wrong side of the bed for the umpteenth time. It was a typical day in the life of Mrs. Flavis. Then, I passed by Mr. Cephas, the jolliest Ugandan on the planet. "How are you doing?" he asked. "You know. I'm here," I mumbled. "How are you?" I asked in return. "You know. I'm alive, so it's a great day!" he replied. And he actually meant it. While at the time I wanted tackle him and strangle him with my shoe laces, I now see the beauty in his gracious response. Life's too short to complain about, well, life.  No matter how tedious the tasks we have to fulfill may seem, the clock's going to keep on ticking.
- Be honest with myself (and others, of course). Ignoring and avoiding unpleasant situations and/or conversations due to fear or laziness doesn't make them go away.
- Be ready to take responsibility. I've never had a problem fessing up to my mistakes. However, I often go into precarious situations without worrying about the consequences. I guess I hope I won't get caught or I just figure, eh, I'll find an excuse. But why? I guess this goes back to taking a moment to think before I act. If I'm going to take a risk, it needs to be a worthy one., which mine generally aren't.
- Be considerate of others. I'm not sixteen anymore, the world doesn't revolve around me. I like to lock myself into my own little world and day dream. I focus a lot on myself - and not in the good way. I don't live a selfless life, and perhaps it's impossible to live a completely selfless life, but I can make more of an effort.

This seems like a lot to add to the pot overnight, doesn't it? I don't expect to transform at midnight. These are simply goals for my twenty-sixth year, and I know they won't be easily accomplished. The way I see it, I'm doing well to have at least lit the fire. It just needs a little fuel.

To wrap this up, I'd like to reflect on my birthday ten years ago, when I turned sweet sixteen.
After my family birthday dinner, I timidly asked my mother if I could take the van and drive - by myself - to meet my friends at the local coffee shop. Momma's eyes filled with tears, she hugged me, asked me if I was sure I was ready, and handed me the keys. I told her thank you, hugged her, took the keys, and bolted for the door before she could change her mind. I'm not a mother, but now that I'm older and an aunt, I can imagine how difficult that must have been for my mom to watch her baby grab hold of that first bit of independence and run. So, I'd also like to say happy birthday to my momma, who let me rest in her womb for nine months, pushed me out into world (naturally), and loved me despite and for my imperfections from the moment I came silently into her life. Thanks, Momma.  I lovey, wovey, dovey you.

New and Improved Blog

"For two people in a marriage to live together day after day is unquestionably the one miracle the Vatican has overlooked."
- Bill Cosby

Well, the blog isn't exactly new or improved. In fact, I am re-using the blog's original template. However, as you'll notice, the blog description has changed to "A Blog about Not-So-Newly Newlyweds."

That's right. I've decided to switch the focus of this blog to my marriage.

When I started this blog last year, I was homesick and lonely, and I wanted my family to be part of my life in Norfolk and know that I was always thinking about them. So, I wrote about my memories and told litte anecdotes from my daily life. I tried desparately to stay connected to my parents, my sister and brother-in-law, my niece, and my friends in Cookeville. I wanted them to read my thoughts in my voice and know that I hadn't disappeared from their lives completely. And while I don't think the blog thrived as I'd hoped (but then again, I didn't really advertise it), it made me feel better.

Then, something happened: I developed a life in Norfolk, complete with three jobs, school, volunteer work, and all the stress that follows. The blog stopped. While I've adjusted and I'm "back on track," I realize I won't be able to write every day.  My goal is to write once a week. If I surpass that goal, then it'll be a miracle.

I will write about marriage and happiness, two things I haven't focused on enough in my daily life. As a matter of fact, marriage and happiness are my two greatest challenges. I'm bad at marriage and happiness. I'm really bad at marriage. And I honestly don't think I have ever been truly happy for an extended period of time.

Wow. I just admitted THAT. (It was easier than I thought it would be.) At this time, I feel an explanation is due, so I'll take one subject at a time.

1.) Marriage. If you're a close friend or family member, you know that my marriage to Lucas has been a tremendous struggle. We went on a date, fell in love, got married, adopted a dog, made a few snap decisions, and moved to Eastern Virginia. And we fought the entire time. To be perfectly honest, throughout our almost two years of marriage, we haven't gone longer than two days without having a full blown-crying- shouting-saying hateful things to one another fight. While we always apologize to each other and admit our short-comings as husband and wife, we still haven't found a way to communicate affectively. I'm greatly to blame for this. I am stubborn, and I have a hard time completely forgiving Lucas for his actions. I'm also really uptight, and  I can make life a living hell for Lucas very easily. For instance, if Lucas forgets to close the cabinet doors or leaves the bathroom light on, that's fair game for an attack. And unfortunately, unlike my maternal grandfather, Lucas is extremely sensitive and unable to ignore me when I roll my eyes and mumble about his "laziness" under my breath. On the other hand, Lucas knows how anal retentive I can be, and he doesn't always do his best accomodate my, well, craziness. But, then again, why should I expect him to walk on pins and needles? Before I go on an unneccessary tangeant, I will get to the heart of the matter. I've spent so much time being bitter and angry about moving to Norfolk that I've lost track of what it means to be in love and married. The things is, being angry with my husband simply isn't going to help the situation. It's not going to make us move back to Cookeville. It's not going to make life in Norfolk better. And it certainly isn't going to make our marriage stronger. It's time to let the resentment go.

I need want to focus on having a beautiful, meaningful marriage to a man who was so easy to fall in love with, I accpeted his proposal after only five months of dating.

2.) Happiness. Sounds strange, but I have never been good at being happy. By nature, I am not a happy person and I have to actually work at it. Yes, that's right. I have to really try hard to be happy. I'm not clinically depressed. I don't currently see a therapist or take anti-depressants. I'm not suicidal. But in general, I'm not a smiley, laughing, happy-go-lucky, spontaneous, lovin' life kinda gal. I like to be alone for extended periods of time. I'm not a fan of big social events. I don't like going places and doing things unless I've mentally prepared myself. And even then, I can't guarantee that I'll enjoy myself. I hide being uncomfortable around people by either not speaking or using sarcasm, which makes me seem boring, rude, and/or generally unpleasant unless you appreciate sarcasm.

I am the Grinch.

My general teeth-clenching, eyebrows furrowed appearance says it all. To top it off, I'm married to a man, who, if allowed by his wife, would have people at our house every night, travel all the time, and spend ridiculous amounts of money on trips and material possessions that would bring joy to our lives. He likes to be happy. This causes problems in our relationship, too. His adventurous, people-loving, bohemian-like spirit and my inability to see the glass half full clash a tad bit.

But you see, like the Grinch, my heart has the capactiy to grow. And I want to be happy... if possible, all the time. While it goes against my general state of being, I want to give living a happy existance a try. Complete with dimple-bearing smiles and, (gulp) dare I say it, a positive outlook on life.

So, with this blog, I will write about my success, my failure, and my attempts at living a better life.
Happiness and marriage don't seem like bad things to put my energy towards. Here goes...well, something.