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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, February 15, 2013
Sunday, January 13, 2013
the beautiful people
I 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.
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.
They had at least 30 items in that cart.
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.
I hated them.
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.
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."
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.
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.
They had at least 30 items in that cart.
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.
I hated them.
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.
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."
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.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
the big steam
For 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Ah, the joys of whipping up a cocktail of seasonal affective disorder, boredom, and a little bit of plain old cranky.
Only 24 days until school starts again. Not a moment too soon.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Ah, the joys of whipping up a cocktail of seasonal affective disorder, boredom, and a little bit of plain old cranky.
Only 24 days until school starts again. Not a moment too soon.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Kaboom
I 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.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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?
I hate to see them leave.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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?
I hate to see them leave.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Guilty as charged
I 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
How could I have been so wrong? How could I have not known? I LOVE obstetrics.
Yeah, I could do that.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
How could I have been so wrong? How could I have not known? I LOVE obstetrics.
Yeah, I could do that.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Professor J
I'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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Rest in peace, Helena. The Facebook page is unusually quiet tonight; you are already missed.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Rest in peace, Helena. The Facebook page is unusually quiet tonight; you are already missed.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
cluster%#&***
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.
Oh yes, I've been going. I've just been hating it.
It's not just about the subjects I'm taking this semester: pediatrics and obstetrics - but I'll start there.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Oh yes, I've been going. I've just been hating it.
It's not just about the subjects I'm taking this semester: pediatrics and obstetrics - but I'll start there.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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