The chill in the night air is unmistakable... Fall is as alive and well. It hides efficiently enough during daylight hours. On most days, it is easy to imagine that Summer is still in full swing. Sultry humidity and warm breezes still linger in abundance. Evenings and early mornings tell the truth, however. Summer of '08 is a recent memory. This is my first Fall in North Carolina, and so far, it's lovely. The foliage is just beginning to agree with the chilly nights.
My brother and I have discovered a quaint little spot in Greensboro to hang out more than we should. It's an Irish Pub with an outdoor patio and old world atmosphere. Shingus likes it a little more than I do; he's been there nearly every evening since we found it.
I can see it now; we're both going to sail into middle age in a blur of Guinness, grad school classes, and the philosophies of Jimmy Buffett and Gaelic Storm. And let's not forget that were both thirty-somethings now -- and single, the hedonistic both of us.
I am getting tired of it, I have to admit. Single-hood, I mean. I have been the not-so-merry widow for going on six years. Sure, it was fine in the beginning. The kids were still young and needed me more than they ever had. I was parenting for two. I swam in a sea of science texts and nursing philosophy for four years straight. We were fine with being just us. These days, the kids are needing me less and less. They spend more time than they ever have away from me and with their friends. Even when they're home, one of their friends is usually here with them. Mom is just around these days. I am a chauffeur and the community bank, or so it feels. Yes, I am feeling somewhat excluded. It would be nice to have a "friend" of my own. It would be great to have someone else to converse with -- other than my Guinness toting brother. Not that I don't adore my brother, of course...
Work is... work. All the wonderful things we were told about nursing in class has turned out to be a literal crock of hype and theory, as I expected it would. Nursing is not a glam job. I wear the equivalent of pajamas every day. I work 12 and a half hour shifts, often three in a row. That means I don't see daylight for three days at a time, which leaves me feeling like a vampire several days a week (and just in time for Halloween!). Most of my patients are pleasant, but there are always a few that can (and will) make an otherwise decent day go straight out the window on a flying chux pad.
There are the people who constantly ring their infernal call bell -- I'm talking every ten minutes -- and request another pillow, another Coke, to ask me a question about insurance (which isn't my area, people), or to ask me to pass them their cup of water... that is sitting a literal foot in front of them.
Most family members are fine, too. They're just anxious. They have questions, sure. And I can answer most of their questions. The problems arise when people do not understand the role of a Registered Nurse. I take care of mama's meds. I assure that she is hemodynamically stable. I interpret lab values and notify a white coat if her potassium level is threatening to precipitate a cardiac arrhythmia. I make sure that she is safe and sound and as pain-free as possible. That's my job. I earned a license to practice by proving that I'm able to ensure those things.
Still, many people do not understand that I don't handle insurance claims (someone handed me an insurance card last week... and just walked away...). I do not serve mama's dinner -- we have an entire dietary department for that. Having a cow in front of me because lunch is late will not do any good. I usually do not have a clue when mama is going to go home -- that is up to the white coat, people. And it doesn't do any good whatsoever to get pissy with me when the doctor decides that mama needs another MRI. No, I have no idea what time or what channel The Price is Right is on. Yes, I understand that your bed is uncomfortable. There's nothing I can really do about it except hand you another pillow and offer another Percocet. No, I cannot get you free samples of anything. This is not the health department. Sure, I'll bring you another Coke... You want fries with that?
Yeah, I'm a little perturbed sometimes. But I get over it. I've learned that putting up with such things are part of the job, too. I can't fail to mention that I also think of many of these patients after I've gone to bed at night. The 88 year-old woman who was in tears when I left because she was afraid her family would stick her in a nursing home. The 45 year-old fellow who is facing open heart surgery in a few days and just wanted someone to tell him that he would, more than likely, still be alive come Thanksgiving.
I do have a heart, after all. But I don't have all the answers. I will take care of mama as if she were my own, despite everything. And that isn't part of the job description, believe it or not. That is my choice. I am becoming a damn fine nurse, vampire, and raconteur. But thank the God of all that is decent and holy and good for days off. If I don't take care of myself a bit here and there, I am no good to anyone else. Word.
Pub?
