Me: Sarah1 and your mom are going to get their puppies today.
Zack: Oh, yeah? Where are they going to pick them up?
Me: They are meeting the lady at Ikea. Sarah said she worries that the girls will think that they are getting a new puppy every time they go there now.
Zack: Well. Ikea does sell everything. Puppies…
Me: Meatballs…
Both: PUPPY MEATBALLS!!!
This summer, I bought a watch that looks just like this one.
I obviously like the watch, because I bought it. But I have been surprised at the number of people who tell me that they like it. I literally get stopped by at least one stranger every day to tell me that they like my watch. Grocery store checkers, people at the post office, patients in the hospital — all strangers. My dad thought I was exaggerating about how often people talk to me about my watch until one day when we went in 3 different auto parts stores together, and at each store, one of the employees talked to me about my watch. Seriously. It happens all the time.
Only one time has anyone ever told me that they don’t like my watch. My very-opinionated sister, Katy, upon seeing the watch for the first time said, “That watch is HIDEOUS.” I begged to differ, but I just let it go. No reason to try to talk to your hippie sister about why your blinged-out boyfriend watch is awesome.
Yesterday I was hanging out at work when some lady (I assume she works for the hospital, though I’d never seen her before) spotted my watch and said, “OH! I like your watch!” I was about to tell her “thank you,” but I never got it out, because before I could say anything, she had grabbed my wrist, pulled it closer to her face, examined my watch more closely, and then she announced (loudly), “Oh, NEVERMIND.”
The total count of people who don’t like my watch is now officially two. Noted.
Good news: I survived my first day on the floor.
As we were walking together towards the unit, my classmate-turned-co-worker, Joni, told me that usually she worries that her patients are going to puke on her, but today, she was worried that it would be the other way around. I couldn’t have agreed more. I took a full dose of benadryl last night (even though 1/2 a dose [25 mg] is usually enough to put me into a pseudo-coma) and I might have slept for about 4 of the 8 hours I was in bed. It was miserable. Joni told me that she’d slept about as well as I had.
The whole thing is silly, really. I knew that today was going to be safe. I knew that I was just going to be learning my way around the unit, learning my way around the computer systems and the documentation habits. I knew that I was going to be spending ALL of my time with my preceptor (who is rad) and that I would never be alone or in charge of anyone’s life or anything with such gravity. That didn’t matter though. I couldn’t talk myself out of my outrageous anxiety. There will be days when I take care of patients alone, but that day, (thank God) was not today. Nor is it tomorrow. Thank God again.
So, instead of being terribly freaked out, I will heretofore be reveling in today’s little joys. For instance: I snagged a locker in the break room and put my name on it. Because I am an employee who works for the hospital, and employees get lockers. (P.S to Zack: Yes, I took a lock, and yes, I used it.) Today I witnessed a nurse waste some Morphine. (That’s what we call it when we throw away some unused Morphine, and that’s a big deal because it’s a narcotic, and so there’s a lot of paperwork involved.) The documentation required to waste Morphine in today’s particular situation required actual paperwork, of the paper variety (as opposed to the electronic variety). After my preceptor and I wasted the drug together, she showed me how to fill out the documentation, and then showed me where to sign.
That signature was the first time that I’ve ever been able (and legally required) to sign the initials “RN” after my name. I know it sounds silly, I really, really do — but that was a moment. I signed my name and then I just froze. holding my pen in my hand, suspended above my signature. My preceptor noticed my pause, and smiled at me. I told her that was the first time I’d ever signed anything that way. And it was so beautiful. And I know it’s even sillier that I’m sitting here now with tears of … relief? happiness? joy? disbelief? running down my face, but I can’t help it. I feel all of those things. It’s finally real. I can’t believe it’s real. I worked so hard, and it’s finally here. That was what I’d worked so hard for — for the moment when I’d get to sign “RN” after my name.
Tonight I’m burning that memory into my mind. Standing in that room, black ink still wet on the page, smiling at my preceptor, and finally feeling the feeling I’d been awaiting so anxiously–the moment when it would finally dawn upon me that this, this is all real.
Tomorrow is my first day on the floor, so, naturally, my stomach in a state of unrest. I have a feeling that unrest is going to escalate into upheaval before peace can be regained. Sometimes I wonder how long it be until I don’t want to throw up before I go to work everyday. I don’t expect it’ll be any time soon. Stupid nerves.
Zack’s mom announced that she is having a garage sale in October. I have never participated in a garage sale before because I don’t have that kind of patience. Once I decide I don’t want something, I ship it to Goodwill pretty swiftly.
I believe this will be the first garage sale that I’ll contribute to, though. The timing worked out nicely, seeing as it coincides with my massive post-nursing-school house-overhaul. My office/guest room was overflowing with nursing text books and papers. I had boxes and boxes of notes and test study guides crammed in closets and organized with the largest alligator clips that you can buy at an office supply store. So tonight, while I was trying to distract myself from (what my stomach thinks is surely) tomorrow’s imminent DOOM, I built up a fairly substantial “garage sale” pile. Zack doesn’t understand it, but cleaning is one of the few things in this world that can occupy my mind enough to bring me moments of peace when I’m otherwise flipping out about something. I’m not sure if that’s nature (because my mom’s the same way) or nurture (because my mom’s the same way), but it’s very, very true.
I can’t complain, though. Life is good. (Other than tomorrow and the imminent DOOM,) the only thing currently weighing on my shoulders is this big ol’ pile of stuff for the garage sale. I don’t know what to do with it now. We’re still about a month away from the garage sale date. Is it supposed to just hang out in my house until then? Cause I’m not sure I could handle that. Anyone want to take bets as to whether or not I break down and just take the whole pile of junk to goodwill just to get it out of my hallway?
Tonight’s Room Cleaning Jam:
Thanks to everyone who linked me to this video. I love it just as much as each of you assumed I would. Especially that sequence he pulls off staring at 4:05.
Sarah: Um, thanks for cutting me off, VW Bug. Ugh. Doesn’t that driver know that you’re not supposed to cut of people who drive cars that are similar to your own? We’re both in Volkswagens! Where’s the solidarity?
Zack: Or you could just don’t cutting people off.
Sarah: Don’t cutting people off?!? HAHAHA! Don’t cutting people off!!!
Zack: You know what I meant to say.
Sarah: Don’t cutting people off!
Zack: It’s not that funny.
Sarah: Don’t saying it’s not that funny!
Zack: You can’t blog about this.
Sarah: Don’t censoring me!
Well, as it turns out, I can’t run or work out on a consistent basis unless I have a piece of paper or a trainer to tell me what to do and when to do it. I’ve tried to just be the kind of person who runs whatever distance they see fit, whenever they feel like it, but apparently, I’m the kind of person that sees it fit to run, oh, next to never. And that’s not often enough to make the Health Department or the American Heart Association happy.
So I’ve resorted back to my old-faithful. Where would my running be without Couch-to-5K? I’m still adjusting to the barefoot running, and now, since I’ve been not running for so long, I’m having to re-build my lost endurance, too. I had originally thought I’d just go back through the whole Couch-to-5K program with the toe shoes and ease into barefoot running that way, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The first week didn’t challenge me (read: keep me entertained) or leave me sore, so I knew that I could step it up to the next week and be alright. I decided that I was going to jump a week every time I went on a run until I found the place where I needed to “start” the program.
The next run, I did the Week 2 intervals and when I got done I felt great. I felt awesome. I even called Zack and bragged about how good I felt. I allowed myself the caveat that it’s not how you feel directly after the run that’s usually the problem with the barefoot running. It’s the way your calves feel the next day that determines whether or not the run was within your proper ability range.
But the next day I still felt great. I told Zack that I still felt great. I told him the next run, I’d be moving up to Week 3′s intervals. He asked if we could perhaps do the Week 3 run that evening. I agreed! Not only did I still feel great from the day before, but also the weather had taken a steep drop that afternoon and cooled down about 25 degrees. Any time the summer heat takes a 25 degree nose-dive into “temperate” or “bearable,” it gives me a serious jones to get outside and do something active.
Trick is, I always run faster when Zack’s around. It’s not a conscious decision that I make, it just happens. I’m not sure if it’s because when he’s around I’m paying more attention to the way that I’m running (because I have someone watching me) which causes me to keep a more consistent cadence and pace, or if it’s some part of my ego that forces me to go faster because I know that he slows his runs WAY down when he goes out with me. Perhaps I speed up to meet him in the middle?
Are you guys doing the math, here? 1.) Jumping whole weeks of the training program at a time. 2.) Running two days in a row (which is something I haven’t done in over a year? At least?). 3.) Zack speed. (In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that Zack and I sprinted the last 90 second interval of the Week 2. Maybe not my brightest idea ever, but it was fun. Sprinting in the toe shoes is just like being 7 years old again.)
If we’re choosing to look at the bright side here, we can celebrate the fact that I have definitively located my starting point for Couch-to-5K: Barefoot Edition. And let’s just choose to look at the bright side. I mean, I’m sure my calves will feel better again eventually, right?
Because the Red Box cares about Zack’s happiness, they have re-released Anchorman.
I didn’t realize that I quote that movie on a daily basis. It’s almost unbelievable how many lines from that movie have become immortalized. Glass cages of emotions. Sex panthers. Whale’s vaginas. This movie is priceless.
As I walked onto the unit for the first time today, the only word I could think of was “imposter.” Over and over, it ran through my head. I was an imposter. I was wearing the same uniform as the rest of the real nurses, but I wasn’t one of them. I felt wrong. I felt like I was about to get caught for doing something very, very wrong.
But I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was simply wearing the color scrubs that RNs wear at my hospital. And I was walking onto the unit where I work to talk to my boss about my schedule. I belong there. I just don’t believe it yet.
I realized today that there was safety in my purple scrubs. My classmate-turned-co-worker, as we were riding up the elevator, said that she felt weird for not being in purple, and for not having any of her tools with her. We didn’t have our stethoscopes or our trauma shears or handfuls of saline flushes stuffed in our pockets like we normally would if we were working on the floor. We had been in orientation and computer training all day long. We were only on the unit to go see the boss and find out who our preceptors were and what our schedules for next week would be. We weren’t there to participate in patient care.
But even though we weren’t there for patient care, the patients on the unit didn’t know that. They didn’t know that we were just there for scheduling reasons. Just like they didn’t know that we were brand-new nursing school graduates who only have two weeks of vast nursing knowledge*. If someone were to have asked me a question, I might have fainted. But they could have. They very easily could have asked me a question. Visually, there was no difference between me and the real nurses. Their name badges say RN just like mine does.
But I didn’t have my scissors. I didn’t have my stethoscope. And I damn sure didn’t have my purple scrubs and my I AM A STUDENT patch on my shoulder, alerting the general public to my knowledge deficit. The safety of being a student was gone. I am no longer able to stand back with my hands in the air and declare myself not responsible for a given situation. I can not tell my patients that I can not make any decisions or tell them any FIRM news because I am not actually their nurse, I am simply a lowly nursing student with no power and no rights and no authority.
Because I am the nurse. Even when I’m just walking through the unit to get my schedule. Even when I’m walking through Target getting my groceries. Even when I’m at home cooking my meals according to my meal-planning schedule. The safety of the purple scrubs is gone. I am no longer the student. I am the nurse.
*This phrase is one that is repeated over and over in the Hurst Review, which is the review I used to prepare for our state certifying exam, the NCLEX. Those of us who have taken the Hurst Review will laugh at that.
