Alpha Beta Nurse

It was summertime now. I sat on my parent’s back porch one morning, taking in the warm breeze that whistled ever so slightly through the trees. Birds were chirping, and the sound of distant lawn mowers buzzed in the background. As I sipped my coffee, I couldn’t help but sense a restlessness within me. A restlessness that I couldn’t shake. It had been a week. A week since I received the unwelcome news that I was in fact not going to medical school. I felt I was now floating in space, not really knowing where I fit. All the stress and self-imposed pressure had dissipated, and all I saw was emptiness. It alarmed me, as I had longed for a time like this, free of the stress. But now that it was here I was left with a growing sense of uneasiness. And so, I half-heartedly submitted my application for nursing school, feeling it was the only reasonable option.

I was admitted the following day.

My quick acceptance brought with it feelings of relief and mild assurance that perhaps this was the right path for me. Maybe this had been the path all along. Though I couldn’t be sure. I wasn’t sure of much anymore.

The following months brought waves of busy change. Nursing school had begun, and classes filled my days. It was an interesting group of women (and one man), from all walks of life. Some were older with families of their own, and some were single like myself. We were the first group to go through this particular program at Southern Connecticut, and they made sure we knew it. We were somehow important because of this. Perhaps we were unknowingly their test subjects, needing to achieve so the program could get off the ground.

My new school proved nursing to feel not dissimilar to a sorority. It was this new club that I was now a part of that I didn’t know I joined. Members of this particular club exhibited great pride in being a part. Its members took their jobs very seriously. The professors spoke of its members as brave and smart individuals. There were nuances and oddities too. There was great attention paid to nursing history and nursing research. Two courses I could have done without. Two courses I couldn’t help but feel were an enormous waste of time. Perhaps five minutes dedicated to nursing history at the introduction of another course would have been more appropriate. It frustrated me as time went on, wanting to be competitive with our physician colleagues. How were we to be taken seriously when so much time was spent on what appeared to be ‘fluff’? But this was a profession built on tradition, and I knew there would be no changing it. And so, I moved forward with the rest. I knew there was much to learn.

My days alternated between classes and clinicals. Clinical sites, where we were trained in the field to care for patients, ranged anywhere from nursing homes to various hospital settings (med-surg, trauma, pediatrics, ect.). I vacillated from feelings of excitement regarding possibilities for my future to feelings of utter boredom and dread. I pictured myself working on a busy hospital unit out of school, assisting in all kinds of exciting procedures.

I was beginning to get the hang of things. The first few weeks I was careful, like the rest, to complete all of my reading assignments, fearful I would get behind. I had heard nursing school was very challenging, and a one-year program would be sure to cram all that much more in. In time I found however, all that was required was good note taking. Given my prior degree, memorization came quickly and with great ease. Classes were enjoyable for me. I was surprised in seeing others struggle through. But I did my best to keep quiet, thankful for my developed skills.

One cool fall day, we began clinical on a medical-surgical unit at a nearby hospital. Med-surg floors were my least favorite of the hospital units. There were always many wound dressing changes to be done and too many meds to be passed. I didn’t care for the smell, and the floor nurses weren’t particularly warm toward us that day. I saw a fellow student exit a patient’s room down the hall. I began to walk in his direction. Several students had attempted to place a Foley catheter in a woman without success. I entered the room, feeling bad for the woman, and offered to try. I took the catheter hose in my hand assuredly, not wanting to overthink things, and placed it on my first try. I was elated. While I had always wanted to work in the medical field, I didn’t actually know until that very moment if I would be any good at it. I looked up and saw three classmates watching, and for the first time in a while, I was proud of myself. As menial as it was, I knew it was a start.

A few moments later, I entered the supply room to obtain some gauze and supplies for a dressing change for a woman down the hall. My clinical professor followed. She was a woman with thick brown hair and a plain face. She was younger than the other professors, so I half expected her to be more fun. I would quickly learn that would not be the case. As I gathered supplies, she approached me, staring at my hands. She told me, “Wearing nail polish on the units was strictly prohibited.” I was taken back by her words and her pettiness. I had done so well that morning with several newly learned skills. But she was choosing to focus all of her attention on my nails? I glanced down, flushed in the face, immediately noting that her nails were painted! I couldn’t resist, and went on to say, “But your nails are painted too.” She sharply rebutted, “At least mine aren’t chipped!”. It was then that I knew. Just as I had suspected. I was a part of a sorority of sorts. Anger welled inside of me. This woman was supposed to be my leader. My mentor. How could she be secretly treating me this way? I looked at her angrily, and she went on to say that she had “put in her time”, and that I was “going to need to do the same”. I was shocked in hearing her. Was I being hazed? Was this some sort of twisted initiation into the profession? My other professors didn’t behave this way.

I exhaled, venting to a girlfriend down the hall. She reminded me that the nursing was profession full of women. All types of women. I knew there would be ‘mean’ girls. I just never thought one of them would be my professor.

Nonetheless, I decided to let things go. I figured there was a good chance someone had mistreated her in her past. Her resentment had been almost palpable.

And I had bigger things to worry about.

Things were happening at home. Concerning things. I didn’t know what to make of it then. But changes were happening at the old raised ranch.

And I was about to change too.