10 Years of Being a Floor Nurse.

                                               

In the raw. Stage one pressure ulcers don’t suit me. Ahhh.. so good to breathe after 12 hours of double masking. My first COVID intubation and rapid. Prayers for us all.

In high school, I worked the concession stands during weekends at the Cineplex Odeon, Beverly Center to earn some extra pocket money.  There as a young guy who worked the box office and fancied me so we went on a few dates.   Daniel was a brilliant young artist and he was getting accepted into one of the world's most prestigious art school,  CalArts in Pasadena.  When I told him I wanted to go away to UCSB for a Bachelors in Undeclared, he suggested I just attend a nursing school and become a registered nurse, just like his mom.  I don't know why I took so much offense to that at the time.  Here he is going off to an amazing school to pursue his dream of becoming a world renowned artist and he wants me to just become a nurse?! Just a nurse, How insulting! 

We parted ways after high school graduation and I've never heard from him again.  I wonder what amazing things he is doing now.  

Fast forward 25 year later and I am found a practicing  registered nurse for 11 years now.  I wonder if Daniel had some prophetic gifts he used to see into my future.  I arrived to this "calling" via a rather circuitous route and I've experienced so much of life before deciding to attend nursing school and I wouldn't trade the journey for anything. 

Carl Jung once said, "Everything before 40 is research.  You only start living at 40 on."


At times, I wonder how I arrived at my career destination and remained for 11 years as I clean vomit, urine, poop and other body excrement all night long for patients and family members who at times yell at me because of their own pain and fears, as I, all the while try to keep calm and act like the healing agent they need me to be.  I've been yelled at by overworked and frustrated doctors, management in fear of losing accreditation for the hospital and even by some burnt-out nursing collegues.  I've questioned my sanity and whether it was all just a waste of time.

Then, I remember the time I was there as a listening ear for the terminally-ill young man who was afraid his one year old daughter would lose all memory of him if he dies;  the homeless drug addict who cried and told me as I handed him a kleenex that he felt ashamed to let his successful daughter know where he is because he doesn't want to worry or disappoint her; the nonegenarian who died alone in the middle of the night with no one beside her except myself as I said a silent prayer for a peaceful passing; the terminally-ill mother of an 11 year old boy with autism worried about the care of her son after her passing and reassuring her of the vast resources available to help her son and encouraging her to visualize health and wholeness in her body; the mother of a terminally-ill 18 year old as she bear-hugged her son who writhed in pain where no analgesics could touch as I try to maintain my composure and be a healing presence that reassured her our team will do the best we can to find something that will ease the pain; the patient whose countenance was so beautifully benevolent even before he began to speak that I had to ask him what his profession was to discover that he is a psychologist who does art therapy with abused foster children.

I've come across pillars of society such as school teachers and politicians who were vile and disrespectful to all the staff and then to come care for a most benevolent construction foreman who worried about the employees under him who drank away their paychecks while their children and wives went without.  I know what bone-tired really feels like and have collapsed onto my sofa as soon as I get home after work snoring loudly as my toddler pries open my eyes wanting me to play with him.    I often tell myself I would rather deal with the excrement that comes out of human bodies than that that comes out of human hearts and mouths (my stint at working at a law office comes to mind).

And then there is Lucas.  Being a nurse has definitely prepared me better to take on the challenges of having a medically fragile child.  And, having a medically fragile child has made me a better and more compassionate nurse. 

In hindsight, I realize, my career choice wasn't a mistake after all, but an awesome honor and privilege. I was able to experience life and touch it in the most intimate way possible and it has broadened my perspective on life, death, illness, health and disability.   What a magnificent journey it has been. 

This journey was all definitely worth it.

My apologies to Daniel for not appreciating what he saw in me when I was a teenager.  

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   A student once asked anthropologist Margaret Mead, “What is the earliest sign of civilization?” The student expected her to say a clay pot, a grinding stone, or maybe a weapon.

Margaret Mead thought for a moment, then she said, “A healed femur.”

A femur is the longest bone in the body, linking hip to knee. In societies without the benefits of modern medicine, it takes about six weeks of rest for a fractured femur to heal. A healed femur shows that someone cared for the injured person, did their hunting and gathering, stayed with them, and offered physical protection and human companionship until the injury could mend.

Mead explained that where the law of the jungle—the survival of the fittest—rules, no healed femurs are found. The first sign of civilization is compassion, seen in a healed femur.