My List

I don't know how to make a fancy video like the one above, but here is my attempt at fancy writing...

Things I am thankful for today:

*Memories that make me laugh out loud. (One I remembered and laughed about this morning: Running down a steet in Argentina with Hermana Heninger, trying to make it home on time, only to look down and realize my skirt had come unzipped, was flapped wide open revealing my whities underneath, and was slowly sliding towards my ankle. I think Hna. Heninger choked as she tried to laugh, breathe, and run at the same time...)

*Frozen cookie dough and Blue Bell Peppermint ice cream.




*Christmas, so I can spend time with my family, drink warm vanilla steamers from Starbucks, and not have to explain why the Josh Groban Christmas CD is in my CD player. Because usually it is, but only during the month of December do others not roll their eyes.


Also, I'm thankful because Christmas gives Blue Bell a reason to make Peppermint ice cream :)

*The never-ending list of things to do in Austin:

-Watching The Music Man in the park, for free

-Tasting chocolate covered bacon at The Big Top Candy Shop


-Night kayaking with glow sticks and great friends (pictured are Marci and Cassi)


-Country dancing at The Broken Spoke

-Hiking and splashing barefoot in the river in 70 degree weather in November

-Having my two favorite holidays combine as I watched fireworks being shot off in synch with Christmas music at the lighting of the Macy's Christmas Tree. So, so fantastic.


*Being with my family, eating lots of good food, and trying to squish together on one bed to take a nap together. Also, playing Cranium, Tetris, and Sniglets together, especially when it's late and our brains have stopped working.

*A mom who taught me how to serve and love others.

*My job that allows me to blow bubbles, play the Wii, don scrubs, hat and mask to go into surgery with one of my patients, help a 5 year old give an IV to a doll, swaddle an infant and comfort a sobbing teenager, all before my lunch break.

I could keep going (friends, roommates, missions, good books, inspirational movies, music that makes me sing in my car or dance in my kitchen, optimism, good citizens, fire extinguishers - yes, there is a story to tell here, in a later blog post - my health, my Body Bug, my apartment and cheap rent, etc...) but I want to end with what is most important to me:

*My understanding and personal testimony that I am a child of God, that He loves me, and wants me to be happy. In the midst of chaos, worldy catastrophies, natural disasters, war, and economic hard times, He remains aware of me, and has provided a sure path to follow, a never-faltering voice of guidance, and a way for me to have peace and joy in this life. Because of this knowledge, I know where I came from, why I am here, and where I am going. I know He sent His Son Jesus Christ to make it possible for me to change and become better everyday, and achieve my ultimate goal of returning to live with my Heavenly Father again. Yes, for this I am truly grateful.

Optimism, a La Cucaracha

My alarm clock buzzed at 6am, and my eyes shot open. I was staring at a chipped cement ceiling, and my pajama shirt clung to my skin like plastic wrap, soaked with humidity and sweat. My mind was wracked with confusion: Where was I? Who's house was this? And how did I get here? I froze as I heard someone rustle on the bunk bed below me, and then clarity came as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes: I was a missionary. I was in Argentina.

An involuntary groan escaped my lips as I sat up, literally peeling my body off the mattress. It had been one day. One day since I stepped of the plane from the comfort of the Missionary Training Center in America and stepped foot into that dusty hot jungle of foreign words and faces. My mind was exhausted from trying to make sense of the sounds and commotion of life around me, and every inch of my body ached from hours of proselyting and running from stray dogs in the street. My companion climbed out of bed and knelt on the cement floor to say her morning prayers, and as I maneuvered off the top bunk to do the same, I winced as my blistered feet made contact with the floor. I breathed in deeply, re-steadied myself and knelt beside my companion with my head bowed in prayer, wondering how I could possibly do this, every day, for the next 16 months. "Padre," I prayed, "Te necesito..."

I pulled myself off my knees and headed for the dresser, hobbling on the sides of my feet so I wouldn't pop my blisters. I opened the top drawer and stifled a scream: there, racing across my clean white underwear, was an enormous, dirty brown cockroach. He froze when the light hit him and stood there atop my silky slip, his antennas twitching and feeling, seeming to lick the air around him. I stood staring at the little beast as he stared at me, trying to decide what to do: I wanted to throw something at him, really hard; I wanted to crawl back in bed and pull the sheet over my head; I wanted to scream for my companion, who was in the shower; and mostly, I wanted to cry.

Then, of all the random things that could flash through my mind in that instant, came a story I had read years earlier, about a husband and wife who had returned late from a trip, and too tired to unpack had gone to bed, leaving several of their personal items in their car parked in the driveway. The next morning they discovered the car had been stolen. As they stood in their now-empty driveway with the wife in tears, the husband suddenly started to chuckle. The wife stared at him in unbelief, and the husband said something along these lines: "We can have a stolen car and cry about it, or we can have a stolen car and laugh about it. Either way, we have a stolen car."

I stood there in the 100 degree heat in that cement apartment in Argentina, nursing my blisters and staring at Mr. Cockroach, when it dawned at me: I could have a cockroach in my underwear drawer and cry about it, or I could have a cockroach in my underwear drawer and laugh about it. Either way, there was a cockroach in my underwear drawer. The corners of my mouth twitched a little, and in that moment I made a pivotal decision: I would laugh.

Now, that didn't change everything. I still had a cockroach in my underwear drawer, and, both literally and figuratively speaking, he would most likely be there every single one of the 455 days that lay ahead of me. It would take six more weeks before I learned to look into the faces of the Argentine people instead of down at the dusty road ahead of me as I walked. Three more months before my blisters popped and became callouses. And nine more months before I learned to roll my "R"s and actually carry on a fluent conversation. But what that experience taught me was optimism. I chose to find humor when my apartment flooded each time it rained, and when my shoes wore so thin I had to stuff the lining with cotton balls and duct tape them together. I chuckled when the Bishop's wife chased a chicken out of her house with a broom, and even attempted to smile when she served me morsilla and mondongo for dinner. (Translation: blood sausage and rubbery cow stomach).

Heavenly Father did answer my prayer that morning some five years ago, when I pleaded to him on my knees in my broken Spanish. He helped me turn my outlook from simply enduring 16 months in a foreign land, to working and serving and learning to love a people and culture and country so incredibly much. Cockroaches and all...*

*well, almost. I still want to throw up, or throw something really hard every time I see a cockroach here in Texas :)

What Matters Most

For those of you who do not like my wordiness, you may skip to the end of the post where the pictures and video are :) For everyone else, here goes...

Last Thursday, several of my patients in the hospital where I work spent every waking moment between IV pokes and surgeries in the playroom. Some of them did not like our interior decorating job, and decided to take matters into their own hands by decorating every one-inch square of the wall and floor with various shades of paint. Others, on our younger taste-testing toddler committee, wanted to ensure that the aquamarine and brick red crayons really did taste like aquamarine and, well, red brick. They did. This conclusion was made, of course, by mouthing every crayon in the playroom. Still others, in our animal rights activist group, freed our plastic animals by dumping every one that we owned (along with the dinosaurs, Little People, and action figures) onto the floor.

Due to infection control, and the swine flu epidemic sweeping across Austin (check out the link here: http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=5331186n&tag=contentMain;contentBody), this required that every one of those square inches touched by little fingers and every Lego, crayon, lion, tiger and bear in the playroom be wiped down (individually) with disinfectant wipes. Oh my.

Thursday evenings I am the only child life specialist who covers the hospital, (besides the ER specialist whose hands are tied juggling procedures and entertaining 350 swine-flu infected kids and family members in the waiting room). Because I am usually caught up in procedures and inpatient needs, the task of closing the playroom at night typically falls onto our extremely hard working child life assistant. Last Thursday night however things were slow as far as procedures went, and as I peered into the war zone - er, playroom - at 8pm, I knew immediately where I would be spending the remaining hour of my shift...

As I rinsed off a paint brush and she wiped off a tyrannosaurus Rex, our new child life assistant (I'll call her Jane) and I began chatting to get to know each other better. Jane asked me if I had family in the area, and when I explained that my closest family lived in Boise, Jane guessed how hard that must be, and how terribly I must miss them. I explained to her that while I grew up Miss Independent (thank you, Kelly Clarkson) and loved to move and live far away from home, when my nieces and nephew were born, it changed everything. When I took the job in Austin at Dell Children's Medical Center, thousands of miles from my family, I took it with the decision that I would fly home four times a year to be near them and watch my nieces and nephew grow up.

Jane guessed again (correctly) that round trip tickets from Austin to Boise were not cheap and wanted to know how I did it. I explained that I had evaluated my financial situation and created a budget that would allow it. Yes, this means coupon clipping while grocery shopping, buying clothes at TJ Max and thrift stores, and driving a station wagon instead of my dream Jeep Cherokee...but it's worth it when I step off the plane and my five-year-old niece Cora runs into my arms, wrapping her arms and legs tightly around me, as her 3-year-old sister Claire scampers close behind, screaming "Desi! Desi!" with a ginormous lollipop-sticky smile covering her face.

Jane smiled big at this description, wiping down piece 279 of the 500-piece puzzle she was cleaning, and stated she was impressed that someone as young as I had figured out my priorities. She said the majority of humanity figures out what's most important to them when tragedy strikes or they have a brush with death. This was true, I agreed, and discussed with her the saying that nobody on their death bed ever wishes they had spent more time at the office... Jane then explained that only in the last couple years had she truly figured out her priorities. She said she regretted not having spent enough time with her daughter as she grew up, and though she could not change the past, she was determined to live fully and give fully in the present. In fact, she explained she just left the full time work force to take on this part time child life assistant job, because her daughter and grandchild live nearby, and she wants to be able to spend more time with them. With her priorities.

As Jane and I sat there wiping off elephants and tea sets, our knees touching our chests as we squished into pre-school sized chairs, I hoped she was right about me. I hope that the people I love and the values I live remain my priorities - and stay what matters most in my life.

A few of my priorities, in no particular order...

My nephew Soren

My nieces Cora and Claire

My sister Cho and Soren

My sister Michelle, torturing me

Cora and Claire as purple things for Halloween

My brother Michael and my sisters Michelle, Cho, and Amber at Easter

Cora, just being Cora

Miracle Grow

In September 2008 I was looking for a little change in my life. It had been six months since I'd moved to Austin, and my pattern had previously been to move every 4-six months: Boise for a few months after the mission. Then school at BYU-Idaho. Then Dallas for a practicum, and back to BYU-Idaho. Then Boise again, St. Louis for a summer internship, Boise for six months, then Austin... Needless to say, I was feeling antsy, and was itching for a change. Knowing I loved my job, roommate, and Austin, I wasn't going anywhere. So instead, I chopped my hair off. Pixy short, with millions of layers that stuck up crazy with a palm full of gel. My sister Amber told me I looked cute, like a soccer mom. Not exactly what I was going for... Anyway, within weeks I changed my mind and decided to let it grow out again. It has been a week shy of a year, and in that time I have only cut it twice to reshape it (I was feeling a mullet coming on...). Looking at the pictures below, I can not believe how much it has grown. Seriously, you would have thought I'd mixed a little Miracle Grow with my cereal each morning!

September 2008 (with my neices Cora and Claire)



August 2009 (with my sisters Cho and Amber)



(And don't worry - I just moved to a new apartment last month, so I've had my change for this half of the year. My hair is not going anywhere any time soon!)

Green Sticks Ranch, California (AKA Rancho Palos Verdes)

April showers typically bring May flowers, but this year even my May started out in a downpour! Feeling overly stressed with work projects, church assignments, personal matters, and apartment and roommate hunting, I found myself clinging to the thread shards on the end of my rope. I felt so overwhelmed that like a light bulb, I knew I would either burn out, or shatter (more like explode!) in a million pieces .

One late evening at work, as I sat with my head on my desk, trying to gather the energy to make one last round on my patients, I looked at my office mate and said, "It's official. I'm running away." She somehow knew I wasn't kidding, and scooted her chair over as I Googled vacation packages to Thailand and Tierra de Fuego. Together we priced tickets to destinations all around the world, trying to find me an escape route to Anywhere, Planet Earth.

In the midst of my determined spontaneity (is that possible?), I remembered my Uncle Doug in California, who had invited me several times to his home in Rancho Palos Verdes. With my jaw set towards the West and my time off request in hand, I figured it was about time I took him up on his offer! One week later, I was squishing sand between my toes at Redondo Beach, soaking up sunshine in my Uncle Doug and Aunt Rosie's magnificent backyard garden, and playing hide and seek with my cousins after a boat ride and day at the pier. It was the perfect, peaceful weekend away that I needed, and I came home feeling so refreshed and ready to face life again. Turns out, May did bring her flowers after all...

The view on the drive to my Uncle's house. Love the palm trees!

The cliffs at Palos Verdes Estate.

My uncle's backyard where I spent the majority of my time reading and getting sun.

The sail on our boat, on our spontaneous boat tour off Ports o'Call in San Pedro.

A baby seal we spotted

My Uncle Doug and Aunt Rosie

Me, in front of one of the cargo ships. Those things are HUGE!

My cousin Andrew checking out a lone sailboat on the Redondo Beach pier.

This cute band, playing right on the water's edge, added the perfect soundtrack to my day.

Some really large birds we spotted on the pier.

Random kids playing soccer on Redondo beach.

My cousin Andrew wrote my name in the sand, to prove I was really there!

How to make something...out of nothing

My friend Bridgid injured her foot a while back and called me tonight for a ride home from work, as she can't drive. We both had to be at the same place at 7pm, so we stopped at my apartment to grab a bite to eat on the way. Only when we walked in did I remember I'm in the process of moving, and don't have any furniture, hardly any utensils, only one pan, and basically no food. Obviously, being a hostess is not my day job! So, I offered Bridgid the only seat in the house - my exercise ball - (at least somebody's getting use out of that thing!) and proceeded to cook her a spontaneous meal with any ingredients I could dig up. Let's just say I am well on my way to being America's Next Top Chef (or, maybe Bridgid is just a wee bit too nice), but she actually asked for seconds of my sauteed Broccoli/Asparagus/Snap pea/almond/black bean concoction, topped off with Braag's Liquid Aminos (a product just as tasty as soy sauce with a fraction of the sodium, which I feel everyone should embrace).

Anyway, here is a picture, snapped on my cell phone, of Bridgid balancing on my exersize ball in the corner, eating my yummy masterpiece - with a spoon. (Just so you know, I did offer her the one fork in the house, but she apparently thought taking on broccoli with a spoon would make her cool..)


Bridgid, anyone who can give me a memory like this one is autimatically cool, spoon or not!

Speechless

(Please note the date above is the date I started writing this blog - way back in March. This goes to show how often I thought about posting, but never did...)

Three weeks ago, I was diagnosed with viral laryngitis. (Yay for working in a hospital with sick kids).

(Look how sad I am as I point to my inflamed voice box)

I attempted to go to work, both Monday and Tuesday that week, and was promptly sent back home. Not because I was contagious, but because I was basically worthless. I could not introduce myself or child life services to my patients and their families. I could not prepare them for surgery, nor support them through invasive procedures. Can you imagine me whispering "now take a deep breath, and squeeze mommy's hands," when the patient is trying to out-match Metallica in a screaming contest?

The list of things I couldn't do continued. I couldn't answer the phone when my nurses called me to bring activities to a room, and eventually even the student I'm training gave up trying to decipher my homemade sign language. I thought since I was part Italian and speak with my hands, that might work, but I guess it didn't. By the way, If you went to Italy, how would you know who was signing and who was simply speaking? Hmmm. Anyway, I was sent home, and told I had to call a doctor before I could return. Yuck. However, this is where my aha moment began...

Being somewhat new in Austin, I do not have a primary care physician. I called the first provider listed on my insurance, and tried to explain that I needed to see a doctor. It took me two minutes to squeeze out "I lost my voice." The receptionist heard a mix between a dying cow and squawking goose, and asked me to please speak up. I attempted again, and exasperated she stated something was wrong with the connection , because she just couldn't hear me. I wanted to tell her that I was what was wrong with the connection, but that would have taken six more minutes. So I hung up and drove to the office - still in the jammies I had changed into after leaving work - and walked up to the receptionist' s desk. When I opened my mouth and only a squawk came out, she smiled and handed me a clipboard and a pen. 1/2 hour later, I had my laryngitis diagnosis, a prescription to drink lemon tea with honey, and doctor's orders to not speak for 24 hours. My larynx beat you to your order, Doc...

Back in my car, I picked up my phone to call a friend I was supposed to meet up with. Only, mid-ring I realized I wouldn't be able to talk with her, so I hung up. I stopped at the grocery store, and when the cashier asked how my day was, I whispered an answer, but she couldn't hear me. She stopped checking my groceries to lean in to hear me, and the shopper behind me glared impatiently in my direction. As I walked out to my car with my cough drops and lemons, it dawned on me how much my life would have to change if I never got my voice back.

I know it would be hard for me to listen so much. Instead of asking my coworker how her weekend went, I tend to walk into work Monday mornings and tell her why I am exhausted, due to the temple-trip/B-B-Q/grocery-shopping/had-to-help-my-friend-move-and-game-night-Saturday, followed by my Relief-Society-meeting/had-to-do-my-visiting-teaching/be-home-taught/prepare-a-lesson/make-salad-for-the-linger-longer-and-then-stay-for-the-fireside-Sunday. Oh yah, not to mention I woke up at 5am to work out/make my bed.... oh sorry, where was I? Case in point. I'd have to learn to listen, and learn to be okay with silence.

Second, I would have to set aside my pride and learn to text. Now, I can text, but do so with one finger, and have to store up motivation and energy to reply to one when I get it - (No joke, it will take me at least five minutes).

I'd have to concentrate hard on my handwriting, to make it legible. Once, when I was writing some words on a chalkboard for a Sunday School lesson, someone in class asked if I had ever considered becoming a kindergarten teacher. Flattered, I asked why, and she said I wrote like one. A kindergarten teacher? I inquired. No, she replied - a kindergartner. Oh.

Moving on, I guess I have to tag this one on for my mom: Since I'd be writing more, I'd have to learn to spell correctly. If I could succesfully...sucessfuly...ssuuccessffullyy do it, she and all my English teachers would be so proud! (If you aren't sure about a word, just throw in two of each letter and you should cover all your bases...)

I'd have to keep my body language in check. Several years ago, after a particularly frustrating morning trying to get three kids dressed and out the door, I noticed the four-year-old boy I nannied for staring at me. Cautiously, he asked if I was mad at him, and in the calmest voice I could muster, I said no. I needed him to believe I was calm and in control. He cocked his head and looked at me and asked, "then why is your face mad?"

Not only do actions speak louder than words, but I've come to realize that body language shouts over anything we try to say.

Finally, I'd have to find a way to communicate a lot of information (more than can fit in a text) to a lot of people at one time so that I could stay connected with others. Oh wait...that would be called a blog!

Since you all know how often I update this blog :), you will be pleased to know I have beat laryngitis, and my voice has returned, full force. Hopefully, a little fuller of wisdom and silence as well...

(Just so you can see how excited I was...)

Family Matters

Meet Soren, my 2-year-old nephew. He wears converse sneakers, has an obsession with brooms and golf clubs, and has gorgeous golden curls that I am envious of. He resides in Portland with his parents (my sister Cho and her husband Scott).

Meet Cora and Claire, my neices. Cora is 4 years old. Her favorite animal is a pigmy marmoset, her favorite article of clothing is her princess dress, and she absolutely loves spending time with her Aunt Desi. It's true - just ask her! Claire is 2, and her current favorite word is "why?" She thrives off creating messes and peeing on every clean surface in her house, and has the most intense head of bleach-white hair I have ever seen, especially right after waking up. They live in Boise with their parents (my sister Amber and her husband Mark).

These are the girls in my family, in a traditional family pic (probably, it's better if you just don't ask): My sister Cho, me, and my sisters Amber and Michelle. These girls are my best friends.

This is my favorite (and only) little brother, Michael, and his wife Anne. They live near my hometown of Payette, ID. And no matter what he says or how strong he looks, I really can take him down...

Next up is my mom, Jeanne, and my step-dad, Val. They live in Payette, Idaho, and I would say they are empty nesters, except they share their five acres with some chickens and cows. My mom was recently crowned Superest Mom of the Universe, and still the title does her no justice.

I need to add a picture of my step-mom, Trista, which is extremely difficult as she refuses to be in pictures! However, I will accomplish this mission...Just know she is a pastry chef, and makes one mean cherry-pear crisp with coconut almond topping.... I do not have any current photos of her, but please know my half-sister Angelina is also a very important part of my life.

Finally, as soon as I am able to upload them, I will scan in some photos of my Father, Steven Lewis Heide, who passed away May 28th 2004. He was a man you would have argued with, while enjoying a mexican feast at one of his favorite mom and pop restaurants. You might have rolled your eyes at his ridiculous wit, or maybe listened as he played one of his "hand clapping, toe tapping, knee slapping, sweet country songs"on his guitar. You would have really enjoyed him.

This is my family; may you get to know them and love them as much as I do.

Jumping in

So I guess this post officially inducts me into the blogging world. I never thought I would see this day, mostly because I suffer from what those in the sociology world call "cultural lag." Basically, I am always a step or two, a year of two, or a new gadget or two behind everyone else. I realized I was out of one loop when I stepped off the plane from Buenos Aires into the Washington DC airport in 2005, and a gentleman sitting next to me was writing on a palm pilot... when it rang. At that moment, I knew I was not in Kansas anymore. I had a brain and a heart and courage (I had just returned from an 18 month mission in a foreign country, which I found required all of the above), and I felt I did not need anything more - especially not a cell phone. Four months later I found myself with one in my hand, but I reminded everyone it was only because my parents would not let me head to college without one. Now, when my cell phone dies with no charger in sight, I panic and try to remember how I functioned in the olden days.

Next, we move to facebook. I refused for over two years to get involved in all the hype surrounding this sensation. It wasted time, and was risky, I was sure. Then, I moved to Austin and was called into the Relief Society presidency. Out of utter neccessity, and against everything I personally believed in, I created a page in order to keep up with the comings and goings of the sisters in my ward, and stay "in the know" with ward happenings. I vowed aloud to anyone who would listen that I was not a fan, and that I would not let it become my life. Now, I check it on a daily basis, and rely on it for my social calendar, birthday reminders, and memory-making purposes. It is not my life, but if facebook ever did go down, I'd have to remember how to use a cell phone again. Just kidding.

In September 2000, I recived a Mac desktop as a highschool graduation present. On that blueberry-colored mega brain I hacked out research papers and New Testament summaries at wee hours of the morning, all through my first years of college. After the mission, it still functioned, just shuffled along and required a few multi-vitamins for some joint pain and arthritis. I continued stubbornly using my computer for years, until 2008, when I attempted to open my facebook page and my Mac's internet explorer rejected my attempt, stating my version was not tough enough to handle it. I broke down. Not in tears, though I came close since simply looking at my Mac elicits nostalgia for my college years. No, I broke down and purchased a laptop, which I now use on a daily basis.

I could go on, about texting and digital cameras, but I'll spare you. Basically, a good friend of mine from NY whispered in my ear a year back that it would be great if I had a blog so she could keep up with my life. I whispered back, "no." Then, more recently, I reviewed the blog of another friend, and realized not only can it be used as a journal entry/memorybook for myself and (future) posterity, but it can be a tool for sharing my testimony and the Gospel with others. So, with that in mind, and in the face of 'cultural lag', here I go...