Monday, December 13, 2010
On the road again... soon
2 more days and my third semester is over. I would compare the first two semesters to ripping off a band-aid. I was so focused and they happened so quickly I didn't have time to feel their pain. This last semester though seems to be really drawing itself out. Tonight I am finishing my third 30-page paper of the last 2 months. I used to write stories but now I write papers.
I rented Motorcycle Diaries the other night and watched it with one of my nursing school friends. I think we are both feeling the need to cut loose because when the beginning of the scene where Gael Garcia Bernal swims across the Amazon at night to the Leper colony flashed on the screen we started to clap and squeal. If the song of my heart could be played out on screen this is the story it would sing. I think the same for her as well. We are in nursing school for a reason. We want to save the world. And I don't even really know what that means, except that there are people hurting in incredible ways and I want to be available to ease their suffering.
This journey of nursing school inspires me. My professors try to encourage us with their tales of the horrors that they endured during nursing school, the embarrassment, the insecurity. They give us little winks to let us know they understand the perils. I enjoy what they say for the sake of a good story but I have to say my tale will be different. There has been nothing horrific and very little embarrassment. Insecurity though, yes. But overall I hold this experience very close to me as something special, the developing of a different self.
So back to adventure.
I am returning to Ghana.
I miss my friends. I miss the clinic. I miss speaking Twi. I miss everything.
I bought a ticket and I leave on Christmas. I will return to San Diego in January for my final semester.
I rented Motorcycle Diaries the other night and watched it with one of my nursing school friends. I think we are both feeling the need to cut loose because when the beginning of the scene where Gael Garcia Bernal swims across the Amazon at night to the Leper colony flashed on the screen we started to clap and squeal. If the song of my heart could be played out on screen this is the story it would sing. I think the same for her as well. We are in nursing school for a reason. We want to save the world. And I don't even really know what that means, except that there are people hurting in incredible ways and I want to be available to ease their suffering.
This journey of nursing school inspires me. My professors try to encourage us with their tales of the horrors that they endured during nursing school, the embarrassment, the insecurity. They give us little winks to let us know they understand the perils. I enjoy what they say for the sake of a good story but I have to say my tale will be different. There has been nothing horrific and very little embarrassment. Insecurity though, yes. But overall I hold this experience very close to me as something special, the developing of a different self.
So back to adventure.
I am returning to Ghana.
I miss my friends. I miss the clinic. I miss speaking Twi. I miss everything.
I bought a ticket and I leave on Christmas. I will return to San Diego in January for my final semester.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Semester 3
Nursing School Semester 3.
Time is moving quickly. I am finally in my Obstetrics rotation. This time next year I will have graduated and become an RN and hopefully (if I get in) will be attending school to become a Certified Nurse-Midwife.
I sometimes still feel like the girl who mopped the maternity ward floors in Boamadumase. I become nostalgic for Ghana, for the village, for the way the women used to birth with the cool breeze flowing in through the shuttered windows and checkered curtains. I miss their moans, the ones that expected it soon to be over, the ones so confidant in their bodies and birth. And I miss the common sense unobstructed by rules. When a laboring mother was hungry, she ate.
I am learning a different way now. I am keeping an open mind during my 12-hr. shifts- attempting to understand our system and how this particular hospital sees and responds to its mothers. Something inside of me still feels bound though, like i'm in on a secret that hasn't been let completely out yet. the radical secret of trusting your body.
so i look to my blessing who has appeared in the form of my clinical professor. a certified nurse midwife herself she rounded up our group of students the first day and passed out crayons.
this is my woman, i thought.
she had us draw pictures of what we think a nurse should be prepared with during a labor. we all drew similar pictures. we were all right.
we also did introductions, and while we spoke of ourselves i saw in our professors eyes that she was actually listening. she was fully engaged and completely present.
there is something very intimate about being well listened to. it is a true skill and i believe for people like me who do not consider this a natural strength, it requires perseverance and a lot of practice. i'm going to try more.
also, this angel woman knows how to actually teach! i am starving to hear what she has to say. she is answering these old petrified questions that have sat in my psyche since my first attempts at asking Ma.
I miss Ma, but all knowledge obtained from her was through observation. She made it very clear to me the first day i started my apprenticeship she was not there to satisfy my curious mind. she was 74 years old and tired. "watch and you will learn" she'd say.
now, wisdom is pouring out like streams of long-awaited gold and i will listen.
Time is moving quickly. I am finally in my Obstetrics rotation. This time next year I will have graduated and become an RN and hopefully (if I get in) will be attending school to become a Certified Nurse-Midwife.
I sometimes still feel like the girl who mopped the maternity ward floors in Boamadumase. I become nostalgic for Ghana, for the village, for the way the women used to birth with the cool breeze flowing in through the shuttered windows and checkered curtains. I miss their moans, the ones that expected it soon to be over, the ones so confidant in their bodies and birth. And I miss the common sense unobstructed by rules. When a laboring mother was hungry, she ate.
I am learning a different way now. I am keeping an open mind during my 12-hr. shifts- attempting to understand our system and how this particular hospital sees and responds to its mothers. Something inside of me still feels bound though, like i'm in on a secret that hasn't been let completely out yet. the radical secret of trusting your body.
so i look to my blessing who has appeared in the form of my clinical professor. a certified nurse midwife herself she rounded up our group of students the first day and passed out crayons.
this is my woman, i thought.
she had us draw pictures of what we think a nurse should be prepared with during a labor. we all drew similar pictures. we were all right.
we also did introductions, and while we spoke of ourselves i saw in our professors eyes that she was actually listening. she was fully engaged and completely present.
there is something very intimate about being well listened to. it is a true skill and i believe for people like me who do not consider this a natural strength, it requires perseverance and a lot of practice. i'm going to try more.
also, this angel woman knows how to actually teach! i am starving to hear what she has to say. she is answering these old petrified questions that have sat in my psyche since my first attempts at asking Ma.
I miss Ma, but all knowledge obtained from her was through observation. She made it very clear to me the first day i started my apprenticeship she was not there to satisfy my curious mind. she was 74 years old and tired. "watch and you will learn" she'd say.
now, wisdom is pouring out like streams of long-awaited gold and i will listen.
Friday, July 9, 2010
PartI- When the spirit is stronger
Our clinical teacher sat at the head of the table, with a list of the day's patients in hand. She's a slow talker allowing us ample time to make the decisions we need.
"Room 94 is a burn patient. Who wants a burn patient?"
She scanned the table, looking at the 10 of us. We returned her look with blank stares. I wanted to want to say I'd take him but I was scared.
"90% of his body..." she mumbled.
I wasn't interested.
"Okay..." she said "moving on. We have encephalopathy in the room next door. Encephalopathy anyone?"
We aren't trying to be cruel- but if the patient's heard the way we chose them in the morning like items off a menu they may take offense. Which is exactly why we do this in private, with the door closed. It isn't mean, I remind myself, it's efficient.
"I'll take the encephalopathy." someone said.
"Okay, done." She crossed the name off the list. "Next is... multiple trauma. Anyone want a multiple trauma?"
Multiple trauma was claimed quickly.
"So about the burn patient- no one wants him?" she asked again.
One of my classmates said "I'll take him, but I'm leaving the floor early so I don't know if thats a good idea."
I sensed an internal nudge, so I went with it.
"I'll be here all day" I said "I'll take him."
"Okay Kacie, go ahead and take him."
Deep breath. What had I gotten myself into? Today was going to be difficult.
I remember going on an RV trip with my mom and dad (when they were still together), my brother and sister when we were very young. We may have taken a vacation to some theme park, or a water park, or i really don't know. All I remember from that journey was watching my mother read a newspaper article about 2 young children who got caught in a house fire. The story spread across the page with their before and after pictures. I remember standing at the foot of the RV wondering what was wrong with my mom. Maybe she had been crying? I remember her petting my soft cheeks and telling me she loved me and she was so thankful for us and our life. I asked her what was wrong but she didn't really say. I snuck in to the RV to look at what she was reading and I never forgot.
Being burned may be among one of the top most devastating injuries a human could have to endure. And hearing stories of people being burned hit me on that level where humor, peace, and fairness don't reside. This however, is not a sad story... this is a story of witnessing when the spirit is stronger than the body- a story of hope- of resilience- of beauty.
to be continued...
"Room 94 is a burn patient. Who wants a burn patient?"
She scanned the table, looking at the 10 of us. We returned her look with blank stares. I wanted to want to say I'd take him but I was scared.
"90% of his body..." she mumbled.
I wasn't interested.
"Okay..." she said "moving on. We have encephalopathy in the room next door. Encephalopathy anyone?"
We aren't trying to be cruel- but if the patient's heard the way we chose them in the morning like items off a menu they may take offense. Which is exactly why we do this in private, with the door closed. It isn't mean, I remind myself, it's efficient.
"I'll take the encephalopathy." someone said.
"Okay, done." She crossed the name off the list. "Next is... multiple trauma. Anyone want a multiple trauma?"
Multiple trauma was claimed quickly.
"So about the burn patient- no one wants him?" she asked again.
One of my classmates said "I'll take him, but I'm leaving the floor early so I don't know if thats a good idea."
I sensed an internal nudge, so I went with it.
"I'll be here all day" I said "I'll take him."
"Okay Kacie, go ahead and take him."
Deep breath. What had I gotten myself into? Today was going to be difficult.
I remember going on an RV trip with my mom and dad (when they were still together), my brother and sister when we were very young. We may have taken a vacation to some theme park, or a water park, or i really don't know. All I remember from that journey was watching my mother read a newspaper article about 2 young children who got caught in a house fire. The story spread across the page with their before and after pictures. I remember standing at the foot of the RV wondering what was wrong with my mom. Maybe she had been crying? I remember her petting my soft cheeks and telling me she loved me and she was so thankful for us and our life. I asked her what was wrong but she didn't really say. I snuck in to the RV to look at what she was reading and I never forgot.
Being burned may be among one of the top most devastating injuries a human could have to endure. And hearing stories of people being burned hit me on that level where humor, peace, and fairness don't reside. This however, is not a sad story... this is a story of witnessing when the spirit is stronger than the body- a story of hope- of resilience- of beauty.
to be continued...
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Spending time on lock down
Excerpt #2 from Mental Health Journal
Yesterday was the most mentally intense day of my student nursing career thus far. I did not abide by the 15-minute rule and I suffered for it. I will admit that. My patient was a narcissist and had antisocial personality disorder. I had eyed his profile on the morning report sheet thinking he would provide me with an interesting day and a great starting point for my disorders analysis paper. The morning reporting nurse quoted him saying "I want to be a personal assassin and kill all the pedophiles, drug traffickers, wife-beaters, and gang members." Added to this list was a subset of individuals he wanted to take care of because of "personal" reasons; his 6 month old baby included.
So back to the 15-minute rule.
Hindsight is 20/20 and I think this rule is fabulous. It may have spared me quite a bit if I would have listened to it, including a very intense pounding headache which lasted for hours.
The day was fascinating. Communication is such a complex skill. The psych ward is filled with people whose greatest tool are their mouths; patients and providers. I can see myself watching, learning, soaking up techniques from every direction. I see the way a skilled doctor can readily release information from a person just through proper intonation. She asked him "Why?", the way a child asks a parent. This happened directly after he bragged about his marksmenship and the ex-girlfriend he was planning on killing.
I had sat with him earlier that day and heard the exact same story, told with less clarity and more anger. I didn't ask 'why'. I didn't even think of that as an option. We were probably on our 30th minute of the interview, 15 minutes gone too long for a student nurse. I didn't ask 'why' because I was working so hard on perfecting my mask-like appearance- the one that I wanted to so clearly portray as 'what-you-are-saying-is-not-affecting-me." Every look of disgust, appalling gasp, cringe, tear, or incredulous laugh I wanted to express got shoved down my throat deep deeper all the way down- away from the surface. It worked, so he continued, talking and talking about insane ideas he may one day make a reality.
But at the end of the interview, the one the doctors were conducting, a glimmer of hope sprung out of his mouth. They had asked him "We will make this very clear and we're sure you already know this. YOU ARE IN HERE FOR SAFETY REASONS."
He nodded.
"But," the male doctor continued through a very serious tone, "is there anything else you want to get out of being here?"
The patient said quietly and what appeared to be, genuinely: "Yes. I want to stop thinking like this."
It wasn't much, but it was enough hope for me to grab onto. I needed something. I am still grappling with the idea of these people who supposedly are born without souls. I don't get it. It doesn't fit very well into my idea of life, or my idea of God. It is too confusing, too big, too much for me to wrap my head around. When I was talking with the patient in the morning, when it was just him and I, he emitted a coldness that made me wonder. I listened to him explain the clothing he had picked out to assassin people in, meanwhile the thought sat heavy and motionless in my mind like a dark raincloud. Does this man have a soul?
During his afternoon interview with the doctors they were able to pull out more subjective information regarding his childhood.
Abusive deceased father- check.
Alcoholic mother- check.
Disruptive childhood and depression- check.
Cruel brothers - check.
Not many friends and a lifetime of being made fun of- check.
History of violence. none.
History of arrests. none.
Mainly, the theme that rang loudest in my ears, was his desperate desire to feel that he belonged somewhere and that he mattered. It wasn't something he was offering up; and it wasn't anything I was able to extract from him; but watching the doctors simmer down his anger and his grandiosity to a puddle of humanness was too much for me.
Again, the question haunts me. How does this happen? What are the factors involved here? Have I, in some way, contributed to someone elses state that may be similar to his? Has my meanness, my lack of insight, my insensitivity been a proponent of evil. Was the quiet homely girl in 6th grade that I teased and called "musty Misty" from a tribe similar to his? A tribe of the less fortunates. A tribe of the kicked dogs. A tribe of the silently enraged and plotting?
Wanting to kill your 6 month old baby in the gruesome way he detailed to me is a thought he will have to take 100% responsibility for. I understand this. In fact, his entire life is a life he will have to take 100% responsibility for. And for whatever genetic defects are present in him, the creator of those will handle that. That is not my business. But my business is healing, is offering the light, is suggesting the person climb up the mountain not off the cliff. I am learning. I am trying. But some days are harder than others.
Yesterday was the most mentally intense day of my student nursing career thus far. I did not abide by the 15-minute rule and I suffered for it. I will admit that. My patient was a narcissist and had antisocial personality disorder. I had eyed his profile on the morning report sheet thinking he would provide me with an interesting day and a great starting point for my disorders analysis paper. The morning reporting nurse quoted him saying "I want to be a personal assassin and kill all the pedophiles, drug traffickers, wife-beaters, and gang members." Added to this list was a subset of individuals he wanted to take care of because of "personal" reasons; his 6 month old baby included.
So back to the 15-minute rule.
Hindsight is 20/20 and I think this rule is fabulous. It may have spared me quite a bit if I would have listened to it, including a very intense pounding headache which lasted for hours.
The day was fascinating. Communication is such a complex skill. The psych ward is filled with people whose greatest tool are their mouths; patients and providers. I can see myself watching, learning, soaking up techniques from every direction. I see the way a skilled doctor can readily release information from a person just through proper intonation. She asked him "Why?", the way a child asks a parent. This happened directly after he bragged about his marksmenship and the ex-girlfriend he was planning on killing.
I had sat with him earlier that day and heard the exact same story, told with less clarity and more anger. I didn't ask 'why'. I didn't even think of that as an option. We were probably on our 30th minute of the interview, 15 minutes gone too long for a student nurse. I didn't ask 'why' because I was working so hard on perfecting my mask-like appearance- the one that I wanted to so clearly portray as 'what-you-are-saying-is-not-affecting-me." Every look of disgust, appalling gasp, cringe, tear, or incredulous laugh I wanted to express got shoved down my throat deep deeper all the way down- away from the surface. It worked, so he continued, talking and talking about insane ideas he may one day make a reality.
But at the end of the interview, the one the doctors were conducting, a glimmer of hope sprung out of his mouth. They had asked him "We will make this very clear and we're sure you already know this. YOU ARE IN HERE FOR SAFETY REASONS."
He nodded.
"But," the male doctor continued through a very serious tone, "is there anything else you want to get out of being here?"
The patient said quietly and what appeared to be, genuinely: "Yes. I want to stop thinking like this."
It wasn't much, but it was enough hope for me to grab onto. I needed something. I am still grappling with the idea of these people who supposedly are born without souls. I don't get it. It doesn't fit very well into my idea of life, or my idea of God. It is too confusing, too big, too much for me to wrap my head around. When I was talking with the patient in the morning, when it was just him and I, he emitted a coldness that made me wonder. I listened to him explain the clothing he had picked out to assassin people in, meanwhile the thought sat heavy and motionless in my mind like a dark raincloud. Does this man have a soul?
During his afternoon interview with the doctors they were able to pull out more subjective information regarding his childhood.
Abusive deceased father- check.
Alcoholic mother- check.
Disruptive childhood and depression- check.
Cruel brothers - check.
Not many friends and a lifetime of being made fun of- check.
History of violence. none.
History of arrests. none.
Mainly, the theme that rang loudest in my ears, was his desperate desire to feel that he belonged somewhere and that he mattered. It wasn't something he was offering up; and it wasn't anything I was able to extract from him; but watching the doctors simmer down his anger and his grandiosity to a puddle of humanness was too much for me.
Again, the question haunts me. How does this happen? What are the factors involved here? Have I, in some way, contributed to someone elses state that may be similar to his? Has my meanness, my lack of insight, my insensitivity been a proponent of evil. Was the quiet homely girl in 6th grade that I teased and called "musty Misty" from a tribe similar to his? A tribe of the less fortunates. A tribe of the kicked dogs. A tribe of the silently enraged and plotting?
Wanting to kill your 6 month old baby in the gruesome way he detailed to me is a thought he will have to take 100% responsibility for. I understand this. In fact, his entire life is a life he will have to take 100% responsibility for. And for whatever genetic defects are present in him, the creator of those will handle that. That is not my business. But my business is healing, is offering the light, is suggesting the person climb up the mountain not off the cliff. I am learning. I am trying. But some days are harder than others.
Excerpt from a true teacher
Second semester of nursing school; mental health. I have been spending my time in a locked psych unit (as a student, not a patient :)). We have an assignment to journal- to process the interactions and our observations and experiences.
I am at a school that is not the most organized or efficient, but they make up for it in student support. The culture of the school allows for intimate relationships between students and teachers and I'm finding it to be incredibly helpful.
Journal #1
Teacher asks: What is one concern you have about this clinical rotation?
From the last paragraph of what I write:
I don’t like the idea of assuming what people are feeling, hearing, and seeing is “not real”. I want to give them the benefit of the doubt. This is a spiritual matter I am talking about. I often wonder about these people and the spiritual oppression or possession they may be under. I wonder how many of these people are needlessly suffering under demonic control. I wonder about freedom. What would freedom look like for each of these people? Is it always so gradual, or could it be immediate? Why would God allow a human to exist that has no conscience and then chooses to do bad things? I guess my concern is following the stories and observing the paths of which the human experience can travel down, and of knowing how I am not much different than the tortured soul in front of me.
Teacher response:
There is alot to respond to here, but the most important thing is the last part about the spiritual situation of these patients. We talked a bit about this after clinical this week, but this is what I would say to you. I don't know why a lot of bad things happen. I have seen patients that I suspected were truly evil, and I have seen plenty of suffering. Mostly there is a continuum of good to evil in all of us, and it just depends on how spiritually grounded/disctracted we are at any given moment. THe healing from addiciton, for example, has an awful lot to do with finding a spiritually grounded center again after a lot of, often, pretty bad behavior and harm to loved ones. It is a humbling journey to re-build those relationships. At the same time, I have seen deep spirituality and devotion in families despite devastation from chronic mental illness. WHy is one family strengthened and another is destroyed? It seems to me that it is in the same old spiritual path we all walk. Illness is illness. It is not the whole person or the whole story. If we can educate patients about that, then when the depression is so powerful that it feels like God is far away, maybe the person can recognize that it is the depression talking; it is not the reality that God has abandoned them. Whether you call it demons or something else, the reality is that the path back to God is a healing journey that includes spiritual care and ministering to the deep pain that we find in front of us. In the healing care we provide, God exists in us and that strength, hope, and love is what we give to our patients. There is no room for darkness in that ministering.
THat's my take on it from my own practice. We sell hope for a living, as far as I am concerned. That is of God...whole story in a nutshell. We represent the light and the truth, and the darkness doesn't hold up too well in the face of that light. I watched Star Wars on TV the other night. It's a bit like that scene where Luke confronts Vader, unwilling to accept that Vader had totally turned to the dark side. Luke's belief in the "good in him" helped Vader find that good in himself. Remember how Veder took his mask off and thanked LUke as he died renouncing the darkness? Most patients don't have it spelled out that clearly, but it's that kind of a process that we support as we help them to find their inner spiritual strngth and goodness. OUr unconditional acceptance of their value as children of God is often the vehicle for their being able to find spiritual peace.
WHy is there so much darkness? I don't know. That question is above my pay grade, and I've basically stopped asking it. I do know that this life is about growing spiritually to become more like Jesus. We are all a mess at one level or another. It is the journey towards godliness, spiritual communion with God, forgiveness of self and others, etc. that matters. You and I have been blessed with that ministry of healing. That's all I really know. I have that job, and it is a blessed thing to be doing. I sell hope, and it is my gift. I need to use that gift the best I can to serve my God. The rest is up to Him. This whole business is an act of faith. It's a great life!
I am at a school that is not the most organized or efficient, but they make up for it in student support. The culture of the school allows for intimate relationships between students and teachers and I'm finding it to be incredibly helpful.
Journal #1
Teacher asks: What is one concern you have about this clinical rotation?
From the last paragraph of what I write:
I don’t like the idea of assuming what people are feeling, hearing, and seeing is “not real”. I want to give them the benefit of the doubt. This is a spiritual matter I am talking about. I often wonder about these people and the spiritual oppression or possession they may be under. I wonder how many of these people are needlessly suffering under demonic control. I wonder about freedom. What would freedom look like for each of these people? Is it always so gradual, or could it be immediate? Why would God allow a human to exist that has no conscience and then chooses to do bad things? I guess my concern is following the stories and observing the paths of which the human experience can travel down, and of knowing how I am not much different than the tortured soul in front of me.
Teacher response:
There is alot to respond to here, but the most important thing is the last part about the spiritual situation of these patients. We talked a bit about this after clinical this week, but this is what I would say to you. I don't know why a lot of bad things happen. I have seen patients that I suspected were truly evil, and I have seen plenty of suffering. Mostly there is a continuum of good to evil in all of us, and it just depends on how spiritually grounded/disctracted we are at any given moment. THe healing from addiciton, for example, has an awful lot to do with finding a spiritually grounded center again after a lot of, often, pretty bad behavior and harm to loved ones. It is a humbling journey to re-build those relationships. At the same time, I have seen deep spirituality and devotion in families despite devastation from chronic mental illness. WHy is one family strengthened and another is destroyed? It seems to me that it is in the same old spiritual path we all walk. Illness is illness. It is not the whole person or the whole story. If we can educate patients about that, then when the depression is so powerful that it feels like God is far away, maybe the person can recognize that it is the depression talking; it is not the reality that God has abandoned them. Whether you call it demons or something else, the reality is that the path back to God is a healing journey that includes spiritual care and ministering to the deep pain that we find in front of us. In the healing care we provide, God exists in us and that strength, hope, and love is what we give to our patients. There is no room for darkness in that ministering.
THat's my take on it from my own practice. We sell hope for a living, as far as I am concerned. That is of God...whole story in a nutshell. We represent the light and the truth, and the darkness doesn't hold up too well in the face of that light. I watched Star Wars on TV the other night. It's a bit like that scene where Luke confronts Vader, unwilling to accept that Vader had totally turned to the dark side. Luke's belief in the "good in him" helped Vader find that good in himself. Remember how Veder took his mask off and thanked LUke as he died renouncing the darkness? Most patients don't have it spelled out that clearly, but it's that kind of a process that we support as we help them to find their inner spiritual strngth and goodness. OUr unconditional acceptance of their value as children of God is often the vehicle for their being able to find spiritual peace.
WHy is there so much darkness? I don't know. That question is above my pay grade, and I've basically stopped asking it. I do know that this life is about growing spiritually to become more like Jesus. We are all a mess at one level or another. It is the journey towards godliness, spiritual communion with God, forgiveness of self and others, etc. that matters. You and I have been blessed with that ministry of healing. That's all I really know. I have that job, and it is a blessed thing to be doing. I sell hope, and it is my gift. I need to use that gift the best I can to serve my God. The rest is up to Him. This whole business is an act of faith. It's a great life!
Sunday, May 23, 2010
For my 29th birthday my family and friends came over and we gave my front yard a make-over. We tore out weeds and piled them up, we dug out old scroungy looking plants, we clipped, we trimmed, and then... we replanted with bright orange and purple flowers everywhere! It looks beautiful and is a reflection of all the love in my life. I am truly grateful!
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Second semester- I wanted to write a little more (blog-style) because it feels so good. It is that therapeutic release of my right-brained self. I am caught up in a left-brained world right now. It is very interesting- spending all of my days amidst people and institutions that are so science-oriented. Life becomes very practical, and a subculture is bred where the citizens attempt to corral everything into precision; their schedules, their futures, their questions, their answers. It is a subculture where people don't like to not have answers. I find myself staring at the gap, between what is happening and what should be the right answer, to be growing exponentially bigger. The more I learn, the more the gap widens into a great great canyon.
Last week I started to despair (a little) over this. Nursing is much more in-depth than I expected. I want to be a great nurse. I want to understand diseases and medications and interpersonal relations and laboratory results and...
I want to be a good nurse.
To keep me sane, to keep me from worrying about this and to progress me in the direction of my goals I decided it was time to buy a box of crayons and a big white sketch pad.
You will most likely not find me in front of my computer anymore studying. I will be in my backyard, laying on the grass, sketching out the clinical manifestations of liver cirrhosis (using "brown licorice" of course), or putting happy faces on the mob of friendly immune-boosting white blood cells decorating my page.
My dear friend Sophie, the doctor I met in Ghana while volunteering at the health clinic, has served as a true source of inspiration for me throughout the last 2 years of my schooling process. She hasn't said anything, or counseled me, or given me direct advice. But who she is, her energy, her drive and her perseverance have continually encouraged me in what I am doing. She made it very clear to me that most of what we get in life is because of the sacrifice and the hard work we have put in along the way.
I remember one day on a village outreach where she put her stethoscope around my neck and placed the diaphragm up against the frailest chest I had ever seen. I heard a swooshing sound. She moved the stethoscope around to different parts around the child's heart and all sounded like water flowing down a river. "He's got what you might refer to as "a hole in his heart"." The patient was tiny and wasting away. His mother sat there with a very plain, resigned look on her face. Extreme poverty, most times, squelches even hope for one's own child. But Sophie referred him to a hospital in the big city, tapped into the emergency patient funding at the clinic, and 1 open-heart surgery and a year later we visited a very vibrant, healthy, fortunate little boy.
Later we talked about her career, the satisfying aspects and the more mundane parts, the challenging times. She told me more about having dyslexia and trying to write competent doctors notes. "And school wasn't easy. but i met a really good friend, and we'd study together the way we learned best. I had to do it the way that worked best for me even if I looked silly. We would draw everything out. That's pretty much how I got through med school!"
I noticed tonight when I opened my sketch pad to study my drawings; the colors and shapes and the weird quotations popping out of body parts that i was enlivened to draw more and study more. I also saw the canyon of unknowing shrink just a tiny bit.
Last week I started to despair (a little) over this. Nursing is much more in-depth than I expected. I want to be a great nurse. I want to understand diseases and medications and interpersonal relations and laboratory results and...
I want to be a good nurse.
To keep me sane, to keep me from worrying about this and to progress me in the direction of my goals I decided it was time to buy a box of crayons and a big white sketch pad.
You will most likely not find me in front of my computer anymore studying. I will be in my backyard, laying on the grass, sketching out the clinical manifestations of liver cirrhosis (using "brown licorice" of course), or putting happy faces on the mob of friendly immune-boosting white blood cells decorating my page.
My dear friend Sophie, the doctor I met in Ghana while volunteering at the health clinic, has served as a true source of inspiration for me throughout the last 2 years of my schooling process. She hasn't said anything, or counseled me, or given me direct advice. But who she is, her energy, her drive and her perseverance have continually encouraged me in what I am doing. She made it very clear to me that most of what we get in life is because of the sacrifice and the hard work we have put in along the way.
I remember one day on a village outreach where she put her stethoscope around my neck and placed the diaphragm up against the frailest chest I had ever seen. I heard a swooshing sound. She moved the stethoscope around to different parts around the child's heart and all sounded like water flowing down a river. "He's got what you might refer to as "a hole in his heart"." The patient was tiny and wasting away. His mother sat there with a very plain, resigned look on her face. Extreme poverty, most times, squelches even hope for one's own child. But Sophie referred him to a hospital in the big city, tapped into the emergency patient funding at the clinic, and 1 open-heart surgery and a year later we visited a very vibrant, healthy, fortunate little boy.
Later we talked about her career, the satisfying aspects and the more mundane parts, the challenging times. She told me more about having dyslexia and trying to write competent doctors notes. "And school wasn't easy. but i met a really good friend, and we'd study together the way we learned best. I had to do it the way that worked best for me even if I looked silly. We would draw everything out. That's pretty much how I got through med school!"
I noticed tonight when I opened my sketch pad to study my drawings; the colors and shapes and the weird quotations popping out of body parts that i was enlivened to draw more and study more. I also saw the canyon of unknowing shrink just a tiny bit.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
first semester nursing school finished!
First semester nursing school is finished. I survived. One of my classmates likened it to a a dehydrated person trying to get a drink out of a fire hydrant. You won't get nourished but you won't die. Assignments, essays, papers, nursing care plans, tests, quizzes, skills lab, caring for patients in the hospital- the load does not stop- the more you learn the more you realize you don't know anything.
That is exactly how I've felt.
Yesterday I had some extra time, extra energy, and I had no idea what to do with myself so I painted my living room lime green. I did this with one hand while I held the phone with my other and talked to my friend. She told me about her recent backpacking trip out into the middle of nowhere. I started to breathe more deeply listening to her, wishing to run off into the woods somewhere too, pitch a tent, jump in a stream, itch from being exposed to wild things like bugs and plants. But for now during 2nd semester I suppose the closest I'll get to anything green is my living room.
August a medical missions trip awaits me in Haiti...
That is exactly how I've felt.
Yesterday I had some extra time, extra energy, and I had no idea what to do with myself so I painted my living room lime green. I did this with one hand while I held the phone with my other and talked to my friend. She told me about her recent backpacking trip out into the middle of nowhere. I started to breathe more deeply listening to her, wishing to run off into the woods somewhere too, pitch a tent, jump in a stream, itch from being exposed to wild things like bugs and plants. But for now during 2nd semester I suppose the closest I'll get to anything green is my living room.
August a medical missions trip awaits me in Haiti...
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Don't freak out
It's the first week of nursing school. When I hear the professors say we are "student's" I can immediately identify with that. When I hear them say we are "student nurses" I have to remind myself they are talking about us, about me. The first two days were filled with anxiety and symptoms of the flu. The office is out sick today and a lot of the students are coughing and ill. I promised myself to take the stairs but when I get to the top I can tell I'm a little sick too. Our Professor made us repeat out loud our phrase for the first week of classes- "Don't freak out". The reminder is working, along with a prayer on the way to school. God I need Your peace, thanks.
I am surprised by my response to finally getting here. I thought I'd be ecstatic, full of energy, ready to take it all in. But instead I find myself more like a nervous child peering in to the deep end of the pool, wondering if when I jump I'll come out alive.
I know I will. I have tenacity. I have passion. I love learning.
I'm not waiting to be pushed in, to flail around and splash water everywhere. I am going in headfirst any minute now.
I told my boyfriend I bought my stethoscope today. We were on the freeway and it was loud in the car. "It was $100" I noted.
"You bought soap for $100?" He asked, incredulously.
"No! A STETHOSCOPE."
He turned and looked at me and smiled. "Ohhhhhhh. It's really happening. You are really becoming a nurse."
It seems comical that it takes a material object to help penetrate a deeper understanding of where my life is heading, however I can completely relate. Like a marathoner at the register buying her lightweight aerodynamic running shoes, or the chef-to-be purchasing his first nice knife set, these things set the mind in gear. They are tangible evidence that something big and different and exciting is going to happen. They are also tools of measurement.
The man at the store explained that the stethoscopes in his hand were expensive for a reason. (obviously) "Go ahead" he said "buy the cheaper stethoscope for 20-30 bucks and you'll be fine. But once you graduate and start making more money you'll probably come back and get this one." He held up the Litman Classic II S.E.. It wasn't the best, but it was a lot better than what I could afford, and it sang loudly of newness and promises and superiority the way coveted items usually do.
I looked at my new nursing student friend. She wanted to go for the cheapie. It was dangling off a hook and she was eyeing it with a resigned look in her eye. But I liked the idea of delivering babies as a certified nurse midwife with a well worn, well traveled, well loved Litman Classic II S.E. light blue stethoscope slung around my neck. I liked the idea of seeing it and occasionally reflecting on where we (the instrument and I) both originated from and all that it took to get us here, almost like a medical wedding ring.
At least for the next 15 months, I am heavily involved with my professional dream. But because I am already certain I want to marry it, that I want it to be a part of my life, a part of me, for the rest of my life, I charged up the $100 with a very clear picture in mind and without a hint of regret.
I am surprised by my response to finally getting here. I thought I'd be ecstatic, full of energy, ready to take it all in. But instead I find myself more like a nervous child peering in to the deep end of the pool, wondering if when I jump I'll come out alive.
I know I will. I have tenacity. I have passion. I love learning.
I'm not waiting to be pushed in, to flail around and splash water everywhere. I am going in headfirst any minute now.
I told my boyfriend I bought my stethoscope today. We were on the freeway and it was loud in the car. "It was $100" I noted.
"You bought soap for $100?" He asked, incredulously.
"No! A STETHOSCOPE."
He turned and looked at me and smiled. "Ohhhhhhh. It's really happening. You are really becoming a nurse."
It seems comical that it takes a material object to help penetrate a deeper understanding of where my life is heading, however I can completely relate. Like a marathoner at the register buying her lightweight aerodynamic running shoes, or the chef-to-be purchasing his first nice knife set, these things set the mind in gear. They are tangible evidence that something big and different and exciting is going to happen. They are also tools of measurement.
The man at the store explained that the stethoscopes in his hand were expensive for a reason. (obviously) "Go ahead" he said "buy the cheaper stethoscope for 20-30 bucks and you'll be fine. But once you graduate and start making more money you'll probably come back and get this one." He held up the Litman Classic II S.E.. It wasn't the best, but it was a lot better than what I could afford, and it sang loudly of newness and promises and superiority the way coveted items usually do.
I looked at my new nursing student friend. She wanted to go for the cheapie. It was dangling off a hook and she was eyeing it with a resigned look in her eye. But I liked the idea of delivering babies as a certified nurse midwife with a well worn, well traveled, well loved Litman Classic II S.E. light blue stethoscope slung around my neck. I liked the idea of seeing it and occasionally reflecting on where we (the instrument and I) both originated from and all that it took to get us here, almost like a medical wedding ring.
At least for the next 15 months, I am heavily involved with my professional dream. But because I am already certain I want to marry it, that I want it to be a part of my life, a part of me, for the rest of my life, I charged up the $100 with a very clear picture in mind and without a hint of regret.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
I was at the front of the class, lecturing about really exciting subjects like resumes and cover letters. Half of the people were engaged, and the other half needed some caffeine, sleep, or interpreters.
I also couldn't help but be distracted by the Congolese woman who cringed and gripped the the rim of her desk every few minutes. She didn't seem to be bothering anyone else, but her facial expressions looked too familiar to me.
I took her to the side and asked her what was going on. She said she was in labor but could wait until lunchtime to worry about it, she really wanted to finish her resume. I asked her how many children she has had and she said five. I politely suggested that being a grand multip and waiting any longer might not be beneficial for her or the baby, even though it would have made for an incredible story. she smiled, waited through another contraction, and told me she knew what she was doing. she'd been through this before.
I didn't see her for 2 weeks until she came in to let me know she was sorry that she didn't finish the job club training. I laughed. "I'm sure you had more important things to tend to. And any way, when DID that baby come?"
"Right after class." she said.
I also couldn't help but be distracted by the Congolese woman who cringed and gripped the the rim of her desk every few minutes. She didn't seem to be bothering anyone else, but her facial expressions looked too familiar to me.
I took her to the side and asked her what was going on. She said she was in labor but could wait until lunchtime to worry about it, she really wanted to finish her resume. I asked her how many children she has had and she said five. I politely suggested that being a grand multip and waiting any longer might not be beneficial for her or the baby, even though it would have made for an incredible story. she smiled, waited through another contraction, and told me she knew what she was doing. she'd been through this before.
I didn't see her for 2 weeks until she came in to let me know she was sorry that she didn't finish the job club training. I laughed. "I'm sure you had more important things to tend to. And any way, when DID that baby come?"
"Right after class." she said.
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