A year ago, I was preparing to start my internship at St. Louis Children's Hospital…and it’s all very surreal. Part of me feels like that was another life, or perhaps a vivid dream. And yet I'm reminded of a myriad of different moments as I review my neat and tidy my resume. (Yes, I am entering the adult world now! EEK!)
I see Kaitlyn's* profile come up on Facebook, and I just stare at it. Here was this young woman, my nurse preceptor*, who was so important to my life for those ten weeks. I remember all of her quirks, the tone of her voice, the way she used her words. The slow blinking of the eyes, the gesture of her square hands when she was making a point. That funny little smile when I fumbled through an explanation. That jiggling of her leg as she reviewed my charting, chewing her lower lip. The way she always crossed her arms. Her freckles. The tears in her eyes when a patient almost died.
She was such a significant part of my life for that short while. I took every word of hers very seriously. I was her shadow. She was my boss. And yet…now, we never talk. She goes on, working on that unit, that place that was like a second home to me for ten weeks.
The beep of the alarms. A single squawk for a call light. A double sqawk and a flashing light for an alarm going off (usually a pulse oximeter). The shrill chirp of the code button (which I accidentally hit a few times, causing everyone to come running and me to look sheepish.) The blue and purple motif. The white bubbles on the windows. A photo of a yellow duck splashing in a pond, another photo of a frog jumping in the water. The sea-life quilt on the wall. The peeling unit sign someone had colored and taped to a door. Passing by the PICU, messenger bag on one shoulder, my lunch in the other, my blue nametag bouncing off my brightly-colored scrub top. A swipe of the tag, enter into the nurse’s station, passing by the doc’s in the library, talking on phones or chit chatting. Passing by the desk, snatching some latest bit of gossip, the tail end of a story, an urgent call about a patient. Everyone looks tired, ready to go home. I put my stuff into the empty cabinet, usually reserved for patient items, but since I'm temporary, it's okay. I grab a nurse’s sheet, I take a place at a computer (a few minutes early to get a head start, just like Kaitlyn recommended).
After gathering info (trach cuff Bivona 4.0, Gbutton, size 14, trach catheter 8 cm, 11 cm deep, allergic to vancomycin…blah blah blah), Rachel is beckoning me to listen to report. And thus the shift begins.
“Who should we see first?” Kaitlyn quizzes me.
I look at my list. ABC’s* are priority, but we have some heavy meds due soon.
And so to the med room, to the patient room, a quick listen, a quick assessment, a quick set-up. Go, go, go. Get it all done. Do it right. Get it done on time. A thousand details, a thousand noises, a thousand distractions. Stay focused, move quickly, but be safe.
It’s such a whirlwind. At least it was up there on that floor. On my toes all the time. Little sounds that make me jump. By the end of the ten weeks, it only took a fraction of a second to send me running (or rather, walking quickly, because running usually means a code), to a patient’s room at that vacuum, suction-ny sound of a vent tube popped off.
All of these things. And even now they begin to recede into the background. So very consuming, so very important at the time. And now, totally disconnected. Everything reduced to a few sentences on a resume. I tell you I worked with G-buttons, but every time I do, the faces of those children pass through my mind. Late night feedings, watching peaceful faces, but with labored breathing, struggling even in their sleep. Murmured words as I gently check the site, slight stirring when my cold fingers touch their warm skin.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” I whisper. “I’m just looking.”
And for a moment, I stand there and marvel and worry.
All of that in a flash as I tell you, simply, that I’ve worked with G-buttons.
It’s so strange. So very strange. None of it really mattered. It did, but it didn’t. It changed me, but it was all so internal.
Now, seeing Kaitlyn's profile on my chat list on Facebook, it amazes me. A remembrance of my other life. That temporary life. That short-lived, jam-packed, stimulation-filled experience. A few impressive sentences on a resume. A small point of conversation. A fleeting memory every once in a while.
And yet how different I am.
I gained guts. I gained moxy. I gained a fearlessness that comes with having to perpetually do things that scare me, every single day.
Lab draws? Never done those. Don’t they involve blood?
Suction a trach? OMG. That module freaked the crap outta me.
IV medication set up? I think I might cry.
Update a physician? They never taught us that in nursing school…
Sterile dressing change? But what if I contaminate something and they DIE?
Straight cath female? Where’s that hole anyway…
Straight cath male? One hole? I can do that.
Admit a patient? Er…what if I accidentally tell them that their stay is free?
Discharge a patient? What if I forget to have them sign something?
Answer that call light? Who knows what I’m gonna find when I walk in there…
Go to a huge temple monstrosity of a hospital? What if I get lost? What if no one likes me? What if I fail? What if I can’t DO this?!
All of these things and more, I can check them off my list of achievements.
And all summed into a few measly sentences on a resume as I turn to face my new and tender future, girding myself up for a new adventure.
*Her name has been changed for the purpose of this blog entry...I'm absolutely terrified of HIPAA
*A nurse preceptor (for those who don't know) is a nurse who is assigned to basically oversee an nurse intern or graduate nurse. I was her shadow for ten weeks.
*ABC's is an acronym for "Airway, Breathing, Circulation." This is basically a list of priorities that need to be addressed in any medical situation.
