HOW DID I FORGET NO-PANTS LANCE?

Thursday was an odd day, to be sure. But I forgot the most glaring example of how bizarre it was. Ambition is a lovely thing in nursing school. I firmly believe that you get every bit out of it as you put in, and if you ask, you shall receive. However, ambition isn't always practical with us newbs. Newbs are slow; newbs are crazy thorough. Newbs are a bag of nerves. And this particular newb is way smarter after ten am.

Ambition is pushing eight o'clock meds with three different newbs. I admire my professor for her patience and steadfastness. I, however, don't always exude the same qualities. whilst waiting on another classmate's more extensive med list, the third woman and I chatted in the hallway. But again, it was before ten am, so my creativity came to a standstill. so we just kept silent company while we waited. My eyes began to glaze over when a white blur passed through my field of vision.

I snapped out of my partially conscious state. A man in a white lab coat and bare legs turned the corner and out of sight. I consulted my classmate's eyes for confirmation that I did indeed just see what I thought I saw. Our eyes met, and the giggles began. Like the professionals we are, we ducked into the resource room to dull the sound of laughter. Another classmate was using the resource room for its expressed purpose, researching a client's condition, so we shared with her why we were laughing.

The classmate laughed and told us it must be the same man who arrived in man-leggings. He must have ditched them sometime between the then and now. He walked past the resource room just when we had gotten ourselves together. On further inspection, he was wearing an ID signifying that he is an MD... and it appeared as though he was wearing no shorts or undergarments, as white cotton is hardly a forgiving or opaque fabric choice. That was the final straw! He was a doctor!

Imagine yourself in the hospital, desperately ill, when a man wearing no pants waltzes into your room to evaluate you! I would question my sanity. I would wonder what medication was causing me to experience psychotropic side effects.

P.S. Rudy told me today that I look like one of the residents, a man-resident. why? because we're both slender redheads. I'm telling you, I will be on the lookout for this guy. If he doesn't have blue and golden brown eyes, crazy long eyelashes, a straight nose, a girly waist, and shoulder-length hair, Rudy will be on the receiving end of a vicious punch to the arm. I guarantee it.

life's been weird so far.

if your uncorrected eyesight is 20/20 or you opt for only one type of corrective lenses, I pity you. you have never experienced the joys of your depth perception compensating for the distance change between the lens and your eye. has that stair always been two inches higher/lower? no, it hasn't. and no, you're not currently riding a true-to-life carousel.

add to this feeling, one driver's side door frozen open. I don't always hit every green light between Marstons Mills and Cape Cod Hospital, but when I do, I have to summon every ounce of strength in my left arm to keep my car door closed. no respite for the nursing student actively avoiding exercise, I suppose. I parked, threw my body weight into the door, and simultaneously locked the door. I was too nervous to check whether or not the lock-to-close approach worked, so I prayerfully walked away. Though to be honest, since the only time the serpentine belt seems to shut its damn mouth is at the Ford dealership and the car door had been frozen open, I joked that the only thing I'd miss about the car was the Twizzlers.

and I hate Twizzlers.

Each time I visited one patient, he would interrupt whatever I did/said/thought with the question, "Are you married? I don't see a ring on your finger." Cool, I was asking about your bowel movements; but no, friend, I am not married. After I was asked three more times if I was married yet, I replied, "yeah. we found a justice of the peace in the cafeteria. I'm really happy." he caught onto my joke immediately. he wagged his finger and told me that a sense of humor was just another perk of marrying me. Just then, a fabulous aide on the floor walked in to take his noon vitals. She was offered the same question I'd endured all morning. no, she is not married, either.

He was flabbergasted. He asked us why not? (as if the answer to that question could be easily answered before I was to evacuate the floor -- in negative five minutes.) She cleverly answered, "You should ask my ex-boyfriend." The patient laughed and tried to apply the same excuse to me. I laughed and said, "no, you really shouldn't ask him that. I would be afraid to hear the theories."

Later, I joined Maura for dinner. We decided while the food was cookin' that we needed a vegetable peeler... and later, dessert. We ambled around Ocean State Job Lot, for our respective second times. We tiptoed around the place in partial awe, partial fear until we found what we were looking for: vegetable peeler, Dr. Oetker brownie mix, and a pan -- just in case. Mid-Victoria's Secret mishap story, Maura quit speaking in line. She stared dead ahead. It finally occurred to me to follow her gaze. The man in front of us in line was our favorite Sam Diego's waiter: the amicable, irrepressible CJ who puts up with our constant stream of nonsense and gives it right back.

He judged our purchase combination and asked us aloud, "Are you guys making marijuana brownies?"
Instead of retorting with a judgment of my own, I answered, "nope. sweet potato fries." NOT "peanut butter and bubble wrap, CJ -- you's a FREAK!" oh, well. missed opportunities.
"Sweet potato fries for after your marijuana brownies?"
"Have you met me once? no. I don't do that." He laughed, paid his debts, and left the building. The poor cashier made no eye contact and minimal verbal contact -- if any. her expression read that our silliness is above her paygrade. And then he almost ran me over with his car. I rescind my hug.

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And here are some quotes that are better left unexplained.

"Hear that? You have really nice veins for a ginger."
PRO TIP: DO NOT CONSULT GOOGLE FOR WHY REDHEADS ARE MORE DIFFICULT TO START IV'S ON. results are NSFW.

"Things cost money. Yay, capitalism."

"I'm excited enough for the both of us."
"You're not invited."

sleep-talking, Moses, and the contagious case of the cold medicine dumbs.

WHAT IS REAL AND WHAT ISN'T?

In my cold medicine induced fog, I blathered on to my long-suffering little brother about what I thought was a recent development, my sleep-talking habit, among other things that he found hard to follow. But this is where he stopped me to point out that he had mentioned this phenomenon to me on multiple occasions. I asked him how I reacted. He shrugged and said, "I don't think you really believed me because you didn't react much."

So, like the level-headed adult that I am, I shrieked, "OH MY GOD, WAS I EVEN AWAKE? WHAT IS REALITY?"

I remember from the dream which Aunt Mary Kay answered in the physical realm that I was talking to her in the dream. We were sitting at a candle-lit dinner because the power was still out, having a typical conversation. She asked if I had seen Way while I was in Hyannis. Earlier in the day, I borrowed Joelle and Maura and Kyle's warm shower and booked it over to Barnes and Noble for a quick shift. It all lined up as reality. I recall having the hardest time forming the first word of my answer: nnnn-nnnnnnn-nnnno. It took me three tries to say no, but once I formed the first word, it was natural as any other speech I use: "No, why do you ask?"
"Ask what?"
"If I had seen Way today. I can call him if it's important."
"Caitlyn, what are you talking about?"
"What? you just--"
"Caitlyn, wake up. You're talking in your sleep."
"Aunt Mary Kay, you can't be serious."
"CAITLYN, WAKE UP."

And with that conversation, I found out that I talk in my sleep. I relayed this information to Joshua, focusing on the difficulty I had with forming the first word. I continued to wildly hypothesize, "IS ANYTHING I REMEMBER REAL? WHAT IF EVERY TIME I STUMBLE OVER A WORD, IT'S A DREAM?"

Joshua laughed and said, "That cannot possibly be true. Nothing would ever be real."

Har-har, Joshua. How's this for real? On Saturday, in the thick of my illness, I was feeling dizzy and gross. Don't you worry, I performed excellent hand hygiene and infection control techniques, washing my hands frequently and wiping down the keyboard with alcohol swabs and wearing gloves while making lattes. But even still, I put approximately zero effort into my looks before, during, or after my eight and a half hour shift. Toward the end, the line finally slowed enough to breathe and have conversations with customers -- finally! It makes the day fly by, but if I can't have a good mini-convo with customers, it makes for a sad day and poor story fodder.

One such customer approached me while I was steaming milk for another's drink. He was a tall man with broad shoulders, sporting a red and black Harley Davidson leather jacket and matching headgear that resembled a surgeon's cap. He wore tinted glasses indoors but did not appear unfriendly. He prefaced the conversation with a disclaimer that he had children older than me, and he definitely was not hitting on me. I laughed politely; what else is there to do? He told me that he is a photographer by trade and noticed that I have a "unique beauty about" me and while "all-American looking," I also possess a look he has never seen before. He encouraged me that if I had never considered modeling, I should pursue that venture. And if not, just know that I am a beautiful girl. His wife shook her head and exclaimed, "Moses! Enough!"

He laughed and said, "What? I believe in compliments. I believe in love." He pulled her close to himself, kissed her forehead, and continued, "That's how we've lasted so long, right? We need to give a little love." They bid me adieu, both wishing me luck in whatever I chose to do and left. It was the kindest sentiment I have probably ever heard from a total stranger. Gail tapped my shoulder, snapping me back to reality with the comment, "Did he ask to photograph you?"
"Thanks for wording that in the creepiest way possible, GAIL."

At this point in the story, Joshua interrupted with, "well, WHAT? You could be his muse, his burning bush, if you will. You know, if you actually experienced that and didn't dream it."
 "Joshua, I'm afraid you've succumbed to my contagious case of the cold medicine dumbs. Don't worry. Keith got it, too."

... so moral of the story is, uhm. Spread a little love today?
yeah. do it.

Nemo, the ABSOLUTE WORST.

Thirteen inches of snowfall and three electricity-free days later, I am embarrassed to say that I had a bit of a mental meltdown. The first night of no power, Friday, the novelty and romance of reading by candlelight in New England were not yet lost on me. Granted, the ambient heat hadn't left yet.

Cut to Sunday night, forty degrees inside the house. When exhalations are visible indoors, Caitlyn loses her freakin mind. Aunt Mary Kay and I tried to figure out which room was relatively warmer, the kitchen or the living room. I was assigned kitchen detail, and even with the gas stoves a-blazin', the chill of the stone floors was enough to break my spirit entirely. I dragged the chaise that doubled as my bed for the entirety of the power outage across the kitchen and into the living room. Before I succeeded, I stubbed my toe so hard, I dropped the chaise down the single stair separating the two rooms -- effectively scaring the sleep out of every other living being in the house.

That was it. I lost it. I started sobbing and shouting about the death of half the Pilgrims during their first New England winter, quite unprovoked. "FLU, WHAT IS THAT AN ACRONYM FOR? They were all cooped up in a sub-zero cabin for the whole winter and killed EVERYONE IN SIGHT." I sincerely wish those two sentences made up the entirety of my rant about the Pilgrims, but that would be a falsehood.

My genius friend, Maura, solved the acronym mystery. Fuckin' Lives Up = flu. mhmm, wouldn't bode well for our Puritan ancestors and their messaging if everyone knew they slaughtered one another in the cold, now would it?

Last night, I finally slept in a heated home. Woke up, feeling fab. And since I get one cold a year, this one seems to be determined to make it count because it came roaring back as my day progressed. I liberated a box of sandpap-- I mean, tissues, from the hospital. The box has been vanquished. I took an absurdly long nap. I have had my eternal fill of herbal tea with honey and lemon. Time for Nyquil and a good night's sleep.

P.S. Guess what? I talk in my sleep. every day. why has no one told me this before? >.> was that part of my chill-psychosis, too?

Nemo, a lifesaver.

I woke up sick this morning. There are only so many mornings of being coughed and sneezed upon before my immune system throws up its hands and allows the organisms responsible for the common cold to take hold. Thankfully, my school closed its doors in anticipation of Blizzard 2013, the terrifying Nemo.

AMK is in a similar health-boat, suffering from a smattering of common cold symptoms. So before she came home from work, she asked if I wanted to order pizza for dinner so our sick selves didn't have to deal with preparing it. uh, hells yeah, I do. I'll stick to preparing more herbal tea and snuggling under a blanket, thanks. I ordered a pizza from Domino's online because my voice is failing me frequently today.

AMK goes to pick up the pizza, without explicit knowledge of what I ordered. The woman behind the desk only saw one takeout order and rung her up for said purchase. "$27.88, please."

Aunt Mary Kay thought, Caitlyn must have ordered chicken or dessert or something. She pays the woman for the order, and she was handed three large pizzas - a red flag. AMK asked to see the name on the order, Susan something. Suspicion confirmed! Caitlyn isn't sick enough to order $30 worth of Domino's pizza.

and let's hope it stays that way.

blushing and other ways to destroy your flat-affect cred:

This semester's lessons thus far have focused on mental health and illness and a holistic look at a person in their 'natural' habitat and the nurse's role in his or her lives. When I do get to see or call my friends and someone inevitably asks, "hah's school?" [because in my head, everyone has a wicked yinzer accent] I have to explain that such things are nearly impossible to learn from a book. One must experience these things in order to truly learn them.

At the suggestion of my first clinical instructor, I have been practicing small mindfulness chunks -- an active process involving awareness of what is happening in the present moment and observing the world without judgment. She acknowledged my almost pathological need to view life through a funny and cynical and judgmental lens and encouraged me to suspend these thoughts every so often. At first, I met it with resistance. I take great pride in my sense of humor, dark and biting though it may sometimes be. But I fake-promised my boss that I would give psych nursing a fighting chance, so I may take care of him down the road. And practiced it, I have.

Ironically, the more aware I am of the present, the more I realize I judge and feel I must judge. Judging my own actions can be helpful to a point. The key is learning when to stop -- too much and I halt my progress. today, man, I realized that I have a lot of work to do.

I had my first real experience with a psych patient today. The client's attention to detail was unflattering at best. A clean-catch urine sample was required of this client. Even before I finished the sentence, the client dashed across the room, grabbed the supplies from my hand, and slammed the bathroom door in my face. Not a moment later, the door opened again, and the client handed me the specimen container. Let's just say aim is not a strong suit in this one, and I hadn't had time to acquire gloves. I accepted it with my best emotionless expression and said, "I thank you for your prompt action. I'll go fill out the lab paperwork now."

The client glared at me and replied, "You're practically red. You can wash your hands, you know." Curse my pale skin and red ears, ruining my hard-earned poker face!!! GARRRRR. But possibly unsterile urine is dribbling down my arm. How does one suppress the dubious effects of the SNS in such times? Better consult my clinical instructor once more... or get a tan. whichever is more painless.

Later, the client asked me what was in the cup of medications administered earlier in the morning. Truth be told, I was not in the med room for the entire process, so all I saw was the nurse pulling an anti-anxiety med and an NSAID to use in conjunction with a stronger opioid to attack pain originating in the bone. Apparently, these were the worst possible answers, each drug prompting a different fixation. First, I had to address the over-the-counter drug that was proven ineffective in past experimentation. In the client's words, "I was eatin' 'em like candy and nothin' happened." I, thankfully, have no concept of what bone pain feels like, but I also imagine that since that one time I had eight teeth removed resulted in opioid 'scipts, over-the-counter meds won't cut through pain like that alone.

I explained the delicate process of finding an acceptable balance of medication, in order to be the most effective in terms of comfort and minimizing side effects of the heavy-duty drugs. The client seemed to digest this information, dismiss it, and ask me about the anti-anxiety coverage -- and another fixation began. How long does it take to kick in? What does it do to my brain? My body? What else can I take if it doesn't work the way I need it to? How can I know it's working?

Living with anxiety must be an exhausting enterprise -- and a cycle not easily broken. Anxiety over the actions of anxiety medication, anxiety concerning how long it will be until relief is found, anxiety just in case the prescribed medication isn't enough to control the anxiety already brewing... just thinking about it makes me want to take a nap. I empathized with the client as best I could and talked the client down to a place where the feelings were identifiable and then the phone rang.

I ran off to find my nurse and explain to her in no uncertain terms what I had accidentally done when I thought I would be helpful by answering a call light, which up until that point had consisted of questions like, HEY, WHAT'S FOR LUNCH? DO YOU DRIVE A TRUCK? The nurse explained to the nurse practitioner [in the kindest way I've ever been called a tactless little shit] that the client may have found out in less than ideal terms that an NSAID had been added to the pain management regimen and that a conversation should be initiated to address the other measures used in conjunction with the offending medication to get the pain under control.

I apologized in every language I knew how, and the nurse replied, "Hey, HEY. Mistakes are how we learn. Keep this."

mmmmmmmmmmmm.

let's just say I did that on purpose.

... so if this whole nursing thing doesn't work out, I have a fine career of stand up comedy to fall back on. I told two jokes that made a room full of hospice personnel snort with laughter. The morning began with a bang -- not a fall, though. thank goodness! a client tore out an IV and made for the exit. And the demand never let up. each Tuesday morning, the hospice team gathers in the staff room for a powwow called "Team Meeting." Healthcare personnel are generally conservative folk. My nurse and I had performed targeted assessments on four clients, acclimated a new client to the environment, dispensed medication, and intervened in two near-disasters in the first hour alone.

Team meeting time began with a time for remembrance, the chaplain read a poem written by St. Francis and said a few kind words of each soul lost in the last week. After acknowledging each life, a single seashell was dropped into a tall vase sitting in the middle of the table and a moment of silence observed. The ceremony left me with goosebumps. Next, each case was discussed in terms of each facet of life each member of the team addressed: spiritual needs, psychosocial needs, physical needs, pain management needs, etc. The holistic look at each client was inspiring. The sort of care provided in this facility is that which you strive to accomplish in any setting. See the whole person as they are -- suspending judgment -- and attack the problems, as a team and in conjunction with the client.

But as often as "continuity of care" is drilled into our heads, it is easy as a nursing student to roll your eyes. I mean, two major nursing roles are communicator and teacher to our peers and to our patients. Why wouldn't we talk to each other? derr. But it inexplicably doesn't happen... ALL THE TIME. [insert signature Maura WHAT here] alright, prof, I will listen to common sense lectures with less cynicism. you were right. I was wrong. don't get used to it. it doesn't happen often.

My head was filled with end-of-life concepts I never before experienced. When my grandmother passed, I was too young to understand what was going on and was often shielded from her suffering. My mother died so quickly, I didn't have the chance to visit her post-op. palliative sedation? mottling? terminal agitation? shwat?

I read many a pamphlet on these topics and more, preparing for a more informed team meeting to discuss an incoming client. Before it began, my stomach rumbled audibly. Everyone turned around to stare at me. Breakfast had been nothing but a cup of coffee. ha-ha, that awkward moment when you've consumed more milligrams of caffeine in a day than you have calories. My colleagues urged me that if I think I should eat, I should eat. I asked if anyone had a nut allergy. The ladies looked at me quizzically. "Well, better to check beforehand and look like a doofus than send someone into anaphylactic shock. Yeah, that Caitlyn girl? She should never come back!" The room erupted with laughter, taking me completely aback. It was nice to hear a little laughter. It was nicer to know I elicited it.

Running, running, running -- documentation? not yet! My long-suffering nurse apologized to me for the hectic nature of the day, as if it was a bad thing and presented me with the option of staying or going at one o'clock. I said that I would love to stay, but I have an ultrasound scheduled at 1:30 in Hyannis. [if you're a little lost, take a look here] My nurse squeezed my forearm, a goofy smile spread across her face. "GOOD ULTRASOUND!?" I looked her in the eye and said, "Given my relationship status, there is no such thing." killed it!

I thanked everyone and dashed over to Hyannis for my ultrasound. I was greeted with, "Oh, good. You're wearing a perfectly low cut shirt." That's a weird way to greet someone, but yes, I dressed appropriately. I was ushered into a room not unlike a massage parlor and laid down on the examination table. I cursed myself for wearing my glasses to clinical because I couldn't directly visualize the screen. Yeah, I planned this. Therefore, I cannot see the screen and freak out about shit I don't understand. The report should be in by the end of the week from a radiologist in Boston. we shall see. we shall see.

until such time, I'm hittin' the salad -- hard.

all about the morbidity, baby.

I cannot recall if I ever told y'all about my discussion with the otolaryngologist -- the head and neck dude, for you layfolks. He performed a total head and neck assessment (because what else am I paying him a copay for?). Did I mention that he is a certified plastic surgeon? Foreshadowing alert.

Yeah, so he talks to me for a solid ten, fifteen minutes about the condition of my face. Conversation exaggerated for lack of documentation of exact wording, bear in mind.

Oh, you have breakouts. you should definitely see a dermatologist, or mayhaps our medical aesthetist. your face! your face! you're gonna come to me thirty years from now, looking to undo this damage, and I won't be able to do anything about it. [like his prehistoric ass would still be practicing medicine thirty years from now] Did you recently get engaged? Because some girls just kinda give up on their appearances once that happens...

blah blah blah.

so finally, I said, "I have approximately zero interest in systemic antibiotics for a vain issue. I have even less interest in the risk of developing C. diff as a result of vanity. I resent the fact that you even asked if I gave up on my appearance because I met a man. Not only is this sexist but absurd, and I think you owe me an apology."

He back-pedals, saying, "No, no. Don't think of this as a vanity issue. It's like brushing your teeth, washing your hair. These aren't vain measures. These are basic hygiene measures. Think of it this way, and maybe you'll change your mind about a dermatologist. And I don't think antibiotics are for you. In the meantime, I'm sorry. I should not have assumed that you need a man to make you happy or comfortable. maybe you're gay."

... yes. maybe.

so then, he is dictating to his recorder about my assessment. I corrected him when he said my birth year was '87. He glared at me, rewound the recorder a moment, and said my birth year. "Sorry for being born in 1989," I grumbled.

Then he dictates, "Nodule found on the right thyroid, upload prescription for ultrasound, and schedule follow up appointment."

I... what?! Thyroid nodule? When were you going to tell me about that, BRO? He stops the recorder, again annoyed, and says, "It's probably nothing. Probably as clinically significant as that growth you had me remove. But it's still worth watching. May I?"

Oh, yeah. treat me like I'm the a-hole here. so I called the number provided to set up an ultrasound for this Tuesday afternoon after clinical. UHM. I kinda forgot about it for a while. but now that the day approaches, I'm a little nervous. Not like, actively so, but when I think about it, I'm all like, I KNEW IT. see: I dream of thyroid issues. It's a little disjointed. But enjoyable. Promise.

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Now for a little levity. Here is the best thing I have ever heard to describe Taylor Swift fandom.

At breakfast this morning, there were three girls sitting on a bench to my right, talking about [what else] boys. One of them complained of a boy who went with her to a Taylor Swift concert when she was "in the seventh grade." since that time, he has given her numerous gifts referring to this time together. "Sure, it's super sweet. But, like, I'm sixteen years old. I don't listen to that shit any more."

aaaaaand good night. (: