Stories

            I mentioned in my last post that I might publish a few CNA stories just for funsies, and I figure I might just do that today. Due to HIPAA regulations, all names, dates, and places have been either changed, or not included. They are not in chronological order. These stories are very much rated "I" for "icky"--You have been warned...

Story #1

            As a CNA, I've had the privilege to look under the figurative rock of human civilization, and scrub off the mostly-figurative gnarly grubs that reside there. There is no censor option for a CNA, and we get to see the good, the bad, and the just plain nasty. For example... While I was working for one facility, we had one patient in particular who hated the world. And I can tell you quite honestly that the world probably hated this patient right back, with good reason. This person hated being in a facility, and took it out on the aides that provided for their needs every day. This person did many things over the course of their stay to make us sweat in one way or another, including calling the cops on us, dumping dinner trays on the floor, and yelling loudly in the middle of the night to wake up the poor patient across the hall from where this patient stayed. This patient also had an ostomy, which is a surgically-made hole in the right side of the lower abdomen, put in for a variety of reasons, which allows feces to travel out of the hole and into a bag attached to the outside of the person's body--called an ostomy bag--rather than eliminate the usual way.  CNAs empty these bag several times a day in order for the patient to be comfortable. These lovely bags also fill up slowly with bowel gas, known to the every-day man as toots, farts, or cheese-cuttings. CNAs need to empty the bags of this as well.  But this charming individual would rather empty it own their own--on us. The patient wouldn't allow us to touch the bag if it had gas inside, and instead would save it up until the bag was stretched out like a popcorn bag from the microwave. Then this person would wait for a CNA to lean over their body to change the bedding or check their brief, and would then quickly loosen the bag from their side, raise a hand up high, and pop it down on top of the full bag in such a way that it would blow 24 hours worth of toots right into our face. I was the favorite aide to do this to, because, in this person's words, I smile too much. 

Story #2
       Something that not everyone knows about me is that I can handle almost anything gross-wise. Poop, no problem. Blood, bring it on. Boogers, I won't even blink. But spit...? *shudder* Somehow, one charming patient knew that.  This patient had dentures, which are quite handy for one to save up oodles of saliva above and around it. I came into the patient's room to change their sheets, and this person popped the dripping dentures out of their mouth, held it up high over their head, and flicked it down hard at me. A thick line of spit went from the wall above and behind me, part-way down my body, down one leg, and across the floor in front of me with a sickening "sploit" noise.  I requested not to be with that patient again after that.

Story #3

            Another time in another place, on a night shift, I was put in charge of another onery patient. This one was similar to the one in the first story, what with their frustrations in being "held captive" at a facility, and entirely different, being that this patient was exorbitantly obese. I had set up a portable potty next to this patient's bed, because with this person's excessive body weight, this person could not make it to the actual bathroom in the middle of the night without collapsing, which once resulted in a full 40 minutes of three CNAs trying to lift this patient off of the floor.  One night in particular the patient was not feeling well, saying that the patient felt that they were going to have diarrhea, and was dizzy. I helped the patient into a sitting position with the use of a Hoyer Lift, and lifted the bed as high as it could go so that they could slide off their mattress into a standing position on the floor. Now, CNAs are trained not to catch patients when they begin to fall down, but rather to hold the patient, and slide them gently down our leg to the floor before quickly getting help. This method has prevented CNAs from straining their backs for years. In this case however, this method just about killed me. My patient began to tip over backwards towards me as I was helping the patient move to the porta potty, so I put out my leg to slide the patient down--and I got stuck. The fat folds from the patient's legs engulfed my leg before I had eased the patient down to safety, and before I could stop what was happening, the rest of the patient's body knocked me down and mushed down on top of me. Already extremely uncomfortable, I pushed the patient's call button for an aide to come and save me, hoping against hope that the aide I worked with in that hall would kindly answer a call light that was assigned to me. I knew this hope was far-fetched. But then, things got so, so much worse... All I could hear through the folds of sweaty skin on top of me was the patient apologizing loudly to me.  I assumed the patient was apologizing for squishing me, but no. Slowly, I felt a hot, slimy sensation spreading from somewhere on my legs on down to my feet and up towards my torso. The patient had complained of diarrhea...and it took only a few seconds for me to realize that this was the case.

I was trapped under this person like this for five minutes before the other aides finally came and rescued me. I then surprised my employer and co-workers by showing up for work the next night. Looking back, I probably shouldn't have.

            That will be all for this time! Assuming I don't get in trouble and fined for writing even this much, I might post a few other stories at a later date. Until then, I wish you a happy evening with little or no nightmares about what you've read. Good night!

Humblin' Miracles

            I've learned something about myself over the past year and a half. I am an extremely happy, cheerful, content individual--IF I'm working on something, be it project, job, or self. Otherwise, I feel like I'm just taking up space, and I get extremely depressed. I had no idea how much being "useful" meant to me until after we got married, and for the first time in my adult life, I struggled to find a job. Before we had gotten married, I had never had a job interview that didn't immediately result in my employment.  But afterwards (I believe it was because my of my 'job history,' because I had only worked in the job I had before we got married for a few months before we moved out to Orem together and I had to quit. But that's just my summation.), interview after interview would go by, and then the potential employer would forget about me. I've been so blessed and so fortunate in my life, and I didn't know what it was like to ever be forgotten or unwanted, by anyone.  It stinks. I've felt miserable about myself during each phase of the job-hunt as we've bounced around across the Utah Valley for various reasons, but I'm finally starting to see the pattern that I believe my Heavenly Father wanted me to see. Main point: I've got a LOT of learning to do.

            The first thing I needed to learn in Orem, was that I can't always have exactly what I want--at least not exactly when I want it. I learned a little bit about that while I was hunting down Tyrel trying to get him to marry me, but I s'pose it hadn't quite hit me yet the way it was supposed to. Coming in to Orem, I had a list of nearby Assisted Living and Rehabilitation facilities, that I guess I had the assumption that I could have my pick out of. I became a CNA when I was 17, and I must admit, I'm quite dandy at it. I assumed that any one of these facilities would take me in a minute. My husband had a genuine job lined up in Orem weeks before we ever moved, and in my mind, I was just as securely set up as he was, without even talking to these facilities yet. We knew that with the cost of rent and tuition that semester we would both need to be working, and were planning for that--neither of us worried that this would be any sort of problem. But then we moved...and no one wanted me. Two weeks went by, and I had gone through my entire list of potential employers, and had tried my absolute hardest to win their attention. I had dressed up in my "power suit," edited my resume and cover letter each time to fit the facility I was applying at, gave firm handshakes, made a point of talking directly to the manager or owner or head nurse, repeated my name several names during each conversation, and nothing resulted from any of it. One facility finally did want me, but they only needed me for Sundays, and my religion discourages working on the Sabbath. Tearfully, I had to turn them down. But they were the only interested parties out of all of these people who were "supposed" to want me. Two more weeks went by, and still, nothing. I cried almost every night those last few weeks of that month, nearly all of my self-esteem broken, asking my husband over and over why he'd ever even wanted to marry me. I felt worthless.

Then, miracles happened! I finally had given up on being able to work as a CNA, and we had to adjust our living expectations accordingly, as now, IF I was going to be able to find a job, it would most likely be several dollars less an hour than we had been planning for. I was walking down State Street (our only car was a stick-shift, and I could not drive it yet. I had walked four miles down main street in mid-August for one of the interviews earlier.) near our apartment, holding several copies of my resume and a few different versions of a cover letter, when I had a tangible impression to look to my left. I saw a Subway Sandwich joint. Nothing there of importance. So I kept walking. Another impression. Go back. I went back. What exactly am I supposed to be seeing here? Then, in my thick, thick skull, it clicked. Oh. Still suffering from quite a bit of pride, I slowly walked into the Subway shop. The shop was empty except for one man, who was busy hanging an advertisement on one of the windows. I walked up to him, asking if the manager was in today. He informed me that he was the manager. I took a deep breath, and told him that I would like to be hired, if there was a position available. He told me that a position had just opened up yesterday. He asked me when I would be available for an interview. I began to feel peace spreading through my body, slowly replacing the ridiculous arrogance that had been sitting there for so long, without my knowledge. We set up a time to meet, and when I tried to hand the man my resume, he told me to keep it, and just bring it to the interview.  I walked out of that Subway knowing that, for some reason, I was supposed to be there. It would be a huge cut in pay from what I was "used to," but for some reason, it was right. The interview took place the following morning, and I was hired on the spot. After a month of being humbled to heck, I finally felt that I had a purpose again. A sweet, $7.25 an hour, always-smelling-like-a-sandwich purpose. And I love it. I loved my co-workers, and I loved the fact that I was once again contributing to our little family.

            After three or four months of working at Subway, I got a call from one of the Rehabilitation facilities from whom I had worked so hard to earn attention. They had a position available now, and they wanted me. I spoke with my sweet manager at Subway, and he told me to go. He knew that as a newly-wed, money was sparse, and this was an opportunity that I needed to take. This was the week before Christmas, and I made sure to make or buy little stockings for all of my co-workers at Subway to say thank you. I will never forget their kindness. My Christmas present from God that year was a job that before I had always taken for granted and expected. It was like God was telling me, "Alright, now that you've learned your lesson, now you can have the job you wanted." Now, it really did feel like Christmas to me. And I finally, finally learned that I am not 'too good' for anything. Well played, God...well played.

            I loved working for that Rehab facility, more than I've ever enjoyed working for any medical facility, ever. They were absolutely incredible, and I learned so much. I had only worked there for six months before a heartbreak occurred in our family, and Tyrel's brother, after being diagnosed a second time with Leukemia, was given only a short time to live--unless they could somehow convince their insurance to help cover an experimental treatment that could only take place in Huston, Texas. Tyrel's brother has a beautiful wife, and a handsome little two-year-old boy, who they were unsure if they would be able to take with them, should they be able to go. Tyrel and I moved into their basement in Woods Cross soon after hearing the bad news, in order to be able to take care of their house and possibly their baby in the event of their leaving. Through divine intervention, and with the help of my cute mother-in-law who works in insurance, they were able to leave for Texas and get the treatment. And they were even able to take their baby with them for the second half of their stay! I had learned my lesson last time about having a job lined up before the move, and my brother-in-law happened to have an acquaintance with connections to a home-health agency, so this time, I was prepared. I got the job at home health...and I hated it. I loved my patients as always, of course, and I loved my new employer, but because I was only one CNA among many, I was very rarely listened to, and was often sent to places that were either uncomfortable, dangerous, or both, despite my requests for otherwise. For example, right during the interview, I informed my then-potential employers that I was extremely allergic to cats. I was immediately afterword assigned full-time hours to a woman who owned seemingly millions of cats (I never got the exact number...there were always less than I thought when I vacuumed, and more than I thought when I brought out the cat treats.), and needed to take antihistamine tablets every few hours in order to even be able to see straight. When this dear, sweet woman passed away, it broke my heart, and I asked not to have full-time hours assigned to any one patient again. In replace of my cute little cat lady, I instead got assigned with...(cue music)... Five chronic diarrhea/vomit patients, four groping creepers, three contagious MRSA patients, two sexist women-haters, and a con-VIC-ted raa-aa-apist!! ...in addition to many other li'l joys. I think in a future blog I'll write out just a few of my wild CNA stories, names and places of course withheld... Prepare yourself, dear reader. >:) Many are not for the faint of heart...

            I had worked for that home health agency for only four months before Tyrel and I moved again, and I couldn't stay. My brother-in-law, via dozens of miracles, was doing well, and we were no longer needed in Woods Cross. We moved earlier than we had planned, and I didn't have a job lined up this time. We went from a basement in Woods Cross to a basement in West Valley, this time belonging to Tyrel's sweet parents. It was during this time that my biggest humbling-session took place.

            At first, I went through the usual "apply for where I wanted to work," again with the power suit, personalized resumes, and firm handshakes. And again, no one wanted me. A month went by. We moved the week after our first anniversary, so in mid-August, and it was now almost October. I felt trapped emotionally, unable to help my husband with the bills, and trapped physically, hating the fact that I no longer had anything that was "mine" now that we lived in someone else's basement again, while at the same time struggling with forceful feelings telling me that because I was not contributing, I did not deserve to be happy anyway, and must therefore "suck it up," so to speak. I hated my life, and I hated myself. The only thing that could make me happy was knowing that I had Tyrel, and that he loved me--even though over and over during this time of self-loathing, I couldn't imagine why.

              Another month of this, and I was now applying for jobs that I didn't want, jobs that I even hated. After a lifetime of hating receiving calls from various sale people or credit "specialists" who wanted my card number, I was now doing everything I possibly could in order to be one of the people making these calls. And they didn't want me. Tyrel and I had decided that I would not be a CNA again if at all possible, due to some early signs of back problems and carpal tunnel that had begun to take place as a direct result of the physical stains of being a Nursing Aide. But, times were tough, and I thought for sure that I had one safety line--a Rehabilitation facility that I had worked at before Tyrel and I met, that would surely take me back. I had hoped never to come back to that particular facility, and had a dislike for the "don't care" attitude of the aides and the grouchy head nurse, and forced myself to swallow my pride down even further and re-apply. But I had left that job on poor terms with the head nurse, who had chastised me for an incident that I had had no part in, who remembered me, and made sure that my application was not processed. I felt like I could sink no lower than I was at that moment. But I kept being proved wrong, as over and over my interviews ended in the employer forgetting about me.

            It embarrasses me to say that it wasn't until this point, or near to it, that I finally hit my knees alone in prayer, and begged for a job from the one Person who hopefully still thought I may be worth something. The very next day, I received a call from a man in my ward, who told me that he had connections through two different companies who needed a receptionist. Rather than asking me to apply, and telling me that he "hoped I'd get the job," he described the two positions to me over the phone, and then asked me which one I wanted. Tearfully, and grinning like a fool, I chose the position at a local Photography Studio. He gave me the owner's phone number, and told me to call the man sometime the next day. But before I had a chance to do so, the owner of the photography studio called me, asking if I was the "fabulous, amazing" person who had been described to him by the man in my ward. I'm sure I babbled like an idiot in response, but was asked to come and interview the next day anyway. I was hired immediately, and began work the next day. I love my job. It's perfect, and it's an absolute miracle that I got this wonderful opportunity to be there. The man in my ward was and is an answer to prayer, and I made sure to bring him over some home-made caramel apples and a note telling him only partially of the dark emotional hole he had pulled me out of. I am so grateful!!!!! I wish I could describe exactly how appreciative and thankful and indebted I feel towards my Heavenly Father, who needed to teach me a lesson about patience and humility, but did so in such a kind way as to have me end up with the wonderful people that I get to work (I get to work!!!) with.

Bah--huzzah for miracles!!!! 

Chapter One: 

...And They Lived Happily Ever After.

         I first met my husband, Tyrel Steven Jensen, at an LDS single's ward in Taylorsville, Utah. Classic Mormon love story set-up, isn't it? I was only there to try something different. I wasn't there to find my eternal companion, by any means. I was actually a bit anti-male at the time, after having gone through one of those typical break-ups where in the end you feel like every boy in the world is evil and very well ought to be slathered with barbecue sauce and tossed into a bear cave. I had even gone so far during this time to buy a $10 "engagement ring" from Amazon.com, which I wore to all of my college classes that semester. I was not available for the-courtin', no sir. Until I walked into that single's ward.
          This may be difficult to understand, but on the second Sunday of my being a part of that ward, I was overcome by the distinct feeling that I was supposed to marry someone from this ward. It came almost as an idea, but much more together and loud than the ideas that I come up with on my own. Of course, my head started corkscrewing all over the place, trying to figure out which man in this room I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with. That sort of upshot makes a girl curious, see. I hadn't met Tyrel yet at this point. It was during this sacrament service that my name was read into the ward, and the first counselor accidentally misread me in as "Brother Bjork," instead of "Sister Bjork." I was asked to stand, and as I did I announced to the ward that in actuality I was, in fact, of the female persuasion. A few muffled giggles from the congregation later, and I was officially a member of the ward. As I sat down again, someone on the pew behind me tapped my shoulder. I turned, and had my breath taken away as I locked eyes with the most handsome man I'd ever seen. He smiled (GORGEOUS teeth...), and told me that I could call him "Sister Jensen," if I liked. I had a warm gooey feeling go all over my chest (and mental capabilities), and I knew that this man was the one. I, ladies and gentlemen, am a living, breathing example of the fact that there is indeed such a thing as Love at First Sight. Tyrel, on the other hand...he took some convincing.
          I spent the next several weeks going out of my mind, trying to subtly-yet-not-so-subtly inform this individual that I was the only, only girl in the world for him... I am not a subtle person. I was absolutely delighted to learn that Tyrel was not spoken for or claimed by anyone, and was therefore available for me to marry him within, say, a month. If I was so completely sure that we were getting married, how hard could it be to convince him of the same? I made every effort to be near him, to touch him, to talk to him, to do whatever I could to get and hold his attention. But I had enemies...*cue menacing music* As the "fresh meat" in the ward, so to speak, I was at nearly all times surrounded by two or more men from the ward, being asked for my number, being given theirs, asked on dates, la-dee-dah. To some this may sound appealing, but there are not enough words in the English language to describe how irritating it was, week after week, being given attention from all of these "wrong" boys. I can assure the reader that I am really not "all that," as it were, and I will never profess to be. I was simply something new to the ward, and I was aware of this fact. Which only made everything more frustrating... I would come home to my family (I had recently moved back in with my wonderful family after a short time away at another college), practically seething with frustration, and my sisters and mother would ask, "Did the 'right one' get your number yet?" To which I would growl "No..." "Then did you get his?" "No..." "Then what are those?", after which I would throw a handful of "wrong boys'" numbers down on the table, almost ready to cry. I knew he was available. He treated me nicely enough. Why wasn't he pursuing me like these other men were?? I KNEW we were getting married, darn it all!!
          One week's FHE activity was an ice skating outing, and I arrived early with the very outlandish hope that Tyrel and I could possibly carpool to the rink together. And there he was, wearing a green "extra life" mushroom beanie, a bright orange t-shirt and jacket, white basketball shorts, tennis shoes, and knee-high socks. He was so handsome, so confident... Looking back at that moment today, with the help of Tyrel's rational influence over me, I now realize that he was dressed like a goober. But at that time, he was the epitome of all things hot and attractive in this world. While I was still steeling myself up to ask if he wanted to carpool, HE came up to ME, asking if I cared to share a car with him!! I about had a heart attack, I was so happy. Trying to be rational, I mentally told myself, 'He probably just got dropped off, and simply asked the first person he saw if he could get a ride. I'm just a ride. Chill.' But then Tyrel said he needed to get something from his CAR. So he COULD have driven by himself! Still trying to get a grip on myself, I figured, 'Alrighty then, he's just being conscientious about the cost of gas.' A minute later, he said, "I'll pay for the gas to get there and back." More heart attacks. Somehow in the end Tyrel and I actually ended up carpooling in someone else's car, and Tyrel and I got to sit next to each other in the back. We talked and played "Jell-o" (a thoughtless game where you try to crush the living daylights out of the person/persons sitting next to you during any turn the car makes that gives you the gravitational advantage.) the entire time. When we got to the rink, I assumed that Tyrel would go off and hang out with some other friends. But no, he stayed by my side the entire activity. I may or may not have pretended to fall just as often if not more so as I actually fell, just so that Tyrel would help me back up. All in all, I thought that it had been a terrific bonding experience, filled with much laughter and flirting. But did he get my number then? NO-O-O-O. 
          After four or more weeks of these frustrations, I finally resolved that after the next upcoming FHE activity, if Tyrel didn't finally get my number, I would finally cave and ask for his. Silly boy...didn't he know that we were supposed  to have been married by this point? The moment came: the activity was over, and Tyrel and I were alone in the middle of cultural hall at our church building. Lights were starting to be turned off; I was standing with the most handsome and charming man in the universe, and I was absolutely speechless. I haltingly began making small-talk with him. In Tyrel's version of this story, there was a five-second pause in our little pleasantries, and then I practically yelled at him for his number. In my version, there was an eternal pause, during which both of us were having a mental showdown over who would cave and ask for the other's number first. Apparently I lost. Still very much determined to subtly-yet-not-so-subtly marry this man, my very first text to him was, "You are SUCH a BABE." Take notes, ladies. This actually works out in the end...
          One of his first texts to me was an invitation to watch a Jazz game with him on the TV. Folks...my response was a lie. I told him I would love to watch it with him. That was all he knew. On my side of the cell phone, my heart had dropped as soon as I read the words he sent to me. I have been anti-game-watching for my ENTIRE life, and I can't TELL you how utterly disappointed I was that game-watching could be a part of my future. I slowly and sadly  showed the text to my mom, and this, honest-to-goodness, no exaggeration, was her response: "I'm so sorry, Melanie. I know you really liked him." She and I both knew that under any normal circumstances, this would be the end. But I shook my head, and said to her, "I'm gonna go." Her eyes bulged, and she said, "Wow...you REALLY must like this guy!" I nodded solemnly, and replied, "Yeah, mom...I really do." That was when my mother realized that this was really happening.
I got hit by a wave of nerves before leaving for 'the game' (this was the closest thing to a "date" that I had managed to squeeze out of this guy at this point), and accidentally put on WAY too much make-up. Tyrel told me months later that my lip-gloss smacking-sounds were memorably distracting. Hot, myself. Really hot. But despite my efforts of looking and smelling nice for this boy, he actually wanted to watch the game! I promise that I tried really, really hard to understand what was so interesting. I asked valid questions, like "How can you tell who's winning?" and "Which ones are the Jazz?", which Tyrel patiently (though somewhat surprisedly) answered, and then went back to watching the game. Somewhere in the middle of the first quarter, I made "a move." There was no way I was going to sit all through this game--that I was not even beginning to comprehend--without at least a hand-hold. In my mind, I'd already earned this boy with my rockin' patience, darn it all. But I skipped holding hands altogether, and instead practically sat on his lap, with one arm on his chest, one leg over his leg, and my head down on his shoulder. Yeah, man. Tyrel was a bit taken aback, I'm sure, but humored me by putting his arm around me. He told me later that while he enjoyed my attention, he had concluded at that point that I was a player. It was a valid assumption...I was still being surrounded by "wrong boys" every Sunday, and I had had at least three dates every week for the past month. But I swear to you, I accepted the dates to be courteous, and no other boy had gotten so much as a hand-hold or a kiss on the cheek out of me during or after any date.  In my mind, I already belonged to Tyrel. But it absolutely makes sense to me now that he couldn't have known that yet.  But it still frustrated the heck out of me that he still just didn't "get it" yet.
          He slowly got it though. After surviving one more Jazz game after that, Tyrel finally decided that I was worth the risk he assumed I was, and asked me out on an official "Date." Ironically, this date was set up and carried out on Valentine's Day, a fact that did NOT escape me. He told me over the phone to "dress up," and that he was going to take me somewhere nice. Cue visions of wedding dresses... I settled for a nice skirt and shirt with a dress jacket, and soon we arrived at the TGI Fridays at Valley Fair Mall.  I didn't know it, but Tyrel was watching me to see if I would be one of those "salad girls," who pretend not to have an appetite in order to avoid being watched while they eat. Contrary to my thin appearance and his expectations, I instead ordered a large platter of ribs, and ate them with such gusto that I somehow wound up with barbecue sauce in my eye. This, strangely, impressed him... What can I say, this was a match made in heaven. 
          It was that night that Tyrel kissed me for the first time... Before that wonderful night, I had never had a real romantic kiss, let alone a romantic first kiss. My very first kiss involved the boy swinging his head down at me with such force and in-agility that his tooth cut my lip and left a scar that I still have today. But Tyrel...wow. We had gone back to his family's home, and were sitting on a couch in their front room. His mother had recently gotten out their family's photo albums, so of course I gravitated towards Tyrel's scrapbook. I can tell you right now (and of course was thinking right then), our kids are going to be adorable. I looked up at Tyrel at some point, and was hit by a wave of butterflies when I realized that he was giving me "the look." I suddenly realized that maybe I wasn't as ready as I thought I was, and quickly looked back down. Then I felt Tyrel's hand gently cup under my chin, as he tenderly lifted my face towards his. He looked into my eyes to make sure that I was ok with this, and then gently kissed my lips. First thought: kissing a beard is weird. Second thought: That...was my last first kiss.
          We became "official" that Sunday (to him, at least. To me, we were official the moment that he kissed me. The minute I got home from our date that night, I called up and canceled on two other men who had scheduled dates with me that week, telling them that I was in a relationship with Tyrel now and was no longer available.). It was after the three-hour block, at the mix-and-mingle activity in the cultural hall. I was standing with a girlfriend of mine, and was soon also surrounded by the usual entourage of boys. Tyrel was standing on the other side of the room with a friend of his, Mosiah. Mosiah was concerned for Tyrel, because he had heard something about Tyrel and I possibly being a couple--but there I was, surrounded by "wrong boys." Mosiah asked, "Hey man, is everything ok? I thought you and that girl...I don't know, were together or something." Tyrel was cool as a cucumber. He said, "No, I think we're ok. Let me check." He then yelled accross the entire crowded cultural hall, "HEY, MELANIE! ARE YOU OFFICIALLY MY GIRLFRIEND NOW? AND AM I YOUR BOYFRIEND?" To which I responded, equally as loud and also across the entire room,  "YYYYYEEEEEEESSSSSS!!!!!!!!!" I was so happy about officially officiating our official-ness, I didn't notice my entourage of boys immediately begin to slink away from me. Mission ACCOMPLISHED!!!
          I'm very close with my family, and I kept them informed through each step of development in this relationship.  Every time something new happened, I came bursting into my parents' room with my arms flailing above my head, shouting the latest news: *BANG* "I'VE GOT HIS NUMBBEERRR!!!!" *BANG* "HE HELD MY HAAAAAAAND!!!!" *BANG* "WE'VE GOT AN ACTUAL DAAAAAATE!!!" *BANG* "HE KISSED MMMEEEEEE!!!!!" *BANG* "WE'RE OFFICIALLY A COOUUPPLLEE!!!!!" And then...there was a long pause in announcements. Tyrel had yet to tell me that he loved me. I accidentally blurted out that I loved him on our second date. I truly meant it when I said it, I had loved him for some time at that point, but I knew better than to freak the poor man out with my feelings. To my outburst of love, Tyrel had awkwardly told me that he "cared about me very much," and I had since dropped the subject, hoping that he would reciprocate my feelings soon. But he didn't. Weeks went by, and at one point, after dropping him off at his home after one of our dates (he drove normally, but his car was being used at the time), while he was waving at me from his front steps and I was in the car on the street, I couldn't hold it in anymore. I was going to explode. So I opened my car door, took a deep breath, and shouted across the dark neighborhood, "DANG IT, TYREL!! I DON'T CARE IF YOU WON'T SAY IT--I LOVE YOU!!!!" Tyrel paused, looking embarrassed, and gave me another little wave.  I then quickly slammed my door shut and hit the gas, speeding away as quickly as I could, all the while thinking, "Oh man, oh man, I've ruined it, I freaked him out again, oh man, oh man..." Happily, Tyrel still spoke to me. And we were still a couple. But still, no "L-word" for quite some time...
          By the time he finally did say he loved me (it was so perfect...he had stopped by my house on his way home from work with a bouquet of tulips. He was greeted at the door by my mother, and ten other relief society sisters, who Tyrel was mortified to learn were there for book-club that evening. After several awkward minutes of the ladies ooh-ing and ahh-ing at how handsome and sweet Tyrel was, he and I escaped and went for a walk in the dark, during which he told me that he had finally accepted something: He was in love with me. And he knew it. He KNEW it. I had never cried from happiness until that moment...), it was over for both of us, and we knew it. I had known we were getting married from the moment I met him, and now he finally, FINALLY, knew it too. So where was the RING, man??? I kept pestering him about being engaged, telling him that I now hated the word "boyfriend," and would not be happy until I could call him my "fiance." Still no ring. Then Tyrel, who at the time was the tour director for the Utah Valley Youth Symphony Orchestra, left for a week to direct the tour. Still no ring. I was going out of my mind. On a date after he came home, my family and I were so sure that this night would be the night that he proposed, that I did something wild. I curled my hair. It's not that I'm a man or anything, but I HATE curling my hair, and have never in my life done so without burning myself. This act in and of itself should darn well have elicited a proposal out of him, but no, still no ring. Finally, just a few days after the hair-curling incident, I sat Tyrel down. I sat on his lap, put my arms around his neck, and said, "Tyrel, will you please do me a favor?" He said, "Anything." I said, with only a little frustration, "Will you PROPOSE to me tomorrow??" 
          And he did.
          The proposal story goes as follows: Tyrel picked me up that morning smelling like bacon.  As one of my tactics in trying to make Tyrel love me, I had brought him breakfast in bed at least once a week since we had begun dating.  And here was Tyrel, who claimed to have a hard time cooking anything more complicated than an egg, making such a sweet effort to reciprocate. He took me back to his family's home, where he had laid out a beautiful table setting, complete with cloth napkins and extra forks. He had been working all morning on a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, orange juice, and toast. To me, it may as well have been caviar and salmon on lox. He made me feel like a princess. After breakfast, he and I drove up to Little Cottonwood canyon for a hike. I kept trying to hug him, 'secretly' checking whatever pockets I could reach for a small box-shape, but to no avail. As sweet as this was, and though I was fairly certain that he was going to propose today, I had to rationalize that I had thought that he was going to propose a few days earlier when I had curled my hair, and that hadn't happened. It didn't hurt to hope, though. We arrived at the mouth of a canyon trail, but soon Tyrel had pulled me off onto the side of the trail, and we began hiking through beautiful trees and shrubs off the beaten path. We soon came upon a small, stunted pine tree. Joking, as my silly efforts of 'stalking' Tyrel had become something of a joke between us, I said, "Look, honey! It's our 'love fern'!", referencing a movie with another overly-creepy heroin.  Tyrel winked at me, and said, "We ought to mark our 'love fern,' don't you think?" So we both knelt down next to the little tree, and began laying rocks around it in a circle. I took a smaller rock, and scratched "I love you, Tyrel" into a larger rock. Still looking down at my carving, I was surprised to hear what sounded like Tyrel crying. I was confused. My handwriting on the rock wasn't all THAT bad--why the crying? I looked up at Tyrel, and felt the wind suddenly get knocked out of me when I saw what he was holding. A beautiful, beautiful engagement ring. He choked out, "I love you, too." And then we were silent as we tried with much difficulty to get the ring on my finger. Both of us were shaking like mad, and I was already wearing a small quarter-machine ring on my left ring finger (Tyrel had bought it for me several weeks earlier, after I had pestered him about hurrying up and proposing. I had told him that I would be happy with a ring from a quarter-machine, and he bought one for me as a very sweet, yet somehow mean, joke.), which only complicated the task.  We finally got the ring on my finger, and I was so overcome with happiness that I stood up, took a deep breath, and went screaming, "WWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE" up the mountain.  After a minute, I finally stopped, and sat underneath a big tree. I have a terrible sense of direction, and decided that it would be better to sit and have Tyrel come find me then it would be for me to become hopelessly lost on the day of our engagement. Were we engaged? I realized at that point that though I finally had a ring on my finger, I didn't know if I was engaged. Neither of us had actually said anything. Soon Tyrel came walking up towards me, smiling his usual slightly exasperated, "Oh, Melanie..." smile. He sat down next to me, and for once I waited for him to speak first. He said, "There's something I meant to ask you back there. Melanie...will you marry me?" I whispered, "Yes." "Will you be my eternal companion?" "Yes." "Will you be mine forever?" "Yes." "Can I be yours forever?" "Yes." He smiled, and pretended to count on his fingers. Then he said, "Well, I guess that about covers it, doesn't it?" And we were engaged.
          On our drive home from the mountain, in-between lots of shouting on my end out the window at passing strangers/rocks/whatever else was outside my window that we were finally engaged, Tyrel asked me when I would like to get married. Sheepishly, I pulled an envelope out of my purse, addressed to Tyrel, from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. It was instructions on where to meet, what to wear, and how many people to invite to our temple sealing, scheduled for 9am on August 7th, 2012, at the Timpanogos Temple. I had made the reservation a week and a half earlier.
          And it happened. All of this anxiety took place from the end of December, to the beginning of August. The anxiety was due to things going far too slowly on my end, and far, far too quickly on the end of my poor sweetheart. But it happened. I am deeply in love with my husband Tyrel, and I am very happy to inform the reader that he finally loves me right back, and treats me the way that every father wants his daughter to be treated. Like a princess. And we Lived Happily, Ever After.