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.

SIM: Invaluable Learning Experience, Or Completely Pointless And Super Annoying

It's a tossup, at this point.

So, SIM (short for, of course, Simulation), is a mock up of a hospital with mannequins that blink and breath and have heart tones. So, pretty neat. What is not so neat is that the entire time you're "taking care" of the patient, who always has unexpected complications by the way, they're recording you and critiquing your every move.

So fine, why not? I'm a student and I should be challenged and critiqued. Better to kill a mannequin and learn my lesson than a real person and get sued and lose my license. So in theory, this SIM thing seems like a great idea that we should all be very excited about. Yeah.

But here's the deal. Simulation is not real. We know it's not real, the instructors know it's not real, and so every action we take in SIM, every decision is filtered through this realization that none of it is real. Adding to this realization is the fact that, though they mean well, the people in charge of creating these scenarios have not been practicing nurses in quite some time. They've never been doctors. They haven't even been patients, most likely, in a while. So here are people playing all these parts, the nurse (in that they are predicting what we should be doing), the doctor (on the phone when we call for orders) and the patient (the voice behind the mannequin) when in reality they've been none of these things for a quite some time, if ever.

This creates an environment where everything is exaggerated, just like things in a textbook are exaggerated from what they will be in real life. Any nurse will tell you that once you get out of nursing school you realize that you don't know anything and that there are two different realities: the way you were taught in school, the way it really is - the real world.

So you enter the Simulation with the full knowledge that you must now separate everything you know of the real world of nursing from what you know the instructors want to see you do during the SIM. This is confusing as crap. Add to that the fact that you're paired up with two to three other students who may or may not know what they're doing, then put the one who you're pretty sure doesn't know what she's doing in charge. Go.

For example, in this latest SIM we were nurses in an Emergency Department. A 2 month old is brought in with perioral cyanosis and no crying. The father has brought the baby from an urgent care, and somehow we have lab results that confirm the baby has RSV.

So here's how this SIM should have gone:

Baby comes in, blue in the face. Get the clothes off, listen to lung sound as another nurse suctions the nose and mouth and applies oxygen per nasal cannula. Get O2 sat, weigh the baby and get respirations and pulse rate and temperature. Call the doctor for Tylenol order to manage fever, educate the father about the disease and encourage him to hold the baby in an upright position to assist breathing and to calm baby. Monitor.

Here's how it went:

Baby comes in, we all stand there waiting for the primary nurse to delegate. She doesn't, so I grab the baby from dad and start getting respirations. They're fast, so I slap an oxygen mask on the kid since I can't find a nasal cannula. I go to pump the oxygen up to at least 5, but then the primary nurse tells me to start out at 1, and since I don't want to argue on camera, I do it. At this point the babies clothes are still on, and for some reason the kid gets weighed with all these clothes on. Well, that's not going to give us an accurate Tylenol dosing, so right there we've already potentially overdosed this baby.

Then we have one of the nurses call the doctor and ask for an order for Tylenol, which the doctor refuses to give until we have a blood pressure reading (a blood pressure on a 2 month old, by the way, is almost pointless. In fact, it is pointless unless the kid has a cardiac history, which this one doesn't). So now we have a feverish baby, fully clothes with an O2 sat at 88% and only 1L oxygen per mask! This kid is going to die, and there's nothing I can do about it because I'm so frustrated with everything that I can hardly speak without spitting.

Respiratory therapy gets called to administer an albuterol treatment so this kid can breath, and when she gets there (it's one of the instructors), she spends five minutes introducing herself to the dad and listening to the baby's lungs (which we've already done like six times by this point). This kid is blue in the face and she's taking her sweet time about it. Really?

Simulation basically ends due to time restraints, but we pretty much know that we've either killed this baby or given it permanent brain damage. All because we can't communicate in this environment where we know every decision is being watched, the actions taken by the instructors are unrealistic and the patient is plastic. It's just hard to take it seriously.

Then we go to post-conference where we watch ourselves acting like idiots while this baby is basically suffocating. Plus I look horrible on camera, due in part to terrible lighting and in part because I just look horrible and often slouch. Excellent.

Here's the takeaway, I suppose: SIM is not very good at representing a believable scenario that will ever be duplicated in real life. It is, however, a good practice in working through stressful and frustrating situations without completely losing it, which will come up again in real life for sure.

Clinicals, on the other hand, are a whole different story.

School Started Yesterday. What Am I Doing?

There's a mindset you get in before the first day of school. You pack your little school bag with brand new, fresh smelling paper and pencils and folders with birds on them, your head swimming with all the wonderful things you're going to learn and all the great things you're going to do with that new knowledge.

Then you show up and they suck all the fun out of it. I mean, really, is there anything worse than the first day of school? Anything? I can't think. Everything in my mind was so clear, my calendar was completely empty, my Awesome Notes assignment folder had one solitary thing in it. Now all of these are bursting at the seams. Do you know how depressing it is to look at your calendar and not have a single blank space on it, except Sunday, and that'll just be all taken up by "the Lord."

I realize that this is complaining, and that I shouldn't complain because aren't I so lucky to be in a nursing program such as this, and wouldn't other girls my age love to be in the program instead, and really shouldn't I be so happy to be here? Yes. I agree. Moving on.

I'm just trying to wrap my head around it. I know that every semester I look at my assignments and claim there's no way I can get it all done, and that somehow it does all get done. But this time, I swear, I really don't know how it's all going to get done. Pile onto that my online Sociology class, which started yesterday and yet there's no message from the instructor, not even any lectures posted, and I'm a little on edge. I should have done my yoga today.

And I'm eating terribly. I started out well, with a healthy homemade smoothie this morning, but I chased that with about ten pretzel M&Ms. I know I shouldn't even have them in the house, but there they are, sitting in a mug on my desk, all their pretty colors singing "eat me! Eeeeeeeeat me!" Mmmm. Orange one.

I will do this, however. I will get it done. I will go to SIM, and get my lab hours done, and do well in clinicals, and complete all my papers, and get A's on every test, and do my ATI exams and attend every lecture.

I will eat a vegetable today!

Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

Last week I was here:

Tomorrow, I'll be here:

Okay, not exactly there, but you understand where I'm going with this. I start my final year of nursing school tomorrow. As long as I don't completely screw up, I'll be a nurse by June. Yeah.

I'm trying to sound excited here, but I just can't. There's so much to do before I get to June. Peds, OB, Management, skills lab, SIM, ATI, N-CLEX - AAAAAH! When am I going to get all this done? Not only that, but how am I supposed to get all this done well? Overwhelming.

What I need is a plan. I need to go-to strategy that I can continually reference, even in my darkest and most depressing hour. Well, I have a few tricks up my sleeve that I think may make this year better than the last.

1. iPhone + Awesome Notes App

This year I have an iPhone, which is not only the most awesome thing in the world for anyone to have, but especially us busy students trying to keep track of every little class, clinical, assignment, etc. Add in Awesome Notes, an app that allows you to take notes during lecture, keep track of assignments, write quick sticky notes and almost anything else, then upload it all to your Google Docs, and you've got maybe the best nursing student tool ever. I got a small external keyboard which connects wirelessly to my phone, so I don't have to lug my laptop to class. This is going to be so awesome.

2. Cherokee Maroon Scrubs

Okay, so my school has specific scrubs they want you to buy, not just a specific color, but a specific brand. I'll not mention any names (you know who you are Landau), but the scrubs they want us to wear, the scrubs I wore all last year, are uncomfortable, ill-fitting and overall just make me look like a slob. The pant leg is straight down and there's no elastic to it, just a drawstring that's either so tight it cuts off my circulation at the waist, or too loose so that every time I bend over there's a peep show for all to see. The top is horrible, billowing out at the waist and then coming in so tight at the hips that some girls had to cut slits into the sides just so they could pull them all the way down. And the only pocket on these things is directly over my left boob. Scrubs without pockets = worthless.

Well, this year I'm not having it. I bought Cherokee scrubs that fit, have three pockets for the top and three pockets in the pants (which have elastic backs and drawstring fronts, with a flared leg as God intended). I realize they're not "school-issue," but they are maroon like the rest, and so help me if anyone tries to challenge my scrub selection I will lose it. I'm not going to clinical looking like a complete mess any more. I simply won't do it.

3. Dansko Shoes

No more back ache, no more throbbing feet. I have Danskos!

4. A Light at the End

Yes, I can see it. The light is June, and the tunnel is everything leading up to that. I think I will make it.

Wish me luck.

Summer School At An End

I just submitted my Human Development final essays, which means that I am hereby officially done with summer school. Oh yeah, I took classes this summer, three actually: Microbiology, Micro Lab and Human Development (online). Micro was fun, mostly because the teacher was cool. Human Development made me want to gouge my eyes out, mostly because the teacher was anal retentive and the rest of the class seemed to be there under some kind of mental deficit provision.

But now all that's passed, and I look to the future. Three weeks of vacation followed by the worst year of my life (oh no, don't try to argue; I know it's going to be that bad). How do I know this will be the worst year of my life? Well, you could say I have it on good authority, the authority of ever second year who just graduated and informed us that this last year was the worst year of their lives, therefore predicting within a very narrow margin of error that it will indeed be the worst year of ours. Mine. Seriously, I'm almost having a small stroke just thinking about it.

I've just so enjoyed the mental clarity and energy level that is available when all you have to do is take three easy summer courses and work prn at a job you love. I've gotten so much done. My house is organized and clean, my hair is cut, my nails are painted - heck, I even learned to play the ukulele! No, I'm serious. And my creative mind has been bursting with fresh ideas, wanderings, musings. I've read three books that were in no way nursing related, really great books. It's been so nice.

But now I know as soon as nursing school starts up again all that freedom of thought is going straight to the farthest recesses of my brain, where it will wait subconsciously for another chance at life! My house will fall apart, my nutritional status will steadily decline, I'll gain ten pounds and probably develop an irreversible frowney face. It really begs the question: do I really want to be a nurse all that much?

Yes, yes I think I do.

Fine. Then I'll buckle down and do it. Goodbye, happy thoughts. Fair well, ukulele skills. Aufvedersein, confidence gained by easy summer school A's. I'm off to have my brain pummelled into submission by a bunch of old nurses and their insatiable desire for my very soul. See you all in a year. If I make it.

iiiiiiiiiif.

Coming Soon: Actual Posts!

Um, so yeah. I haven't really been doing this like I thought I would. But here's the deal: first year of nursing school basically wiped the hospital floor with me, and that floor is freaking disgusting, so I was a little put out. However, next month I will start as a second year, my final year, and things are going to be different. I know stuff now. Lots of stuff. And I will hitherto impart any future stuff I learn on to you. Aren't you so lucky?

Be back soon.

Weeks 3, 4, 5, 6... I don't know anymore

So, I kind of owe you all an explanation. It was my initial intention to do a weekly update on this blog, as implied by the weekly format, but that did not happen. I'm going to let you in on a little secret: nursing school sucks. Truly, truly sucky. It is a drain down which everything I enjoy is pulled into and crushed to bits by some cosmic garbage disposal.

Well, that was depressing. Don't worry, I'm cool. I'm just being owned by nursing school, and I'm not really used to being owned. You ever been owned? It's not fun. It's not even funny, at all, or I'd say something funny regarding the whole being owned thing, but trust me there is nothing funny about it.

So, weekly posts are dead (R.I.P.), and sporadic, random, seldom or frequent posts are in. Enjoy. Or not. Whatever, I have to study.

Week 2: Trail of Tears

Yes, this was the week of many an ocular waterworks. Of course, now we're in the thick of it. No more first week honeymooning - this is for real, and all the assignments that have been thrust upon us are also for real. So many things to do. It's not just the assignments they give us through the week, it's the studying, the practicing, the mandatory lab hours, the standardized tests we have to complete and pass on our own time. I downloaded a task managing app onto my ipod just to keep track (for those of you interested, it's called iProcrastinate, and it's free). I don't have a lot of time here, so let's get into it.

The Water Works

Wednesday was the beginning. I guess in the week where we have our first exam I should have expected some public breakdowns, but I must have overlooked the possibility, because as soon as that girl was walking toward us, her eyes red and running, I was as taken aback as ever by it. I'm not a public crier. In private, sure, why not, but never in front of people. This poor girl couldn't keep it in, though. She had just failed a skills checkoff (more on that in a moment), and it was devastating. I was sitting  with my new friend, studying for our test, and it took us both about ten minutes to calm her and move on to other subjects to help her forget her forlorned state. But she was fine by the time she left, so mission accomplished. The other one was less fortunate. She cried all through our test on Friday. The whole time. I wasn't quite sure of what to do for that. It's one thing to cry in front of two of your classmates, it's another to cry in front of all your classmates. I hope she makes it.

Skills Checkoffs

So, pretty much every week we learn a new "skill," and to prove we've learned it we have to complete it successfully in front of a classmate, and then an instructor. These checkoff sheets are then filed away to prove to the state that we can, indeed, perform these tasks. Last week was sterile gloving. Oooh. Yeah, doesn't sound complicated, in fact I've done it quite a few times in my MA career, so I was fairly confident about it. But boy does that change when your being watched like a hawk, especially when that hawk's name is Smiley Smilington (or so I named her - note the sarcasm). I tried to drop a joke or two just to lighten things up, but she was not having it. This explains to me why it was that a young girl can come out of her skills checkoff crying, when I know for a fact she's done it perfectly numerous times. That grouchy hawk made her too nervous. It'll take more than that to get me, though.

First Exam

So, yeah. It was Friday, and I did it. I answered every question, 100 in all. Not a walk in the park, but also not brain surgery. Somewhere in between, like building a house, or baking a really complicated cake while sleep-deprived. Here's how I figure the math out for projecting how well I did: there were six questions I marked to come back to, since they were taking me more than 30 seconds to answer. So, if I got all of those wrong, we're looking at a 94%. That's the best I think I could have done. That leaves the rest of the questions that I could answer with a fair amount of confidence. Of those, I figure no more than ten could have been able to trick me into answering them wrong, so that would put me at an 84%. So that's it. Low A, or low B. That's my range, and you know what? That's okay with me. If I get a C, I will probably cry in front of all my classmates.

Speaking of Sleep Deprivation

I have not had a restful night's sleep in two weeks. And when I do manage to fall asleep, and dream, I don't get to have just one dream. I'm having about four to five dreams at the same time. Like watching four movies at once. It's trip-ee! I'm not even sure how to describe it. It's like watching a movie on a window that you can see through, in front of another window playing a completely different movie that you can also see through. And there's five of these just lined up in front of you. Another evidence of stress: bowel habits. Read no further if that doesn't interest you, but for those who can handle it, I'll just say it as plainly as I can. I've been pooping, like, three times a day. Three times. Per day. Yeah.

Stress Bustin'

Friday, after the test, I hit the local outdoor shopping plex, and scoured the clearance racks. I always shop clearance racks, and for those of you still paying full price, or even more than 50% off, I pity you. Either that, or you're rich as a Czar, and in that case I don't pity you, but you're still getting had. The result of my thriftiness is as follows:

BCBG Blue pleated knee-length skirt with pocket: $138 (I paid $25)

BCBG Dark Blue knit top with gathered cap sleeves $128 (I paid $30)

Anthropology t-shirt mini dress with empire waist tie $88 (I paid $19)

Yeah! Feels soooo good. Also, movies are a big retreat for me, and this weekend's release of Inglorious Basterds (excuse my misspelled French), was one of the best movies I've seen this year (Cheryl, don't go see this - you won't like it).



Nursing School Stats: to date

Hershey's Chocolate squares consumed: 32 (trying to cut down)

Naps taken due to exhaustion: 4

Breakdowns that include crying: 1 (no increase from last week)

Hours of study time : 10

Moments of regret: 0

Week 1: It Starts

Okay, it started. It started, and I've survived the very start of it. I had intended on doing a Day 1 post, but that didn't happen on day one. It didn't happen on day 2-6 either. It was impossible. I mean, literally, my level of activity has shot through the roof, and I'm not quite sure how to manage it yet. Streeeeeess.

Lecture Me to Death

For real, how many hours am I expected to just sit there and listen. Quite a few, as it turns out. And not just listen, but really hear what they're saying, make notes, try to make my notes legible so that when I go back later to study I'm not freaking out because I can't understand my own explanations. Under one note, I wrote "ther." What does that mean? That's not a word! It doesn't even make sense for it to be "their," or "there," it is a complete mystery to me. Hope it wasn't important. I'm just not used to this. Never in my entire life have I sat all day listening to someone else speak. Even in high school they gave us an hour of PE. But this is very much not high school, and I'm beginning to realize that nursing school may in fact be the hardest thing I've ever accomplished (should I be fortunate enough to actually accomplish it).

Questions, Questions, Questions!

We have a chatterbox. I mentioned her in Boot Camp: Day One of Two when I had the misfortune of being seated next to her. She can't shut up. It's not that she won't, I don't think, it's that she physically does not have the ability to close her mouth. Perhaps she has a septal deviation and cannot breath through her nose, causing her to perpetually have her mouth agape in order not to suffocate, and while it's in that position she thinks why not make incoherent ramblings come out as long as it's already open. My friend and I counted in a fifty minute period how many times this girl asked a question. Six. Six questions in a fifty minute period of lecture. That's more than a question every ten minutes. And I'm not talking about the times she simply raised her hand to ask a question, which was mind-blowingly frequent, I'm talking the times this gesture was successful and she was actually called on. And what questions! I think you know what I'm talking about.

Books

Well, there they are. Minus my Med Surg book, which they are currently out of, but which I need for next week (maybe I should just order it online. Hm). All together, those things cost me a cool $475. That's all financial aid money, of course. Oh, yeah, speaking of financial aid...

Give Me My Money!

Have you applied for a student loan lately? Yeah, it's a blast. And then, even after all the work you've done to prove you are indeed worthy of a particular sum of money, there's more paperwork to do of which I was not aware. It was a week before school started, and still I didn't have any aid in my account. So, I bought my books on a voucher. No big deal. Four days after school had already started and still no money. My tuition hadn't been paid. This might be a problem. So I go to the financial aid desk  to get some answers. Oh, they're a lively bunch behind the financial aid desk. I don't know what kind of sedatives they're giving those people, but let me tell you it's some first-rate stuff. The guy was barely awake enough to tell me I had to go to the bank website and sign a something-or-other thing (I don't remember what it's called, just give me my money!). So I hop on the computer and do all eight pages of necessary steps, get to the final page and it won't let me submit. Not cool. I call the bank. Apparently, the school uses Firefox, which is not compatible with Commerce Bank's esign feature. Great. Thanks for telling me before I filled out eight pages worth of information fields. Hey, Commerce, how about letting me know in advance next time, say, on page one of eight instead of page eight of eight! Sound like a good idea? Does it? Greeeeeat.

Tests, Tension, and Time Management

I've been to the testing center three times this week to take the same medical terminology test. I need a 90% and I keep getting 85%. There are a number of these little tests that we have to get done on our own; standardized things to satisfy some kind of requisite for the state. They're really irritating. It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't change up the questions every time. There's a math one too, and for that I have to get a 100%. Ha! Never, in my entire childhood, adolescent or adult life have I ever gotten 100% on anything containing the word "math." I can't imagine how many times I'm going to have to take that one to pass it. Which brings me to my main source of stress for this week, and that is the difficulty associated with time management when you have no idea how many times you're going to have to take the same test in a single week. I had planned on taking the med term test one time, and instead it was three, and I'll have to try yet again next week. So the time slots for tests #2 and #3 were alloted to other things which I had to then move to a different time slot, which meant the things in those time slots had to be moved somewhere else (they're still floating somewhere above Kansas City, I think). It's all a mind game. It's all about deciding what is going to get done, because there's not enough time in the week to get it all done, so something must be sacrificed and you just have to cross your fingers and pray that you choose to kill off the right thing.

Stress Management

This week, I did a few things to relieve my stress. I took naps - that not so much for stress management as for the fact that I was completely exhausted and unable to keep my eyes open, nor my body erect. I played Disk Golf. Google it, it's way awesome. And I made this sandwich, which was divine.

The Sandwich (follow these levels to the letter, from bottom to top):

Toasted piece of bread

Miracle Whip (don't start about that Mayo crap)

Lettuce

Turkey bacon (it's okay, you can use real bacon. Lucky)

Tomato

Avocado slices (be generous, you won't regret it)

Toasted piece of bread

Inhale. Enjoy.

Nursing School Stats:

Hershey's Chocolate squares consumed: 20

Naps taken due to exhaustion: 2

Breakdowns that include crying: 1

Boot Camp Day 2 of 2 (a day late)

Okay, no more contemplation of quitting. I'm all in. Day two was just what I needed, and I'm feeling good. Two words: sim lab. This place is so cool. It's like a mini ER set up right in the school. A nurses station, four patient rooms with very crazy mannequins lying in them. These things do it all - they breath, blink, have heart tones, bowel sounds, lung sounds, their pupils dilate and they sing songs (all that except the singing part). It's cool. So, am I saying that I am completely put at ease about this whole nursing thing because I got to play with a large plastic doll that may or may not have working veins? Yes, yes I am. I figure, if this program is awesome enough to have this, then it's good enough for me.

And, in addition, I was encouraged by the faculty and all the second year students that they are, in fact, rooting for us. They want us to succeed; it's not the kind of environment where you will be continually asked to prove that you deserve to be there. And with any luck, I won't end up doing something that would prove otherwise.

Boot Camp: Day 1 of 2

So, today was nursing Boot Camp, a.k.a. skills review. We all met together for the first time since our orientation in June. Only one of us has dropped out so far. After today, I considered it myself (not really. But kind of). We met in the lecture hall for some orientation stuff, then it was off to review vital signs. It's amazing how something that I've been doing nearly every week day for the past three and a half years should suddenly become so difficult when being observed. It was as if I'd never taken a blood pressure before. What is that? Then it got me thinking: if I can get this nervous about a skill I am well versed in, what is going to happen to me when asked to demonstrate a skill I've learned just weeks earlier? We have these skills check-offs, like, all the time. Great. Just great.

Today was useful in one way, and that was in reminding me of something I'd forgotten about: seating arrangements and how they correlate directly to your success in that class. I was so unfortunate as to sit next to the very wrong person. This girl had a comment for everything. Not a funny comment, nothing quippy or even interesting, just a comment. Just pressure of speech, or something like that. This was unbearable. After a few minutes I refused to even acknowledge the fact that she was saying anything at all, and yet even with no positive reinforcement, she just kept going. Insane. As mean as this sounds, I have absolutely resolved to avoid this girl in future, at all possible cost. To have my concentration thus assaulted would surely mean the death of me. I did, however, make a friend, I believe. She's very nice, smart, good smile, and doesn't talk too much. This could be the start of a beautiful relationship.

Debtor's Prison It Is!

So, maybe Debtor's Prison isn't so bad. I had high hopes for The Poor House, which is undoubtedly more dignified, but then Commerce Bank throws $4,500 at me, and what am I supposed to do? I mean, these scholarship people want nothing less than my dental records and a pound of my flesh, but these loan people are content with little more than my name! It's a good name, don't peg me ungrateful. So, there you have it. I took the money, and I don't feel bad about it. Maybe Dickens was all wrong. Maybe Debtor's Prison is where it's at! Misery loves company, debtors love debtors, and aren't we all in debt in some way or another? And besides, the husband and I have hatched a plan. When I graduate with my RN (some bright day at the end of a very long and dark tunnel), we will allocate all my earnings toward paying off our student loans until each is absolved. Then, we live like Kings! Or save for a rainy day, one or the other. Anyway, below is a rendition of what Dickens must have pictured a debtor's prison to look like. I must say, they all seem to be having such a good time.

[caption id="attachment_30" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="Really, it doesn't look all that bad."][/caption]

Proper Conduct in Medical Offices: A Tutorial

So, I've been a medical assistant for the past three years. For those of you who are not familiar, the medical assistant is the person who brings you back for your appointments, takes your blood pressure, gives you shots, and who you probably think is already a nurse. We're not nurses. That's why I have to go to school in August. Over the years there have been a lot of really good patients, who I will miss, and some pretty terrible patients, whom I will attempt to forget but who will doubtlessly haunt me for the rest of my life. The kind of patient that, when you see them on the schedule, you just cringe and consider going home sick. You don't want to be that kind of patient, now do you? Of course not. So, here is my tutorial, my instructions for proper conduct in the doctor's office: Wait patiently and do what you are told. That's it. So simple. And yet, I fear I will need to go into specifics. Here we go:

The waiting room: Please, please come to your appointment on time and with the expectation that you will wait, because you will. Bring a book, a puzzle, an iPod, anything to prepare yourselves for this. Keep a jacket with you, it might be cold, and wear a t-shirt under your sweater because it may be hot as well. And for goodness sake, don't stand there with your arms crossed looking ready to lose it if the next name called is not yours. It only irritates us, and frankly I will avoid calling your name as long as I can just to teach you a lesson. True story.

Your vitals: Getting your vitals is the primary job of any medical assistant, and as such we take it pretty seriously. Every vital, every time. When I ask you to weigh, just step up there. Don't give me excuses as to why you don't want to weigh like,  "I just ate," or "my shoes are really heavy." Fine. Take off your shoes, and I'm sorry but those kankles didn't develop over lunch (I say that because it's usually my obese patients that don't want to weigh, and especially you ladies. Can I be brutally honest here? I don't need a number to see that you're overweight, what I need is a number to put in the computer because it won't accept the word "fat." I've tried).

In the room: Here's where I get your pulse and blood pressure. Please, no need to remind me what size cuff you need. I've been doing this every day, 30 times a day for three years, I think I can figure it out. And when we go over your med list, it would be helpful if you actually knew what meds you were taking. Keep a list. If you don't have a list, ask for one, then take it home and make sure it matches what you're taking, because it's kind of important.

Waiting in the room: Here's where that book comes in handy again, because yes you will wait for the doctor, again. Just calm yourself down.

With the doctor: Do not, I repeat do not come in to my doctor's office saying you have a  sore throat and then tell the doctor that  you've also been depressed, nauseated, dizzy and coming down with a nasty rash all over your body. And that you want STD testing. And that you might be ADD. I think you get what I'm driving at here: tell us why you're coming in. All the reasons why, because it's people like you who get in there and instead of the easy ten minutes fix we scheduled you for, you become a surprise 30 minute patient that has now put my doctor 20 minutes behind. People like you are the reason you wait so long.

Going home: Do what the doctor told you to do. I'm serious. Take the medication he told you to take, eat the food he told you to eat, do the exercises he told you to do - if you don't you'll be back in here in no time complaining that nothing we did for you last time worked. Well, you know, it's your body. Take some responsibility.

So, like I said, wait patiently and do what you're told. We're not building a rocket here, people. And as you make the changes necessary to mend your dastardly ways, you will find that the whole experience of going to the doctor will be a much pleasanter one, for all involved.

Large Maze, Small Cheese - or, Scholarships Shmolarships

And I thought the FAFSA was bad. Scholarships have got to be the greatest, most colossal waste of my time ever. Unless I'm some kind of brainiac (nope), the next Michael Jordan (way nope), or was born on an Indian Reservation (they may prefer to be called Native American), then there's no way I'm getting anything. And I can hear your protests now: "But you're going to nursing school. There has to be thousands of scholarships out there for nurses." Oh, there is. There is.

But these people never intend to hand it out. That's why they make the application process so hard. You name - easy. Address - no problem. Official transcripts - okay, that might take some time, but doable. Essay on who you would have lunch with, alive or dead - okay...I guess I could do that. Your picture - What? No, I'm serious. One scholarship program designed expressly for nurses asked for a picture. There was even a box to paste it in. What is that? They don't give scholarships to ugly people now? Or maybe it's the pretty ones they don't like, maybe someone is trying to even out the cosmic forces that seem to favor beauty over non-beauty, as defined by a modern society. Who knows? Then they want aptitude testing scores. I don't even know where that would be if I even knew whether or not I took it if I even knew what it was. Then I'm supposed to march into school and track down the director of the program and get them to sign the form. Then, and only then can I put my name in. Ridiculous. I don't even have to exaggerate on this one. I've had it. I'm not writing twelve different essays about eating lunch with dead people, or what kind of a tree I would be if I were a tree, or whether or not I would shoot baby Hitler (actually, that's a good one. I made that one up. It's too good to be real).

People are always saying how hundreds of thousands of dollars in grant and scholarship money goes unclaimed every year, and how it's so sad for these programs that just want to put money into the hands of worthy students. Well how 'bout this, bleeding hearts: how about you all get together and make one big application so that normal people with normal time schedules can have a shot? How about that? Like a FAFSA for scholarships. You put in all your dumb information, then you write one dumb essay on, oh I don't know, maybe something about you. What you plan to do when you graduate. Just putting it out there. Then, all these scholarship people who are just dying to give money away can all go to the same place and choose the kids they like the best. It's that simple. Think about it.