We 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.
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.
Until now.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Me and my drum
Dear Mom,
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
Merry Christmas, Mom.
Love,
Your little drummer boy
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
Merry Christmas, Mom.
Love,
Your little drummer boy
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
wet feet
I 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
flipping, 3 12s and other joys of the wee hours in healthcare
I'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.
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.
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.
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.
It's hard to teach an old dog new tricks. Hard, but possible. It's 11 am now. Must be time for dinner?
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.
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.
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.
It's hard to teach an old dog new tricks. Hard, but possible. It's 11 am now. Must be time for dinner?
Sunday, June 9, 2013
The beginning
I 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.
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.
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.
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!
Alyx McNeal, RN
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.
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.
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!
Alyx McNeal, RN
Friday, June 7, 2013
Whose 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.
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.
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.
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.
That's all I can do.
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.
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.
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.
That's all I can do.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Nurse Ratched
This 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Never, ever give up on your dreams. There are not adequate words to describe what it feels like when they come true.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Never, ever give up on your dreams. There are not adequate words to describe what it feels like when they come true.
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