tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27555038761110176362024-03-04T21:51:38.464-08:001NurseRatched1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-33747160620618794212015-08-25T10:54:00.000-07:002015-08-25T10:55:32.429-07:00AntiburnoutI have the world's greatest job for a late-in-life-career-change-psychiatric-nurse. That said, the past several (nine) months have been fraught with challenges: I was nudged into a "charge nurse" position when my hero charge nurse took time to help with the Ebola crisis in Liberia, worked with float nurses (they don't, nor should they, know "psych" well) and travel nurses (they don't, nor could they, know the policies and procedures in my hospital because they come from other states) in his absence, and took the charge position permanently when, shortly after his return, he was offered a position with a World Health Organization partner and left for the third world. I trust that he will make a monumental difference in the lives of those he serves there, because he made a monumental difference in mine.<br />
<br />
I'm not a stranger to being in charge. Having been an executive in my past life I know a little bit about responsibility, accountability, workplace politics and smiling through corporate disasters. Even so, being in charge of protecting the very lives of people who are at horrifically vulnerable points of crisis in their lives is different than overseeing and guiding a group of talented and creative salespeople.<br />
<br />
This whole "life and death" element is sobering, stressful, and sometimes downright terrifying. Apparently I was "ready" for the challenge as I haven't made any unforgivable mistakes, but I realize now that I've been operating on DEFCOM Level 5 (scale: 1-5) stress for months. I have learned, after many years of facing life's curve balls and countless drama queen boomerangs I've thrown at myself that I usually decompress (or decompensate) a couple of weeks after the adrenaline stops coursing through my veins.<br />
<br />
I was just about to begin researching how to live on minimum wage or raise alpacas or start a vineyard when the Universe delivered me two signs that help was on the way. The first sign is the travel nurse with whom I began working about a month ago. The night I met her, I looked into her eyes and saw humor, humility, intelligence, and a particularly attractive form of openness. We have shared so much since then I'm amazed that she could have grown up the way she did and become the competent, funny, loving, adventurous, responsible, excellent nurse that she is, but I am extremely grateful that she has. She is a godsend and I believe that we will be lifetime friends. Her irreverence and honesty match my own. Working with her is a burst of joy. My professional life is, once again, deeply satisfying. Thank you, Alexis.<br />
<br />
My personal life has improved exponentially through the second sign. Just over two weeks ago the men in my household finished construction on a first class chicken coop and I took the poultry plunge. My girls. I can sit for hours watching them chase each other, take dust baths, leap into the air for no apparent reason, scratch, peck and peep. I watch them make their way into their coop at night and marvel at their intelligence, despite the fact that my husband insists that "they have brains the size of pencil erasers". I don't care that they're dirty girls who poop indiscriminately and don't want me to pick them up to cuddle them. I don't care that they're still too young to give me eggs. They are like a soothing, utterly absorbing film and I can sit in a plastic chair just outside their run and feel more relaxed than I ever remember feeling because they are natural, funny, and fascinating. Every day I notice something new about them. Yesterday, I heard one of them utter a muffled cluck as opposed to a childlike peep. Today, after I cleaned their cage and sat while they ate mealworms out of my hand, they followed me to the gate that leads into the coop. Although I felt a swell of maternal instinct at the time and was sure that they are growing to love me, I suspect that them following me has more to do with the mealworms than emotion, but it was delightful just the same.<br />
<br />
I have received my gifts from the Universe. The ultimate antiburnout recipe. Thank you, Universe.<br />
<br />
<br />1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-34041268627593992102015-08-16T21:21:00.000-07:002015-08-16T21:21:43.173-07:00A rose by any other name...Eight days ago my six chickens came to live with us. They have all been named - in spite of dire warnings from people who eat their chickens after they stop laying eggs. "Don't name them or you won't be able to eat them", they said. I named three of them that first day. Within a week, they all had monikers based on appearance, personality, or personal request from friends. None of them will be eaten. I'll have to open a chicken hospice at some point, because nobody is going to eat my chickens.<br />
<br />
Mamba is the dominant. She calls the shots. She is the smallest of the bunch, has one toe that is crooked, is black with some lovely dark brick colored markings, and can control the others with a couple of rapid pecks to a head or neck. Shiela is the least dominant. She is solid blonde, very pretty, and named after my boss. I'm not sure how my boss would feel knowing I have named a chicken after her and can only hope that she doesn't spend time reading blogs or facebook and find out that way. I might have some explaining to do. One of my two pretty Americauna breed chickens is named Marge, after my mother. Marge screamed bloody murder the first time I picked her up. This chicken has a set of lungs on her. My mother could astonish her two daughters with the decibel levels of her admonishments, so it seemed only right that she be remembered, and honored, this way. One of my Rhode Island Reds is named Rhoda. The other Red is named Mary Jane at the request of a friend at work (whose name is Mary Jane). The second Americauna is named Winnie after Winnie the Pooh. My sister chose that name.<br />
<br />
I love my chickens. After two nights of being carried to their coop (after much chasing, peeping, pooping, squawking and wing flapping) and three nights of being restricted to their condo, they now know where they are supposed to sleep. They do not file sedately up the ramp to the door of the coop. They wander in and out, pecking at each other and pushing each other out until they finally settle down. The peeping and jostling for position ceases after 15 minutes or so and then I unplug the overhead light in the coop so my girls can get some sleep. They need their beauty rest for days spent pecking, scratching, grooming, digging, leaping straight up into the air, chasing each other and pooping everywhere. They're delightfully entertaining.<br />
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And now, it's time for bed.<br />
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<br />1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-27103117656277829622015-08-08T20:56:00.001-07:002015-08-09T11:50:47.160-07:00Bucket ListFor as long as I can remember I have wanted to raise chickens. It wasn't practical (or possible) when I lived in southern California (36 years). Either I lived at the beach - no chickens allowed - or in the mountains in houses perched on the sides of steep drop-offs. No room, or time, for chickens. I lived in Alaska for five years after leaving California. Nursing school and sub zero temps prohibited me from interacting with any chickens other than those I found in the meat section at the local grocery store.<br />
<br />
Now I live on my sister and brother-in-law's property in the greater Seattle area. My husband and I parked our 34 foot motor home behind their house over a year ago and we haven't moved it since. Linda, my sister, and Art, her husband, have a house on a nice sized chunk of land. They have created a large garden where once was grass and this summer I have taken care of the fruits and vegetables growing here.<br />
<br />
Several weeks ago, we began to "talk chickens". The people next door and those who live across the street have chickens. I say God bless the zoning laws in this area.<br />
<br />
Art and my great-nephew Kyle tore down an old play area in the yard and began the arduous task of constructing a coop. They used the wood that had been a sort of playhouse to build the coop. Art can build ANYTHING, eyeballing the space and imagining the finished project. They worked tirelessly on 90 degree days, hammering and sawing and, occasionally, swearing. On the final few days of construction my husband stepped in and helped. Two days ago I knew that what has grown to be"a deluxe chicken townhouse" would be ready for occupancy today.<br />
<br />
I drove home from work this morning and realized that I was very, very nervous. A dear friend and I had made a date to drive to "the chicken store", and she and I left at 10am. When we returned home at noon, we had 50 pounds of special feed, a bag of "grit" that chickens need to digest their food, a large plastic contraption to hold water for chickens, a bag of probiotics to add to the water, a large bale of chicken bedding, a block of something that actually smells good and is a concoction that serves as "chicken treats", and a special feeding container. We also had six three-month-old chickens tucked into a large cat carrier.<br />
I had planned to purchase breeds of chickens that are good egg-layers. I was going to buy two of each of two breeds. I ended up buying those four and two that were too pretty to pass up.<br />
<br />
My chickens spent the day getting used to their surroundings and digging up items including a very, very old empty pack of cigarettes. They pecked and chatted with each other and dug and rolled in dirt and ate and drank with great vigor. Then it came time for me to introduce my girls to their coop - an insulated (thank you, Art) haven at the top of a long steep ramp. My chickens were not amused. They were perfectly happy digging for cigarette packages. There was considerable chasing and dodging involved, but I managed to get all six chickens into the coop where they paced and pecked at the walls, wide-eyed and skittish. I stood at the coop opening and talked to them in a low voice until they settled down and then I began to pet them. One of my Rhode Island Reds actually fell asleep with her head on my hand as I gently stroked the feathers on her back. It's dark now, but I'm fairly certain they're all asleep now, perhaps dreaming of the eggs they will lay in that coop.<br />
<br />
And I have placed a check mark next to one of the items on my bucket list, one that I was pretty sure I'd never achieve. Life is full of surprises, and some are wonderful.<br />
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1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-7644727459375628992014-04-22T00:22:00.001-07:002015-08-11T04:58:52.140-07:00Dear Last Frontier,In 14 days, give or take a day, my husband and I will push our four apprehensive cats through the slim door of our motor home and drive away from Anchorage, Alaska. Early on our second day of travel we will cross the border into Canada and travel east and south until we reach Brier, Washington. My sister and her husband live there, as will we until we find a home of our own nearby.<br />
<br />
We have lived in Alaska for almost five years. It was my dream to live here, and my easygoing husband followed my heart. I lived in a tiny, spectacularly picturesque town for nine months, another quiet, pleasant rural community with triple the population of the first for two years, and the metropolis of Anchorage for most of the last two years and three months. Much has changed for me, so much. I have become a Registered Nurse here, while my husband has built a career in retail. I have fully grieved my mother's death here. I have lived my dream. I am among the lucky who somehow manage to have their grand adventure, their "someday", and I am very grateful for that.<br />
<br />
My bucket list was carefully constructed before we arrived five years ago. On it were a number of items, all of which have been satisfied. I have touched a moose. I have watched the aurora borealis dance across the sky. I have stood a mere 30 feet from the face of a glacier. I have seen the bore tide in Turnagain Arm come in as an impressive wave. I have eaten a salmon fresh from the Kenai River. I have seen Denali, the highest peak in North America. I have seen a bear or two. I have experienced the summer solstice when it really doesn't get dark at all for 24 hours. I was here for a record breaking winter - snowfall of nearly 11 feet. I would have been satisfied if the items on that bucket list had been checked off, one by one, during my stay in Alaska.<br />
<br />
Those sights, sounds, tastes and experiences were all they I had dreamed they would be. As I contemplate leaving now, however, it was the unexpected and unpredictable that took my breath away and has settled in my heart.<br />
<br />
I was able to be of help to a dear friend who broke her leg shortly after we arrived here. She needed help, and my husband and I were able to fill that need. In turn, she created the most beautiful quilt I have ever seen for us. She and I picked out the material and the pattern together and every time I look at it I am happy. I run my fingertips over its perfect stitching, feeling the texture and contours of different fabrics and I feel like a millionaire.<br />
<br />
I met my cousin here for the first time in my memory. She remembers us meeting as small children, but I do not. I didn't realize that she lived in Alaska until my sister coordinated a meeting between us early in our stay here. That first meeting was like coming home for me. I knew her face in my soul. She and her husband showed us extraordinary hospitality and I fell in love with her. We have laughed so hard, shared so much, and bemoaned our mutual neurotic natures for hours on end. We have taken care of the other's pets, spent holidays together, been through health scares, retirement (hers), academic achievements (mine), and she has shown me a brand of unconditional love that took me completely by surprise. No matter how far from each other we live in the future, we will remain connected by a special bond. I cannot assign a name to it, nor can I describe how deep it goes. It is just what I have with my Georgia.<br />
<br />
I forged some friendships here that have been shockingly deep, most of them with classmates from nursing school or somehow associated with my activities in college, and some with people whom I have worked for the past ten months in my job as an RN at the Alaska State Psychiatric Hospital. My emotionally wounded veteran soul sister. My bright and shiny surrogate daughter and roommate. My hilarious, generous and irreverent fellow nurse and part time flight attendant. My shy and honorable biking and coffee partner. My rambunctious, wild, procrastinating friend who made it through our rigorous course of study always waiting until the last minute but getting it done nonetheless. I won't write about them all, but so many have left a mark on my memory. The nurses at my place of employment who either frightened me or inspired me into becoming a competent novice psychiatric nurse. <br />
<br />
Alaska has given me a lifetime of wonder, love, awe, and experience in five short years. I have loved being a resident of this wild and scenic land, and know that when we drive away I will feel certain that I was given the chance to squeeze every bit of life out of my time here. I also know that I will be moving toward new, deep, exciting, challenging adventures near my family in Washington and I am so excited about that. I think I grew up in Alaska, I think I became my authentic self here. And when we climb into that motor home in two weeks, the person I have become here is the one I'm taking with me.<br />
<br />
<br />1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-83566555583654300992014-01-15T20:54:00.002-08:002014-01-15T20:54:59.815-08:00PartsWe escaped the cold, dark Alaska winter for a few days and are visiting my sister and her husband in their snowbird haven in Tucson. They live just north of Seattle and fled the wet and darkness there for three months. They rent a "park model" in a development that caters to very active people over the age of 55, and my sister loves it. My brother in law is not fully committed to three months away from home every winter, but my sister is working on him and I suspect that he will succumb.<br />
<br />
I've probably been to Tucson before, but it was years ago during my misspent youth and I remember nothing about it. I don't like hot weather, so it would never have been on my list of places to visit. It sits practically on the Mexican border and is most definitely, most decidedly desert. Having lived in California for many years and despising the heat there, nobody could ever have talked me into visiting a city further south and nowhere near an ocean.<br />
<br />
Until now.<br />
<br />
When we left Anchorage on Sunday morning I had cleats strapped on my shoes so that I could navigate the ice rink that is our driveway without falling and breaking a hip. When we left the airport in Tucson I stripped off several layers of clothing and looked at the big ball of fire in the cloudless blue sky, thanking God for Alaska Air miles.<br />
<br />
Since our arrival I have attended a class in water aerobics, watched my sister and a number of other people play "hand bells" (which has always sounded goofy to me but is actually quite lovely), gone geocaching for the first time in a long time, laughed hard, eaten too much, and slept on an air mattress that inexplicably loses air during the night so that either my husband or I have to get up and use the electric pump to re-inflate it. Several times every night.<br />
<br />
Yesterday I rented a road bike from a local shop. I love biking and haven't been able to take a good long ride in several months due to snow, ice, and darkness. Today I went for a ride. I found a lovely stretch of bike trail and rode blissfully in the sun for miles. Too many miles. By the time I returned to the resort, everything hurt. Sore palms (I forgot to bring my riding gloves), sore legs, and a back that hasn't spent time curved over handlebars in months. But, that is just the beginning.<br />
<br />
Bicycle seats are not friendly things - not road bike bicycle seats anyway. I've found that the best way for me to make friends with a seat is to ride a couple of miles per day for a week, then slowly add miles. My parts seem to get used to the seat when they are introduced to it slowly.<br />
<br />
By the time I dismounted from the bicycle this afternoon, I knew I was in trouble. I had very unhappy parts. They were downright infuriated that I had taken such a long ride. By the time my sister, her husband, my husband and I had dined at my very favorite restaurant, it was painfully clear to me that re-inflating a sagging air mattress would be the least of my problems tonight. We stopped at a pharmacy so that I might find something to quiet my screaming parts, and I encountered a very professional, compassionate male pharmacist who looked like he was 14. I am not a shy person by any means, but I found it difficult to explain my problem. He listened to me with a puzzled look on his face, and suddenly he "got it". He saved my life by suggesting a spray analgesic that his wife used after giving birth and a big jar of diaper rash cream.<br />
<br />
I suspect that when I ride again tomorrow, and I will, that I will ride a considerably shorter distance and that I will spent lots and lots of time standing on the pedals.<br />
<br />
<br />1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-12020469902684227522013-12-17T13:19:00.002-08:002013-12-17T13:19:53.394-08:00Me and my drumDear Mom,<br />
<br />
Since you died I've considered myself successful during the holiday season if I can avoid hearing "Little Drummer Boy". For some reason I can tolerate every other carol but that one. I burst into tears when I hear it because it reminds me of you.<br />
<br />
I've been a nurse for six months now. Remember when I first told you I wanted to be a nurse? I was working in the dietary department at South Coast Hospital when, one day, I knew I was supposed to be a nurse. I started taking classes then, and I remember you were very supportive. But then I divorced my first husband and started using drugs and selling real estate and education just didn't seem as important. I thought about it again during that long stretch when Daddy was in ICU at that same hospital, but by that time I was way too deeply involved with finding my second husband to be in college. Then Daddy died and I spent the next ten years or so wrapped up in some really dysfunctional grieving and being mad at you because you got involved with another man.<br />
<br />
Virgil, our roommate and her daughter and I decorated our tree very early this year. It was before Thanksgiving, in fact. The thing is, it's so dark at this time of year in Alaska that the tree with a whole bunch of lights on it seems like a good idea after about November 1st. We leave the lights on all the time and I suspect we won't pull that tree down and box it up again until February. Some of your ornaments are on it - all those Hawaiian angels you bought while we lived there, and a couple that you made. I smiled when I hung them on the tree.<br />
<br />
We don't really celebrate Christmas with gifts. Not like we used to when we were all together. You always bought so many gifts for me, and I remember that even when I was 18 I was beyond excitement waking up on the morning of the 25th of December. You'd cook a great dinner, the house always smelled wonderful, and there would be Christmas carols playing. Daddy could never do too much because of his COPD, but you would bustle around and drink your toddies and then we'd sit down to "open". One by one we'd each open a gift, and ooh and aah over it, and you'd keep a list of who we needed to thank for what. It would always be warm in the house, and the sun would be shining because we were, after all, in southern California. Some years we were really lucky and could see all the way to Table Mountain in Mexico from your deck. That was some view. I can close my eyes and see the curve of the coast and the sunlight sparkling on the ocean to this day. That view is forever etched in my memory.<br />
<br />
So anyway, I'm writing to you this year to tell you that I forgive you. I'm a couple of years older than you were when Daddy died, and now I realize that you deserved to have a man in your life once he was gone. I've worked through a lot of anger about how you latched onto me when I was very young and treated me like your best friend, or your mother, instead of your child. I know about fear now, and I know you were afraid of being alone. I know you were afraid of all the uncertainty in life, and having enough money, but most of all you were terrified of being alone. I know it must have been very difficult for you to be a parent, because yours died so young and you had no models. You were, in essence, abandoned. Sometimes when I think about how difficult it was for me to please you, or get along with you, I still feel angry for a minute or so, but these days when I feel that hurt rising up in my heart I tell myself that you did the best that you could, because I believe that you did.<br />
<br />
I forgive you. Thank you for the nights you spent teaching me new words. Thank you for saving your money so that you could leave me enough so that I could leave California and go to nursing school. Thank you for teaching me how to be a good conversationalist, and a good hostess. Thank you for that day in the nursing home when I left your room and you called me back in just to tell me that you loved me. That was the first time you ever said it to me that I believed you. I think it was because I worked so hard those last six years you were alive - to make sure that you were safe and that your care was good - I finally believed that I was good enough and had made up for all the times I disappointed you. <br />
<br />
Wow, I've gone on too long with this. I'm just having lots of feelings and missing you terribly because now I can see through the fog of resentment and anger and look at the scared woman behind all that who made fabulous Christmases for her daughter.<br />
<br />
I heard the damn carol the other day, sung by a new group, and as I listened to their beautiful voices I smiled. I cried, too, because it was "that song", but the way they sang it was so sweet and smooth and full of joy that I think it sort of healed me. I think you know that, too, because I could feel you there while I was listening. I could smell dinner cooking in your oven and saw the light shining on the sea and you were there with me and we were really smiling at each other. Especially when they sang, "I played my drum for him pa-rum-pum-pum-pum, I played my best for him pa-rum-pum-pum, rum-pa-pum-pum, rum-pa-pum-pum...then, he smiled at me pa-rum-pum-pum-pum, me and my drum."<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas, Mom.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Your little drummer boy1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-89217020328060539322013-09-10T02:54:00.002-07:002013-09-10T02:54:22.211-07:00wet feetI wonder where the term "getting your feet wet" originated? Is that the first stage of "diving in" or does it lead to "swimming with sharks"? As it relates to my first nursing job, I think it applies to both.<br />
<br />
I was hired "on call". That wasn't what I applied for, but it was what I got. I wasn't happy about it, and I regret that everybody knows that. I do tend to be up front about my disappointments, and I really wanted a full time permanent position on one unit with regular hours, vacation pay, sick leave, blah blah blah. What I got instead was a comprehensive education on how things work on several units specializing in different populations in a psychiatric hospital. Not only are the clients different on these individual units; the procedures are different. Equipment, paperwork and other items I use to do my job are kept in various places in the unit nursing offices - and no two units are the same. To make it even more interesting, two of the units are mirror images of each other, so everything is literally backwards.<br />
<br />
About three weeks ago I left work one morning (I work nights) and stood in the parking lot for a minute realizing that I almost, kind of, maybe a little tiny bit know what I'm doing on the job. It was a shock - the thought hit me like lightning. Scared the hell out of me.<br />
<br />
I'm in line for a permanent full time position and will probably interview for it this week. I'm looking forward to having a more normal life. If working nights in a psychiatric hospital can be considered normal. I'll know what nights I'm working in advance, every week, and where I'm working. I'll get to know my colleagues, and in some cases, my clients. I have my fingers crossed. I love holiday pay and vacation time and paid sick leave.<br />
<br />
A few thoughts about working nights. My body wants to be up all night and asleep during the day. It always has. I DESPISE having a job that requires me to be at work early in the morning because I cannot fall asleep before 1 am. So, I love working nights. I am particularly grateful for my open all night gym, and open all night grocery stores. I love not having to drive anywhere in rush hour traffic (such as it is in Anchorage). I am also grateful for an AA meeting that starts at 6:30 am. I can go to that meeting on my nights off, do a little shopping afterwards, then go home, watch some tv and go to bed.<br />
<br />
I've enrolled in an online college to start working on my Bachelors degree beginning November 1st. That will necessitate fewer hours of Tivo during the night, but I think I can live with it. 1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-12618129778961306582013-07-21T12:10:00.000-07:002013-07-21T12:11:42.834-07:00flipping, 3 12s and other joys of the wee hours in healthcareI've been working as an RN for about a month now. When you go to nursing school and learn a whole new language they don't tell you that you'll have to learn another one when you actually become a nurse.<br />
<br />
My schedule has been "3 12s" so far during my orientation. Three 12 hour shifts are really three 13 hour shifts if you're working in a "union shop" while orienting to a job. Don't ask me why, because I cannot answer you. My 3 13s have been "noc", which means I go to work at 7pm on one night and leave work the following morning at 8am (although we use military time: 1900 - 0800). Friday. Saturday. Sunday. This schedule is both wonderful because I am a night owl and difficult because I do like to sleep occasionally. When you have only 11 hours to sleep, feed the cats, bathe and eat some chocolate for three days/nights in a row it can be challenging, particularly if you're living in Alaska during the summer when the sun hardly sets. A friend gave me a sleep mask when I moved to the land of the midnight sun four years ago and I'm using it for the first time.<br />
<br />
The obvious up side to 3 13s is the fact that if you only work three days, you have four days off every week. This "four days off" thing is misleading. When I fall into bed at 10 am on Monday after working 3 13s, it's safe to say I'm TIRED. I sleep for maybe eight hours, get up, marvel at the fact that I have 4 days off, wander around wondering why I just got up and everyone else is eating dinner, try to remember whether I've already taken my morning medications/vitamins, try to remember whether I fed the cats their breakfast when I got home that morning, maybe ride my bike a few miles, return home to watch some television and fall asleep again. That's my first day off. Yippee.<br />
<br />
So, I really have three days off. Here's where "flipping" comes in. The theory is that one can actually live a normal life for three days per week with my current schedule. One can adjust sleep and wake times and convert from vampire to human for three days, then switch back when work rolls around again. I haven't flipped before now because I love being up all night and have no responsibilities that require me to be awake during the "day". Until now. I finished my last stint on "noc" last night at midnight and start two weeks of days tomorrow. I've been carefully planning this flip. I slept for only four hours between my 8am departure from work yesterday morning and return to work at 7pm last night, came home and forced myself to stay awake until 4am, and set my alarm for 8 am this morning. Result: sleep deprivation. Hope: I will be able to sleep enough tonight so that when I show up at work tomorrow morning at 7am and work 13 hours I won't be a danger to myself or others. I'm flipping.<br />
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It's hard to teach an old dog new tricks. Hard, but possible. It's 11 am now. Must be time for dinner?1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-55323625193272122762013-06-09T19:13:00.002-07:002013-06-09T19:13:45.860-07:00The beginningI start my first job as a registered nurse tomorrow morning. I passed the nursing "board" exam that I took on Friday and I am now a full-fledged licensed registered nurse.<br />
<br />
I thought I would feel different once I was a nurse. I thought I would feel all knowing/all powerful with regard to medical knowledge. I don't. I know that I have a lot to learn, and that this just the beginning. But, I did it. I studied and tested and got up way too early in order to participate in clinical rotations. I stood on concrete floors until my feet screamed for mercy. I lived apart from my husband during college semesters, took out loans, watched a baby being born, started IV lines, and hung IV medications in order to treat clients. Then there was that fascinating day working in the emergency department.<br />
<br />
All I had to do was do it. Step by step, exactly what my instructors and advisors told me to do. It wasn't easy. It was the most stressful thing I have ever done, but it was what I wanted and I was determined to complete the process no matter how much weight I gained, how badly my feet hurt, and how lonely I was without my husband.<br />
<br />
I believe that we are capable of doing whatever it is that we want to do if we have enough determination and are willing to sacrifice to achieve our goals. I did this crazy thing in my 50s. I'm 57 and a new nurse. So what? I've always wanted to do it, and I did it. I saw my name posted on the Alaska Board of Nursing website late on Friday, and it had "Licensed Registered Nurse" next to it. I had just taken the board exam that afternoon and was sure I had failed. I saw my name and I sobbed out loud - those deep lurching, keening sobs that I wailed when my mother died. God that felt good. Oh my God, I did it!<br />
<br />
Alyx McNeal, RN1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-60638914210106981832013-06-07T13:20:00.000-07:002013-06-07T13:20:33.354-07:00Whose idea was this, anyway?In two hours, I will be taking the test that will either make me a Registered Nurse, or not. It is called the NCLEX, and those five letters are the most terrifying that a recent nursing school grad encounter. Trust me.<br />
<br />
I have studied for two solid weeks. I graduated from nursing school with a GPA of 3.88. Still, I am worried that I won't pass this exam. I am the only person I know who is concerned; everyone else is sure that I will pass it.<br />
<br />
What is it in me that makes me believe that I'm not good enough? That in spite of all evidence to the contrary, I won't pass this exam? I think it's because, on some level, I hear old tapes playing. I hear the words of my mother - words she didn't mean to use to scar me for life. I was never told that I wasn't smart enough. I was told that I was smart enough to do whatever I wanted to do with my life. I was also told that I wasn't living up to my potential. In all fairness, I wasn't. As I have grown, and lived, I have learned that what my mother thought really doesn't matter. All that matters is what I think, and more importantly, what I do.<br />
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Therefore I have studied five NCLEX prep programs, eaten both some complex carbohydrates and some protein, and hydrated myself enough (not too much...I cannot leave the testing area except for scheduled breaks, which are infrequent). Last night I rode my bike over 10 miles to blow off a little steam. I got enough sleep. I am wearing comfortable clothes. I know how to get to the test site and will allow myself plenty of time. I've asked my Higher Power to remove my worry.<br />
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That's all I can do. 1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-89190553549182421832013-05-05T20:28:00.000-07:002013-05-05T20:30:03.442-07:00Nurse RatchedThis past Friday afternoon I showed up at the big auditorium on the University of Alaska Anchorage campus with the funky black cap, funkier green and gold tassel, and treasured gold cord that identifies honor students. I waited with my classmates and was given a black gown to wear over my clothes. Then I stood around fanning myself for about an hour, waiting for the nursing "pinning" ceremony to begin.<br />
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In the audience were my husband (who had cut his hair and beard for the occasion), my sister and her husband who had flown up from Seattle, my cousin and her husband who had driven 160 miles to be there, an old friend who had driven 220 miles, my cousin's lovely adult daughter, my "soul sister" who had left the nursing program after our second semester to make some money and is hoping to be readmitted to complete her nursing degree, her boyfriend, and the couple who own the bed and breakfast that was my home away from home for two years of nursing school.<br />
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Lined up with me were my fellow students. Some of them I like. Some of them I love. One doesn't navigate four semesters of nursing school without developing relationships with peers.<br />
<br />
Shortly before they called my name to walk across the stage and be "pinned", I tilted my head back and looked up. I whispered words of thanks to my mother and father, the woman I'm named after, and my Higher Power. When my name was called, I walked. It seemed like a long walk from one side of the stage to the other, perhaps because I was so completely in that moment. That moment was mine, all mine. I heard applause, but as if from far away. My feet carried me solidly and purposefully toward the woman waiting at the other end of the stage. I've been on stages before as a speaker, or a salesperson, or an actor. I'm no stranger to stages. But this, this was different. This I had earned. I looked every bit of my 57 years and carried the 25 extra pounds I've gained since I began nursing school. I wore waterproof clogs instead of the heels most of my fellow female graduates had squeezed into for the event. Under my robe I wore black jeans and a cheap long sleeved shirt. I was hot and sweaty under that damn robe and wore chapstick instead of lipstick and my hair stuck out at all angles from underneath my cap because I cut it myself with bandage scissors about a week ago. I couldn't get to the hairdresser, so I did it myself. My my, how I have changed.<br />
<br />
The Dean of the School of Nursing placed a yellow ribbon around my neck that was held together at the bottom with a simple round pin that says "Associate Degree of Nursing, University of Alaska". She also handed me a yellow rose. I shook her hand and left the stage to return to my seat.<br />
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As I write this I can see my cap with its tassel, my gold cord, and that yellow ribbon sitting on my dresser. I looked at the pin closely this afternoon. There on the back are engraved the letters EAM and the numbers 2013. Elinor Alyx McNeal walked across a stage to be recognized for having completed an Associate of Science degree in Nursing in 2013.<br />
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Never, ever give up on your dreams. There are not adequate words to describe what it feels like when they come true.1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-84437888334656898172013-04-20T14:02:00.002-07:002013-04-20T14:02:55.991-07:00Pulling into the drivewayTwo weeks remain until I am "pinned" as a nursing graduate. I have a job interview scheduled for next week. I have moved from my room at the B&B into a townhome I share with one of my nursing school friends. We'll welcome my husband and four cats to the townhome (fondly called "The Dump" - there is much work to be done on it but it meets our basic needs) as soon as he can transfer jobs, likely as soon as July. Almost everything is in order.<br />
<br />
And yet, I'm emotionally disorganized. I'm dreaming of my dead parents, of my past, of abandonment, of ex husbands. Monumental dreams. Big ones. Dreams that seem like they carry huge meaning. I wake from them surprised at their depth. I'm quick to weep these days.<br />
<br />
I knew I wanted to be a nurse when I was 18 and took some prerequisites then. I took more prerequisites when I was in my 40s. I floated from job to job, played hard at life, and ended up as an executive in sales and marketing. I lived the beautiful life surrounded by success and beautiful people, all the while knowing that I didn't fit. That nagging feeling in the back of my mind that whispered "be authentic" was ever-present.<br />
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Four years ago I grabbed the hand of my inner child and promised her that we were going to change things. We enrolled in science courses and completed them. We worked hard. We managed to be accepted to a nursing program. We pushed everything else to the back burner and dove in. We kept going when continuing seemed impossible. We leaned heavily on my husband, my sister, my cousin, my friends. We fought and clawed our way through learning to use our body to do work instead of just our mind. We used every single life skill we had learned in 50something years to trudge through two years of mind-boggling academic and physical challenges.<br />
<br />
On May 3rd, we will wear a cap and gown. We will wear a gold cord that signifies that we are graduating with honors. My sister and her husband are flying 1500 miles to be here. My cousin and her husband will be driving 160 miles to get here, and a good friend will drive 200 miles.<br />
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I was a wild child. I am a recovering alcoholic. My sister tells me that years ago I would tell her that I was coming to visit her, but she learned not to believe me until she saw me pull into the driveway.<br />
On May 3rd, I will pull into my own big driveway. It has been a long, long journey. <br />
<br />
I am authentic. I am proud. I am happy. I am amazed. I am home.<br />
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<br />1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-40283536081168648922013-02-15T03:02:00.001-08:002013-02-15T03:12:59.269-08:00yes, yes, yes!18 months ago I was a quivering mass of uncertainty when, during my first course in nursing school, I struggled to hear heart sounds through a stethoscope. I knew I wanted to be a nurse more than I had ever wanted anything before, but I couldn't imagine ever feeling confident actually caring for clients in the hospital. There was so much I didn't know. Furthermore, I had always earned a living working with my brain, and nursing demands that you develop some psychomotor skills. Nurses lift, inject, and hang IV fluids. Nurses use objects to help people heal. I'm not an object person.<br />
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Three weeks ago I was in the middle of my psychiatric clinical rotation. I loved it. LOVED it. Give me someone who is in mental crisis and I'm not only fascinated, I'm drawn to that person like a bee to honey. I may not "have" the mental illness the client is suffering from, but having spent a good portion of my life living on the dark side, it isn't hard for me to imagine being the client's shoes. My mind was working overtime during those clinical hours. I understood. I empathized. I felt completely, utterly, gloriously at home in a psychiatric hospital behind its locked doors. So, it was decided: I'm a psychiatric nurse.<br />
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Yesterday was my first day of clinical rotation for my Adult Nursing II class. I was assigned to a cardiac care unit in an acute care hospital, and I was very nervous. Back to the object stuff: administering medications, assessing incision sites for clients who have undergone open heart surgery, measuring output of urine and drainage from chest tubes, taking vital signs. A new hospital, a new group of procedures to learn. New electronic medical record software to navigate. Yesterday I felt like an idiot (again). Then I met my client. No dark side there, just someone recovering from a cardiac surgery. Developing rapport was easy. I'm very good at that - that's a mind thing, not an object thing.<br />
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Tonight I left the hospital grinning from ear to ear. That same client is making huge strides and recovering beautifully. There can be a deep human intimacy between a student nurse and a client. We see them naked, we see them helpless, we encourage, we teach, we celebrate bowel movements, we administer medication to help ease pain, we comfort them and their families. When they walk the halls and return to their rooms having walked a little farther this time and are less short of breath than they were the last time, it can feel like their success is our success. That feeling is like a swelling round of silent applause for their efforts, the surgeon's efforts, and the unbelievable resiliency, complexity and self-healing capacity of the human body. Today I loved, loved LOVED my Adult Nursing II clinical rotation.<br />
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The fact is, I love it all (except pediatrics). And today, I'm not so sure I'm a psychiatric nurse. I think I'll wait and see where the universe wants me to work. Wherever that is, I suspect I'm going to love it.1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-68379805435739174632013-01-13T14:43:00.001-08:002013-01-13T14:43:49.833-08:00the beautiful peopleI drove across the ice rink that is Anchorage, Alaska, this morning to scope out the location of the trauma nursing course I'm taking before dawn tomorrow; I also stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few items. Wearing cleats strapped on my snow boots, I skated warily across the store's parking lot and found 10 items I couldn't live without. I mention the number of items for a reason. There were only a few checkout lanes open and there were at least two people with overflowing shopping carts in each lane. I headed for the "15 item or less express lane", moving slowly because I still had my cleats on and it's about as easy to fall down and break a hip wearing cleats on a cement floor as it is walking on ice without the cleats.<br />
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A couple sped into the express line ahead of me. They weren't wearing cleats and could move faster, not to mention that they were probably at least 20 years younger than I am. I'm always a little irritated when someone beats me to a checkout line by that thin a margin, but when I peered into their cart, I escalated.<br />
<br />
They had at <u>least</u> 30 items in that cart.<br />
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After I had counted their items (I know, I can hear Bill W. and Bob S. chanting the serenity prayer in my ear) I took a closer look at them. I had plenty of time, too, because they were taking their time placing items on the counter. She was maybe mid thirties, had beautifully cared for long red hair, and by my estimate, a size 6. She moved gracefully, albeit slowly. I could picture her taking pilates lessons, slipping out of her designer jeans and donning footless tights with no grease marks or tears in them. He had thick hair, a classically handsome face, no beer belly, was about her age, wore designer jeans and carried himself with an air of confidence.<br />
<br />
I hated them.<br />
<br />
Entire glaciers could have melted in the time it took them to place their groceries on the conveyor belt, and of course one of the items required a price check. I watched the checker, scanning her face for signs of annoyance. Her affect remained perfectly flat. When they handed her a stack of coupons, I felt bile rise in the back of my throat, but maintained my distance and kept my mouth shut. When they swiped their credit card and the checker turned to her cash register to pull out CASH BACK I nearly lost it. I swiveled around to see three people waiting in line behind me, one of whom was a young woman holding a salad and a drink who was anxiously checking her watch. I know that poor girl was on her all-too-short lunch break.<br />
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FINALLY the checker handed them their receipt and they wheeled away. I stepped up and as the checker processed my legal-sized order, we chatted. We talked about how rude people are, how people can't count, and how some people have a sense of entitlement. She said, "You have no idea some of the behavior I witness, or how desperately I wish I could tell some of the customers in this line to _ _ _ _ _ ff."<br />
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That made me feel better. That's "customer service". I understand the concept. What I don't understand is how the beautiful people seem to think they're special, and different. They aren't. Wait until I'm ordered to give one of them an enema.<br />
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<br />1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-33801157027987381932012-12-22T14:57:00.000-08:002012-12-22T15:06:25.016-08:00the big steamFor some reason I woke up at 7:30 am today and couldn't go back to sleep. There are a handful of days in any given year when, for me, waking at 7:30 am is cause for suicidal ideation, and this was one of them.<br />
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I'm on "winter break" from college. As the last day of our third semester of nursing school approached, the sane students in my cohort (everyone but me) looked forward to the freedom, festivities, and fun winter break can deliver. I, on the other hand, was very afraid. When I woke (at the reasonable hour of 10 am) the day after I took my final exam, I felt lost. No test to study for, no paper to write. Nothing but a yawning expanse of free days for nearly a month. Free time is not my friend during the winter months here in Alaska, at least not in Kenai, where I live when I'm not in school. I don't have trouble with free time during the summer because I can ride my bicycle at any hour of the day or night (what night?) and when I ride my bicycle I'm in heaven.<br />
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Last winter I bought a second hand bike with studded tires so that I could ride during the dark months. Soon thereafter I learned that there is more to winter riding than studded tires. There's the 30 minutes it takes to layer on long underwear, fleece pants, wool socks, ski pants, a couple of shirts, air activated heat pads in the toes of my snow boots, leg warmers over the ski pants, jacket, neck warmer, beanie, face warmer, helmet, and gloves. There's the fact that what from the street looks like a plowed bike path is really a potentially deadly trek through the Himalaya; humping up and down even small piles of snow and globs of ice is a lot more work (and more dangerous) than it would seem. There's the fact that when one breathes through a face warmer, one's glasses fog up. Over and over again. And, stopping to wipe them with a tissue only makes them steam up more.<br />
<br />
I looked at the thermometer at 7:40 am knowing that unless I could get some exercise today I'd probably wander out onto an ice floe and drift toward the Bering Sea. For some reason I also considered, albeit only for a millisecond, flying to Las Vegas and finding some cocaine. Colorful, right? Know what happens to nurses who get caught with cocaine? They don't get to be nurses anymore. Not only that, I don't drink alcohol or use drugs, and I don't like Las Vegas because it's too hot. I've been terminally bored since I came home, and today was the bore-peak. The thermometer read -16 F. I stared at it and a single tear rolled from my right eye. The sun wasn't going to come up for hours, and even then, would be making only a brief appearance. I was screwed. Way too cold to ride.<br />
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Once again, my sister Linda talked me back from the edge. I called her and made my case for rushing out and buying a stationary bike (maybe $250). Sounded perfectly reasonable to me. She reminded me that I have a stationary bike at my place in Anchorage and that I'm only home for a couple of weeks. "So?", I thought. What the hell does she know? She then suggested that I see if any of the local gyms had day rates. I sulked. That would be so much work, calling around to the gyms! Spending $250 on a piece of exercise equipment sounded a lot easier.<br />
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I hung up and called the gym. $10.30 (I know, weird number) for one day gym usage. Drove 8 miles to said gym, swapped snow boots, gloves, and full length down coat for gymlike attire and got on the bike. 50 minutes later, soaked with sweat, the world was a very different place, and still is as I write this. The snow sparkles, the temperature is "brisk", and the big steam that rises from the ocean when the air is -16 is a glorious phenomenon instead of a horrifying reminder of how cold it is outside.<br />
<br />
Ah, the joys of whipping up a cocktail of seasonal affective disorder, boredom, and a little bit of plain old cranky. <br />
<br />
Only 24 days until school starts again. Not a moment too soon.1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-16201288344533008752012-11-24T16:57:00.003-08:002012-11-24T16:57:45.386-08:00KaboomI watched my sister walk across an icy runway to board the plane that would fly she and her husband to Anchorage for their connecting flight home to Seattle and felt tears well up in my eyes. <br />
<br />
My sister Linda and I spent many years "not getting along". I was convinced that we were too different to be close - an idea that my mother had planted in my brain - and while my mother was alive the three of us formed a triangle. Never a good shape for relationships.<br />
<br />
We've worked hard on getting to know each other since my mother died. We've been honest with each other and dismantled old barriers, healing old wounds in the process. Today I realized how important that work was. As I watched her walk away, I said to a stranger standing next to me, "I hate to see them leave."<br />
<br />
When Linda and Art realized that my husband and I wanted to fly to their house for Thanksgiving but couldn't because of my husband's work schedule, they arranged to fly up to our house. They arrived on Tuesday, two of four suitcases full of fresh fruits and vegetables (we don't have great produce up here during the winter months). Art cooked the entire Thanksgiving dinner while Linda and I talked. The following day he cooked a roast. I didn't have to make one meal, not one. <br />
<br />
On Thanksgiving night we planned to join our cousin Georgia and her family for dessert. I was in the bathroom checking on my appearance prior to leaving for Georgia's house, and grabbed what I assumed was my purple can of hair spray from under the sink. I shut my eyes and sprayed around the crown of my head when suddenly I realized that the hairspray was unusually heavy and smelled different in a very bad way. Opening my eyes, I saw that I had purple foam all over my head. I had sprayed my hair with Kaboom - a very effective bathroom cleaner. Turns out Kaboom is also useful if you want to strip color from your hair. I suspect it is also an easy way to have your hair break off at the roots, however, I managed to dive under a faucet quickly after recognizing my error to prevent that from happening. We laughed about this on our drive to my cousin's house where I shared it with our extended family. That lead to a roundtable discussion of "the most embarrassing thing I've ever done". More laughter.<br />
<br />
Last night we watched "Home for the Holidays" and marveled at the dysfunction portrayed by a group of truly fine actors. We watch it every year that we're together on either Thanksgiving or Christmas. Our family used to be like that. Every holiday was ripe with tension, hurt feelings, and fear that someone would upset our mother. Our holidays aren't like that anymore.<br />
<br />
I love my sister. She's smart and funny and creative. So am I. I love her husband, too. He's smart and loving and humble and he loves to cook and has taught me how a man is supposed to behave. I am so lucky to have them in my life. I don't know what I would do without them. When the hell did that happen?<br />
<br />
I hate to see them leave.<br />
<br />
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<br />1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-56065683373366244222012-11-15T17:58:00.000-08:002012-11-15T17:58:29.258-08:00Guilty as chargedI work a 12-step program, and one of the concepts to which I've been introduced in meetings is "contempt prior to investigation." To me, that means thinking I know something that I don't, and finding out later that I was dead wrong.<br />
<br />
In an earlier post I waxed on about not liking either my pediatrics or obstetrics classes. I certainly wasn't looking forward to my clinical rotations in either, and last week I spent my first day in the labor and delivery department of a hospital. It was a slow day, and the best I could say about it was that I got to sit down a lot, which I like because I inherited my mother's foot structure and my feet hurt when I spend any time on my feet in almost any pair of shoes.<br />
<br />
Today I crawled out of bed at 4:45 am and got myself to the hospital for another day on the obstetrics unit. I wasn't looking forward to it, and resent that I have to get up that early to do anything, much less something I am not particularly fond of doing.<br />
<br />
Then I got my hands on a newborn. She was soft and small and healthy, and absolutely adorable. She made the sweetest little sounds I've ever heard. I listened to her little heartbeat and examined her fingers and toes. Then I did the same with a male newborn. He was just as precious and heartwarming as the girl had been.<br />
<br />
Then I got to see a birth. Out of the miracle of a woman's body came a tiny bluish-gray human being who almost immediately took his first breath and, over the course of just a few moments, turned a robust pink color. He curled his little fingers to make little tiny fists, and his cries of protest sounded like music. We weighed him, measured him, and swaddled him before handing him to his father.<br />
<br />
I left that labor/delivery room and couldn't remember where I was for a few minutes. I found a chair at the nurses' station and stared off into space for a few more minutes. That was several hours ago, and I'm still stunned.<br />
<br />
How could I have been so wrong? How could I have not known? I LOVE obstetrics.<br />
<br />
Yeah, I could do that.1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-82502673443591567912012-11-03T00:39:00.002-07:002012-11-03T00:39:49.961-07:00Professor JI'm drawn to tragedies. Tragedies like 9/11, huge weather events, earthquakes, wars, random mass shootings, and transportation accidents. When I receive a CNN alert on my phone and know that something really awful has happened, I turn on the tv and watch in horror as the story unfolds. I don't know why I do that, but I do. I consider myself a compassionate person and I hate seeing others in distress, so while I'm watching the media coverage I generally wring my hands and cry and repeat a Buddhist chant. A sane person would read the CNN alert (or not sign up for them to begin with), take a moment to send positive thoughts for those in harm's way, and move on with her day. Not me.<br />
<br />
Usually when one of these horrific things happen somebody mentions the fact that there are counselors/resources available to help the survivors cope in the aftermath. I had never really thought much about that until today.<br />
<br />
My entire nursing class received an email yesterday stating that there was a mandatory meeting scheduled for 1 pm today. That was all it said: mandatory meeting. Shortly after we received the email there was much discussion on our class Facebook page. Nursing school (ours, anyway) is a pretty terrifying experience; it seems as though every instructor is firmly committed to making your life a living hell. Therefore, our immediate reaction to the email was a unanimous expression of anxiety. What had we done? Had we all failed? Was the university closing? If the university was closing were we going to have to start over somewhere else? The prospect of that was simply unthinkable. Furthermore, how dare they mandate that we show up at the college on what was, for most of us, a day off?<br />
<br />
We gathered in the designated spot at the designated time this afternoon. We were visibly nervous. At the front of the room stood four of our professors. They looked very serious, and a little fragile. There were 45 students in that room, and you could have heard a pin drop.<br />
<br />
In a carefully measured tone, one courageous professor gently let us know that another professor, one who had not been well earlier this semester and had been absent for several weeks, had died last week.<br />
<br />
We sat, shocked and processing and still silent. One by one the professors dissolved into tears. There was a heaviness to the air in that room that I've never felt before. The heaviness was thick and cold and locked us in our seats. It was much bigger and more powerful than we were and it held 45 bright, driven, competitive, assertive, strong students in its grasp for maybe ten of the longest seconds in each of our lives. Then it was gone, and the air became regular old air again.<br />
<br />
That's why the survivors of tragedies need to know that they have access to counseling. Once you have felt that heaviness, I don't think you're ever going to forget it, and you might need to talk about it, because it is deep, profound and infinite.<br />
<br />
The woman who died was perhaps in her fifties. She was tougher than nails on the outside, and soft and caring and human on the inside. She was a bit controversial, very outspoken, and an incredibly knowledgeable and competent nurse. She cared deeply for her patients and for her students (although she probably wouldn't have admitted to the latter). She was one of those people you either really, really liked, or really, really didn't. She had obvious strengths, and equally obvious weaknesses.<br />
<br />
Rest in peace, Helena. The Facebook page is unusually quiet tonight; you are already missed.<br />
<br />
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<br />1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-21360805901950695832012-11-01T01:16:00.001-07:002012-11-01T01:16:36.024-07:00cluster%#&***My sister messaged me on Facebook tonight. She noted that I have said so little about nursing school recently that she (almost) wondered if I had been going to classes lately.<br />
<br />
Oh yes, I've been going. I've just been hating it. <br />
<br />
It's not just about the subjects I'm taking this semester: pediatrics and obstetrics - but I'll start there.<br />
<br />
I like little tiny babies who can't roll over, my friends' kids, and all adolescents. The babies' heads smell good. My friends' kids are prepared to like me (probably because their parents have told them that I am old but cool). Adolescents are flat out fascinating because they're borderline adults and full of intense emotion. But all that stuff about developmental milestones? No thanks. I have absolutely no interest in being able to rattle off at what age (in months, mind you) small people can swallow iron-fortified cereal, stand on one foot, or poop in the toilet. I realize that some of my fellow students really like pediatrics and I thank God for that, because I just can't stand it. I got my lowest exam grade ever on my last pediatrics test and I just didn't care. I studied hard for that exam but I'm just not interested in the subject and I'm not good at it and I don't even care. My worst nightmare: the only job I'll be offered when I graduate is as a pediatric nurse. I'd rather flip burgers.<br />
<br />
Obstetrics is a little better. It really is amazing that most women can grow a human being in their bodies, and even more amazing that they can squeeze that human out into the world through what is an impossibly small orifice. Most amazing of all is that two cells get together and nine months later most of the time a baby is born with all its organs in the right place and working perfectly. Still, I've just seen too many vajayjays lately. I feel as though I'm being stalked by a giant vajayjay -it haunts me during my waking hours, peering at me from my maternity textbook. The nights are worse. I wake soaked with sweat from nightmares about being lost in a maze of laboring women who are all screaming for epidurals and I can't find the key to the medication room. Mind you, I haven't begun my clinical rotation for obstetrics yet. It's possible that when (if) I witness a birth I'll fall in love with obstetrics, but I doubt it. Too many vajayjays.<br />
<br />
As if that weren't enough, this semester has been chock full of faculty drama and disorganization. Balls have been dropped, picked up, and dropped again. Professors have resigned, clinical rotations have been rescheduled, most of the online video lectures don't play, and everyone is grumpy.<br />
<br />
Still, there have been moments. I started an IV on a classmate about a month ago. That needle slid right into that vein and I felt as though I had just summitted Everest. I literally felt high for several hours after that. Sometimes in class a correct answer to an instructor's question will pop out of my mouth and I'll realize that I'm becoming a nurse. I can look at blood test results now and know what they mean. Those things rock.<br />
<br />
I'm hanging on to thoughts of next semester. My last semester. Finally: psychiatric. Ladies and gentlemen, I could TEACH that class. Some of my classmates are already positioning themselves to line up behind me like ducklings. I'm like, "Come to mama. Mama will tell you all about depression and panic disorders and anxiety disorders and chemical dependency." And Adult Nursing II! Emergency medicine and intensive care and REAL drama. Back to livers and spleens and hearts and lungs and brains.<br />
<br />
For now, though, I'll go back to writing this absolutely riveting paper I'm writing on teaching six year olds how to brush their teeth.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-77910148201510573942012-10-05T18:21:00.000-07:002012-10-05T18:22:07.639-07:00On second thought...Another week of pediatric rotation: this time I was required to volunteer in a school nurse's office (only 4-6 hours required).<br />
<br />
I wasn't looking forward to it.<br />
<br />
My hearing has just now returned to normal. It has been five days since I last heard the screamers at the grief camp. Furthermore, I have come down with a mild head cold. I'm sure that one of the screamers somehow deposited a clump of viruses on my hand, and that somehow those viruses made it to my mouth. I ate way too much last weekend - it isn't hard to figure out how my hand transported the little pathogens to a nice warm environment where they could set up camp. I think I ate a dozen cookies on Saturday alone. Hand to mouth, hand to mouth...<br />
<br />
I had arranged to volunteer at a high school. My ego is still bruised by the lack of connection I made to the little girls last weekend. I was envious of a couple of my fellow volunteers - they had supernatural powers as "Kid Whisperers" and those little girls loved them. Me, I was like a third wheel. I thought I might be able to better relate to teenagers. Our text says that teenagers are rebellious, defiant, "finding out who they are", and can dress themselves. I read that by high school the screaming usually stopped. Sounded good to me.<br />
<br />
The nurse with whom I was supposed to work today had called in sick, but warned the substitute nurse that a student would be there. The nurse who greeted me when I arrived was perfectly delightful. She apologized profusely, saying that the nurse who was sick was legendary, and she hoped that I could "make do" with her.<br />
<br />
The day was wonderful. I had planned to bolt at 4 hours and ended up staying nearly six. Here is some of what I learned.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Teenagers develop headaches, stomachaches, and dizziness when they don't want to attend a particular class. They visit the nurse's office and concoct fascinating stories about questionable ailments, lie down for exactly 45 minutes (the length of that class period) and suddenly feel much better when the bell rings for lunch.</li>
<li>Teenagers will come into the nurse's office and complain of exhaustion. When the school nurse questions them as to potential causes for said exhaustion and they reply that they stayed up late last night playing video games, visiting a significant other, or joyriding, it is the nurse's responsibility to send them right back to class.</li>
<li>Some teenagers are hypochondriacs - these are my very favorite because I am an Olympic contender in the sport of Extreme Hypochondria. I can actually help treat these teenagers because all I have to do is repeat to them what my sister or husband says to me when I am in the throes of an imagined terminal illness state: "You are going to be all right. Go eat a cookie."</li>
<li>Teenagers do not suffer from stranger anxiety. If you are wearing a student nurse badge, they will reveal intimate details of their lives to you 10 seconds after you've met. Because you have never really grown up, you can understand exactly what they're talking about and relate to them.</li>
<li>When you're a student nurse volunteering at a high school, NEVER ask the school nurse if there are ever emergencies to which she must respond. Within 30 minutes there will be an emergency, a really scary serious one, and the paramedics will be called. This does give you practice in emergency nursing, but your heart rate will not return to normal until long after the person having the medical emergency's does. The excitement is even greater if the teenager's parent gets there before the paramedics and seeing her child in distress causes HER to nearly have a medical emergency herself. After the child and mother have been whisked away in an ambulance, the school nurse will tell you that an emergency of that nature happens maybe once per year in a school. (Please note that this adolescent suffered an emergency that was after all not life-threatening, but it sure looked like it might be at first.)</li>
<li>School nurses get to sit down some of the time they're at work, thus they don't develop the agonizing foot, calf and back cramps that nurses who race up and down the floor in hospitals during 12 hour shifts do. In addition, school nurses have time to go to the bathroom during a shift, which is a nice thing.</li>
</ul>
Teenagers fall into the realm of pediatrics. Yeah, I could do that. <br />
<br />
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<br />1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-2562736136492780402012-09-30T23:01:00.000-07:002012-09-30T23:01:03.385-07:00sugar and spiceI spent this weekend at a camp for kids. This was an opportunity to earn credit for my clinical round in pediatrics. I was happy at the thought that I'd be able to avoid six days in the pediatrics unit (which includes rising rather early) at the hospital by volunteering at the camp.<br />
<br />
I am not familiar with kids; I have none of my own and just haven't ever spent much time with any. I was asked to babysit for a friend's month old son a number of years ago and did enjoy that experience immensely. It was easy. I fed, burped and changed the little guy and put him in the middle of my queen sized bed penned in by pillows (yes, I put him on his back) - then I'd go play games on the internet until he woke up and I'd repeat the process again. The top of his head smelled <u>so</u> good.<br />
<br />
Volunteers for the camp are required to attend two five hour training sessions, which I did. This Friday through Sunday outdoor experience has been created for children who have lost someone close to them and the activities are carefully structured to help the kids feel safe enough to work through grief. At the training sessions we were taught how to facilitate each child's expressions of a wide range of emotions. When I learned that I was assigned to the cabin that would house 10 girls ranging in age from 6 to 9 years, I felt a flutter of uncertainty (I had hoped to be assigned to the teenager cabins, but figured that those making the assignments knew what they were doing.)<br />
<br />
I arrived at camp at 4 pm on Friday and left the grounds at 3 pm on Sunday. Following is some of what I learned.<br />
<ul>
<li>Little girls like to scream. They like to scream just for the sake of screaming. They will scream alone, but they prefer to scream with others. Put ten of them in a 16' X 16' cabin in the woods, and they will scream for hours without becoming the least bit hoarse. The camp schedule read, "10:30 pm - Camp Sleeps". Little girls will begin telling "scary stories" at 10:30 pm and scream until adults from other cabins show up at 1:00 am and request (beg, plead) that they stop. </li>
<li>Little girls' mood swings make PMS look like a walk in the park, especially when they are grappling with something as serious and tragic as loss. They are the bravest little souls I have ever encountered and being with them is liked riding a very fast, extreme roller coaster. Two of my classmates who volunteered with me developed what they thought was a slight case of the stomach flu on Saturday. I think they had motion sickness.</li>
<li>House 9 female nursing students ranging in age from 24 to 60 in a cabin in the woods (maybe 500 feet from the building containing toilets and showers), provide them with rickety bunk beds and plenty of electrical outlets and you'll soon have pandemic constipation (I mean really, who can do that in a public toilet with screaming girls nipping at their heels?) and previously well-groomed women wearing funky hats to cover unwashed hair because it's just too daunting to consider carrying toiletries, a change of clothes and a flashlight through an extremely early snowfall to a bath house that may or may not still have hot water. With regards to the electrical outlets: count on ghostly silhouettes created by the lights of smartphones at all hours of the night as the students quietly tap out desperate texts to loved ones - unable to sleep due to the cacophony of snoring and flatulence (remember - we're constipated).</li>
<li>It's not a good idea to tease the one nursing student who likes to go to sleep earlier than the rest by waking her several times before everyone else hits the sack. She will rise before the crack of dawn and wake you up to tell you that you're snoring, then ask to borrow your flashlight so that she can make her way to the bathroom. You will then be unable to go back to sleep because everyone else is snoring (that's right, it wasn't you in the first place).</li>
<li>It is possible to earn a bit of spending money if you tuck antacids, analgesics, and wax earplugs in your backpack before leaving for camp. Nursing students housed next to screaming girls and snoring peers will pay top dollar for these lifesaving items. She who remembers to pack a nightlight? Well, she is forever held in highest esteem </li>
<li> Last, but not least: children are the sweetest of souls, even if they do scream for fun. Some of them grieve the loss of a parent who drank too much or smoked too much or a sibling who shouldn't have waded so far out into the water. None of these actions are within their realm of control, but they are left with the overwhelming task of navigating the rapids of fear, anger, guilt and sorrow at an age when they should be treading the earth with wide-eyed innocence and joy in their little hearts. Today I climbed a ladder to a top bunk in a cabin in the woods and held a child who expressed her grief with such deep sobs that I knew I'd stand on that ladder for as long as it took for her to breathe quietly again-in spite of the fact that my legs grew stiff and shaky and sore. I did not let go until she pulled back, squared her shoulders, and faced the day with astounding courage.</li>
</ul>
<br />
Scream on, little girls! Life awaits you, and some of it is wonderful.<br />
1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-46253276468937156082012-09-25T21:53:00.001-07:002012-09-25T21:53:54.319-07:00Near missFour years ago I worked for a large healthcare corporation in California. A series of bizarre events occurred during my tenure with said company, and I found myself moving from the position of sales and marketing representative to Vice President of Sales and Marketing, complete with a corner office, company vehicle, and six-figure salary (blah, blah, blah). The experience I gained was good (in the event I ever want to move into a management position again), but the stress level was high and one of the coping mechanisms I employed to offset that stress was spending money.<br />
<br />
Retail therapy is fun. The rush of pulling into a parking space in front of one's favorite store is magic. The heart speeds up, as does respiration, and one (one like me, that is) slides effortlessly into "acquisition mode". I could never get out of the car fast enough. My autonomic nervous system kicked into "flight or fight" and I was off. I loved shopping for clothes and shoes, but my favorite store was always Bed, Bath and Beyond. One can never have too many bath sheets, 1,000 thread count bed sheet sets, comforters, rugs, lamps, bathroom accessories, curtain panels, decorative curtain rods, pillows, throws or candles.<br />
<br />
Times change. Finances change. Hopefully, coping mechanisms change in response to the finances.<br />
<br />
I awoke today knowing that I needed a white long-sleeved stretchy cotton shirt to wear under my scrubs, as my obstetrics clinical rotation begins on Thursday. I contacted a friend who is in school with me, and she directed me to Old Navy. There is an Old Navy store about four miles from where I live, but I hadn't been there before. My friend gave me the address and I found it easily. Fortunately, I located a shirt for $8.50 and, after making my purchase and heading toward my car, I spotted a Bed, Bath and Beyond at the far end of the parking lot.<br />
<br />
<br />
My heart rate sped up a bit. I started my car, put my forehead down against the steering wheel and called upon the gods of reason. If they answered I couldn't hear them and I drove to the BB&B parking area. Breathing rapidly, I leapt from my vehicle and strode purposefully through the doors into nirvana.<br />
<br />
Colors, sounds, aromas and textures assaulted my senses. I stood for a moment and absorbed the surge of energy in that store. It warmed me from my center spreading up the back of my neck to my head and down the backs of my legs. I was soon bathed in warm pulsing comfort mixed with streaks of excitement. Glorious.<br />
<br />
And, terrifying.<br />
<br />
I spun around and headed for the doors. I had to get into my car and as far away from the store as I could, and fast. I kept my head down because I didn't want to make eye contact with a helpful store employee or (God forbid) lay eyes on a display containing 1,000 thread count sheets (offered at the sale price of $175 for a queen sized set).<br />
<br />
I practically vaulted into my Jeep and peeled out of that parking lot.<br />
<br />
My heart rate has since returned to normal. I called my husband on the drive home and told him what had happened. He shouted, "YOU CAN'T GO INTO THOSE STORES. THEY ARE A VERY BAD PLACE FOR YOU!"<br />
<br />
Yes, they are. Score: BB&B - 0 Alyx - 11NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-76585662441680225722012-09-21T16:49:00.000-07:002012-09-21T16:49:53.924-07:00And the gifts just keep on coming...When my mother died four years ago, I "inherited" her collection of costume jewelry. I keep it in a big cloth grocery store bag. Mom liked bright colored big cheesy necklaces - I know she bought most of her accessories during the 70's and 80's when that type of jewelry was socially acceptable. She also loved earrings. She never had her ears pierced and had a large collection of clip-ons.<br />
<br />
I wouldn't be caught dead in the majority of what's in that bag. I mean, when was the last time you saw someone wearing huge red plastic beads with matching earrings? Still, I've been hanging on to her collection.<br />
<br />
I'm going to be participating in a camping weekend for children who are grieving the loss of someone close to them, and one of the scheduled activities will be puppet-making. While attending a training session for camp volunteers, I was told that donations of fabric, buttons, raffia and other random items that could conceivably be sewn or glued on a puppet were being solicited by Hospice of Anchorage, the organization offering the weekend to grieving kids.<br />
<br />
I thought, "Hmm, I must have some stuff at home that I can donate." I knew that I had raffia and a few remnants of material, but it wasn't until today that I thought about that damn jewelry.<br />
<br />
I've been thinking of Mom a lot lately because while training for the camp I've waded through some grief exercises. Hospice of Anchorage requires that people helping with the weekend experience some of what the kids will experience and I've shed a few tears remembering my mother the past couple of weeks. Today I went through her jewelry piece by piece, and honest to God I could remember days, gatherings and situations in which she had worn every single item. Those ugly, chunky necklaces, earrings and bracelets morphed into priceless jewels in my hands as I held them. Visions popped into my head of my mother before she was sick - when she was still youngish and vibrant and taking yoga classes, entertaining friends at a local country club, and traveling the world while wearing her funky jewelry.<br />
<br />
The bag is in my car, ready for my return to Anchorage early next week. It's a little lighter than it was when I dragged it from my closet this morning because to my surprise I found three necklaces in there that I actually like and might wear. While I'm volunteering at the camp next weekend, I wonder if I'll watch a child choose a bauble that belonged to my mother and use it to craft a puppet that represents the person that child has lost?<br />
<br />
Wouldn't that be wonderful?1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-91641210123750779102012-09-10T00:13:00.001-07:002012-09-10T00:13:50.212-07:00dueling chainsaws...do da do do do do do da doI'm back in my little room at the bed and breakfast for the fall semester.<br />
<br />
The weather forecasters predicted 110 mph winds on Tuesday night. Very unusual for this time of year in Anchorage. The national weather service posted a dubious warning on Tuesday afternoon that alerted everyone who isn't blind to the fact that the leaves are still on the trees, which translated to a greater than normal risk of downed firs, cottonwoods, and birch.<br />
<br />
I have a big window in my room and watched in awe on Tuesday night as the numerous trees in the backyard reacted to 130 mph gusts of relentless wind.. Branches tangling and flapping, bending so far that the tops of the trees seemed to touch the ground. Constant movement. I could hear the gusts coming even with the window closed; the trees would all sway and bounce in the same direction, returning to some semblance of upright with a violent rebound, only to be buffeted again and again. The lights began to flicker on and off in my room, and my computer printer would shut down and then make a noisy return to a powered status. Eventually I turned the thing off. It sounded tired from all that activity.<br />
<br />
I woke on Wednesday morning to a symphony of chainsaws. No power, no cable (no internet or tv). The wind was still blowing, but at a perfectly respectable 30-40 mph. The sun was bright in the sky. Alaskans were out cleaning up the mess and turning it into fireplace fuel for the fast approaching winter.<br />
<br />
We hadn't lost one tree, but almost everyone else had. They were down everywhere; big ones, small ones. Some had snapped in half, while some had fallen over with their roots attached. Big trees lying on the ground with their entire root systems perpendicular to the ground, dirt and leaves and earthworms dangling from them. Not one person on our street, or any of the other streets near us, had sustained any structural damage to their homes or garages. The trees just seemed to know how to fall without striking roofs or decks or cars.<br />
<br />
The power came back on for us by 10 am on Wednesday, although the cable took another 48 hours. There are still people here who are without power.<br />
<br />
Gotta love Mother Nature.1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2755503876111017636.post-3063852722866770862012-06-26T23:39:00.002-07:002012-06-26T23:39:54.526-07:00waking up after a very, very long sleepSeveral weeks ago I called and scheduled today's appointment for my yearly mammogram. <br />
<br />
Last week sometime, I started feeling edgy about the appointment. I was surprised at the feeling; breast cancer has never been one of the diseases I worry about and I usually breeze through the exam with nothing but the inevitable discomfort that comes from having a fleshy body part pressed flat in a vise for 30 seconds or so.<br />
<br />
Today as I drove to the appointment, I examined my edginess. A dear friend was diagnosed with breast cancer several months ago and has since undergone a double mastectomy and chemotherapy. I love this woman and have spent more time than usual lately thinking about breast cancer, so I thought that might be the reason for my ripple of fear. <br />
<br />
Suddenly, though, I got it.<br />
<br />
I have something to lose. I am living a fascinating, brilliant, challenging, rewarding, exciting life. In all my 56 years, I cannot recall ever being this happy and fulfilled. Much of my life has been spent in self imposed misery, most of it, in fact. No wonder I approached mammograms without a second thought. I approached most things without a second thought. I had (or thought I had) little to lose.<br />
<br />
Another in a long string of miracles. Finally, I have something to lose.<br />
<br />
<br />1NurseRatchedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10441385620203966120noreply@blogger.com2