Work-Related Rage and A Bag of Assorted Cookies Equals Certain Disaster

Today was a bad day. On an unrelated note, I was given a bag of cookies. I brought them home and in my rage I think I have eaten them all - I say "I think" because I truly don't know; I keep shoving the empty ziplocs back into the brown paper bag so there might be a few still hidden under that garbage.

Rage and sugar seem to be a pattern with me, which is not entirely my fault; the conditions of my working environment make this all too easy. Work is where I get most pissed, also where I receive most offerings of the "refined" nature. I can with incredible accuracy predict the entire sequence of events: something happens, I get pissed, I see cookie, I eat FIVE HUNDRED COOKIES, my rage reaches energy levels not otherwise humanly possible except during ultimate sugar quota and then I cry because now I'm fat and angry and generally lacking in self-respect.

But what am I supposed  to do? Not eat the cookies? So what, just have a salad? Eat an apple? When your dander is up so high that you can faintly hear that ringing in your ears, do you really get the hankerin' for a well balanced diet? Hell no - you want sugar! You want to feel the stuff coursing through your veins, setting your sensors to "everything will be okay because there's chocolate in my mouth" mode, if only for a few seconds so you can forget just how shitty your entire day has been up to that point and will probably be as soon as you toss the wrapper.

So now I'm fat and angry and unmotivated to do anything about it because I'm tired. Exhausted, really. What's worse is I feel justified; as if having a shitty day qualifies me for some kind of binge sugar eating that would otherwise be viewed as gluttony. Except now I deserve it, you know, because my day. And what a day it was. I can't even begin to explain because then I'll just get angry again and eat more and at this point I really think I may perforate a portion of my bowel if I eat one additional thing.

And I'm not going to yoga tomorrow morning; no, you can absolutely shove it where the sun don't - you know what, up your ass is what I'm saying. I'm going to eat these damned cookies, I'm going to sit here and let the sugar create unimaginable gas pressure in my colon and then I'm going to fall asleep and wake up feeling dehydrated, bloated and shamed. But I'm going to wake up when I good and feel like it and not a moment before. So there. Take that.

Bleck.

Getting Yelled At Work and Whether This Will Effect My Wellbeing and Shit

Can people just stop yelling at me, please? I mean, I'm an adult, you're an adult, I want this guy to go to surgery, you want this guy to go to surgery...what exactly is our beef with each other? There's something about hospital culture that makes it socially acceptable to be an ass. Well, actually, scratch that - there's something about a university, county, overcrowded hospital that makes it socially acceptable to be an ass. Our patient population is, ahem, not as refined as most and there's more people on the surgery schedule in any given day than we have beds for, but outside of that what reason does everyone have for being so stressed out?

I've never been a surgical nurse, but I've gathered enough intel to know that these people live and breath off of consents. This is complicated when the patient is, say, a confused elderly person with head trauma who's only present relative is the mentally incapacitated son he had been taking care of before the fall that landed him in the hospital. That the surgeon got said family member to sign the consent for the patient is both tragically hilarious (a doctor who can't tell someone is clinically coo-coo for cocoa puffs) and irrelevant. Now the OR holding charge nurse is calling me to expel all the frustration her life has managed to build up to this point in addition to her annoyance that this consent means essentially nothing.

Deep breath, I tell her. Fuck you, you tells me. Metaphorically.

Of course I take care of it, because that's what I do. Don't panic, don't get upset, just get it done. I call the MPOA, who has no idea there's a surgery happening, so I call the doctor and tell him to call the MPOA to explain the surgery and then I call her back to sign the consent over the phone. It's not brain surg - er - rocket science. It's just annoying.

Then I get yelled at by the tele nurse. Yeah, I'm transferring a patient at shift change which is super annoying, but hey - I didn't write the orders for a cardiac monitor. He calls back all in a huff because the 0900 meds were charted "not given." Well, sir, as per my note and as the patient themselves may have told you were you insightful enough to ask, the patient took those meds at home before coming to the ER today. Would you prefer I double dose him? Were you really that mad he missed his Colace and Pepcid? Did you think a 5mg Norvasc was going to somehow prevent him from going into arrhythmia? Really? Have you even been to nursing school? Do you even work here?

Of course, I say none of those things. I try to remain calm, collected, professional in an environment where my colleagues are apparently members of that unfortunate demographic of people who were either raised in a barn or by wolves. Or by ass people. My only real concern is how this will effect me long-term. Should I be worried? Is this the way these people are as a baseline, or did this working environment somehow turn them into raging, loud anti-professionals? Can this also happen to me?

I think not and I'll tell you why: I don't plan on being here that long. The usual incubation period for assholery is about ten years. It takes a full decade for that amount of frustration and annoyance and anger to really stew together into the correct formula and I for one intend to get out before the compound can be sufficiently mixed. I'm not stuck here; this is not my forever. So for now, continue as usual but know that in future you will have to get used to verbally assaulting someone else.

And also, go fornicate with yourself, you offspring of a rather uncouth and in my estimation unseemly female of ill repute.

Back!

Aw, that's right; this nurse is back! It's been some time, a lot has happened, it's a brave new world out there so let's get down to the nitty gritty and blog it out - who's with me!

Cricket. Cricket.

I see. Can't say I find the complete silence strange or surprising considering that's exactly how I left it. Still, some excitement for my triumphant return would have been nice. And why am I back? Because there's just too much; too much to say, too much to rave, too much to rant - I can't keep it all to myself and sometimes coworkers are tired of rehashing the same old shit (by the way, I'll be swearing periodically in this blog, so you know, be warned as hell). So I come here, to disperse it to you in the hopes that something may be learned, someone may be entertained, but mostly so I can be unburdened of thoughts and speculations that are ripe with feeling and probably complete nonsense.

You won't learn anything, but I will endeavor to teach you anyway. Also, don't believe a word I say. Also, I am always right.

I can't very well announce my return and then be off into the sunset; some backstory is surely due. Well you shall have it! I completed my move, I got a job and am living a life consistent with those choices. There you go.

More to come!

Job Search A Painful Reminder of Glaring Inadequacy

The last time I had to subject myself to the possibility of professional rejection was five years ago when I applied for my current job. Well, obviously that went well, but now I have to do it again. And this time it's weird because I have to apply for jobs that I am not yet qualified to perform, but with any hope will be qualified for in the near future upon completion of this blinking nursing program. This puts one in a strange situation. The job application itself is confusing to fill out. Under "education" I have to put that my highest level completed is high school. High school! That was, like, ten years ago. Have I done nothing official since then, as far as academia is concerned (yes, that is correct)? If an employer stops there, it's going to look like a high schooler wants to start IVs on their telemetry patients, and I just don't think they're gonna go for that.

Fun as that is, I'm also moving. Yeah, I just thought "you know what - between graduating from this RN program and finding a job, why not just throw a complete change of environment in there. Because the best thing for my job search right now is to go somewhere I don't know and apply for positions at facilities at which I have absolutely no connections." Good plan. Great plan. Because, as a student, I obviously have all the money in the world to relocate while both I and my husband are searching for jobs. Yeah, that sounds just about right. Because in this glowing economy, a job should be easy to find. Oh, and it's a really good time to sell your house. Just perfect timing all around.

So, here I am three weeks out from applying to five different hospitals in the San Antonio area and I have heard nothing back. Nothing. One of the hospitals hasn't even sent me a confirmation email. Not even marketable enough for a confirmation email. It's rejection of the worst kind: rejection by ineffort (ineffort is a new word I was forced to create in order to make that sentence grammatically correct while still getting my point across. Solid reason for creating a new word). I know I have to give it more than three weeks, but it starts to sting after one, so...

On the up side, I have found a pair of graduation heels. The heel is so high that I can barely walk in them, but I refuse to admit that. I will walk in them. I am not going to let a pair of shoes tell me what I can and can't do. Not now.

Christmas Break Before Final Semester of School is a Big Tease

I'd really rather just get it over with. I mean, sure I can get some stuff done while I'm waiting, but that's like being stranded on a desert island and before attempting escape in your homemade raft you decide to work on your tan for three weeks. Would I like a good tan? Sure. Would I rather get on that boat and head for civilization? Yes yes yes. One semester of nursing school is my poorly constructed escape raft - it's necessary and probably extremely unsafe, but it may lead me to freedom. Freedom, here I guess, represents a good wage and a downtown loft with amenities and a view.

Furthering this brilliant metaphor, it took a long hard time to build this stupid raft. And honestly, it's ugly. I hate it. But I need it to get to land. I mean, the island is nice. I've got some stuff here, not much but some. I could pass a good while just doing stuff, or doing nothing, whatever I feel like. But either way, it doesn't get me any closer to what I want. For that, I need the raft.

The raft is going to suck, too. Getting up early, staying up late, work work work. And you're all alone out there. I mean, there's other rafts, but none that really know what it's like for you out there. Then you have the elements that are trying to keep you from reaching your destination. The wind, the rain, the waives and a whole lot of sharks that would just love to eat your face off. Well, they may get a finger or a toe, but they're not getting my face or any of my major limbs.

Not this time, sharky.

Failed Blogger Realizes Foolishness of Scheme to Keep Blogging While in Nursing School

Seriously, I had no idea this would be difficult at all. I figured, stuff will happen, I'll write it down for posterity's sake, and then move on. I mean, I write all the time, no big deal. Correction: I wrote all the time. Now I make charts. And study. And take notes, which is a lot like writing only really sad. School has sucked the life force straight out of me, and as a result I have no energy left to entertain you with my hilarious nursing school shenanigans (there are none, by the way; it's completely and horrifyingly dull). The kind of literary lucidness I'm experiencing at the moment is the result of a few days of Thanksgiving vacation, where I've done nothing but watch period piece British mini-series and eat pumpkin pie. I bought a Swell Season record. It's really good. I forgot about music there for a while.

Tomorrow I begin preparations for Monday's quiz, and this temporary "coming up for air" will be over and I will descend once again into the lightless depths of academia and medicopia. Now I'm just making words up. I return again to the surface in two and a half weeks, at which point I will be one semester and two crossed fingers away from graduating.

And if I gain any more weight, I swear I am going to... oh crap, I'll probably just have more Oreos. What's the point, anyway.

Pediatric Clinicals - Ah, Kids

Okay, I want you to create this mental picture for me:

You're a student nurse wearing unflattering scrubs, standing in front of a hospital bed, in a hospital, atop of which stands a screaming, naked, urine soaked, bald little 30 pound boy shaking his fists at the heavens, his infusion port hanging from his chest.

Now, is that what you were expecting? Yeah, me neither. And what lead to this strange turn of events? Most directly, the re-accessing of this little boy's port is what precipitated these hysterics. Indirectly, there are a number of different factors:

Factor 1: Lack of discipline at home and away. Dad was present during this entire thing. He was present when we gave the kid five chances to go the bathroom beforehand, which he alternately begged for then refused, presumably as a stall tactic. He was present when the boy started spitting on, swinging and kicking at the nurses. He was present earlier in the day when giving the boy 5ml of Tylenol became a 30 minute, all out battle of wills involving three grown adults holding him down and one nursing student (myself) shoving that syringe between clenched teeth to the back of his throat. Dad is also present every single day this kid eats nothing but Cheetos and apple juice, which is why at almost four years old he weighs only 15.1 kg. Dad, and we can assume mom, have neglected to set up a disciplinary system with this child. Children who aren't taught to mind before they get cancer, are not likely to suddenly mind once they do get cancer.

Factor 2: This kid was pissed. We just stuck a needle into his chest for goodness sake. I'd kick me.

Factor 3: The resident nurses, who are supposed to be experienced and seasoned, escalated the chaos of the child's environment by trying to yell over his screams. Apparently, the best way to calm a hysteric child is to scream back at him "what are you yelling about? You're going to be okay!!!!!" If this nursing student may make a suggestion to you, the seasoned nurse, it would be this: stop yelling! If your goal is to calm the child, why are you screaming at him? He can hear your regular tone, you know. I was holding his head and shoulder down (which was surprisingly difficult, considering his size) and his eyes went right to mine whenever I spoke, even though it was barely above a whisper and I was no closer to his ear than the shouters.

Factor 4: this kid was set up for a breakdown when we neglected explaining exactly what would be happening, what we expected from him, and what reward he would gain for going through it.

So, having evaluated all the areas where there was certain failure, let's rework this scenario so that next time we increase our chances of not ending up with a complete meltdown.

Here's how this should have went:

Step one: sit the child on the father's lap and repeat the following: "We need to give you a new port because this one doesn't work anymore. This is going to be a poke and it will hurt for a moment, but I know you are a very brave boy and you can do it. You can scream as loud as you want and you can cry as hard as you want, but what I need you to do is stay very still so that we only have to poke you once. We're going to hold you down to help you stay still. And when we're done, this is the bravery bead you're going to get to add to your string. Now, before we start, do you need to use the bathroom? Think about it for a second, because I'm not going to ask again." Don't ask him if he has any questions, don't let him have a drink from his sippy cup, nothing. Those are all stall tactics. The kid knows it, you know it, so don't cater to it.

Step two: hold him down and get that port in, keeping your voice soothing and quiet.

Step three: let the kid go, give him his promised reward and clean up your mess.

It's just not rocket science. And yes, there's no guarantee this strategy would yield any different results, but at the very least you did everything you could to promote harmony and success and prevent a very fragile and underweight child from burning more calories than he will probably consume in three days together.