My nursing school family

Nursing school is back in full swing which means that the 2^nd year students are being unleashed upon the area hospitals so we can practice on patients, instead of mannequins, all the procedures and information that we’ve been methodically cataloging in our mental file cabinets.

One of the perks in choosing nursing as a career is that, if you are motivated, you can pretty much pick whichever area you feel a passion towards. There are a few of my fellow students who are being pulled in the direction of pediatrics, a couple who are fascinated by wound care, some very special individuals who want to work in hospice, several ER addicts, and one who seems to want to scope any available orifice. As for myself; I love the heart and everything cardiac-related never ceases to amaze me.

My first clinical experience of the school year will be located in a pediatric unit at a hospital outside of my Highlands County home. I must say that I am suffering some serious trepidation about being in this particular nursing environment because taking care of sick and injured children requires a different type of preparation in one’s mind.

As much as I claim that kids are clingy little germ spreaders, I secretly adore them and can’t help but wonder if this is an area of medical care that will force me to face the biggest challenge yet in my educational journey.

The only thing possibly more daunting than sick children is the fact that my classmates and I have to endure each other for one more year. We are like a family; we didn’t get to pick each other and, similar to many families, we are dysfunctional at the core.

All in all, we actually get along fairly well together which a good thing is considering the fact that I get to share a hotel room with three of my “sisters” this week. The last time I had a roommate was in Tallahassee with my friend, Amy. Girls get all weird and goofy when we’re alone and frequently fall into fits of uncontrollable giggles.

At one point, Amy and I were on separate beds, no more than five feet apart, commenting on each other’s Facebook posts and finding it all quite hysterical. I don’t think that scenario could be recreated if we tried, but knowing us, we could probably go crazy with a couple of soup cans attached by a string.

The rest of this semester will be filled with local clinical adventures, a lot of exams, some volunteer opportunities, and pretending that my home finances will hold up until I get a job.

Also, I am now the official President of the Student Nurses’ Association which should lead to some interesting and unique opportunities for embarrassment due to the fact that possession of said title means that I will be forced into giving too many speeches in front of an uncomfortable amount of people. I’ve already executed a couple of oratory performances and I must say that the nervous effect it has on me is not yet reduced by the number of times I’ve done it.

From what I can tell, nursing seems to be full of challenging experiences, unlimited opportunities, and of continually being forced outside of our comfort zones. In my immediate future, I’m going to clear my head and work on bringing a smile to a hospitalized child’s face. If I accomplish that, the rest should be a walk in the park.

Sibling rites of passage

Growing up, I spent almost every school break with my mom on a cattle ranch just outside the city limits of Avon Park. My older brother, Jerry, and I wasted countless hours roaming through the pastures, climbing trees, playing with cars and riding his Shetland pony, Cricket, all over the place.

Some of our pastimes were questionable in nature, including those spent fighting, armed with anything from sand spurs to dried cow patties. All of these altercations were, of course, initiated by Jerry because I would never have thought to utilize these nefarious devices on another person without his influence.

One of our more disturbing games was “bug dungeon.” We’d turn over rotted logs and catch whatever species of insect we thought could be contained in our hand-dug dirt pit. With its rhinoceros-looking horns, our prized catch was the ox beetle. For some reason, every time we found one, my brother immediately named it “J.R.” which, I suppose, originated from the T.V. show, “Dallas.”

On one summer break when I was around 8 years old, Jerry showed me the crowned jewel of nightmarish creepy, crawling discoveries: a large population of banana spiders (a.k.a. Golden Orb Weavers) thriving in a stand of palm trees. If you’ve never had the opportunity to see one of these monstrosities, count yourself lucky.

For those with weak constitutions concerning arachnids, I’m sorry to say that their leg span surpasses that of a large person’s hand and they have the audacity to grow prickly, black hair around the joints of their appendages, like some type of hell-spun leg warmers. Their golden abdomens, speckled with white splotches, are too large for comfort while their heads have a white coating that makes it look eerily like a human skull.

The weaver’s webs are so strong, they can catch small birds. Make no mistake, if these suckers were any bigger, they’d find a way to take over the world.

Our previous attempts to trap spiders in the bug dungeon were unsuccessful, but Jerry had another, really stupid idea for the Golden Orb Weaver. He thought our tree house could use a little sprucing up and decided to transport several of these menacing spiders.

I was the containment unit and he was the catcher. My red Salvation Army shirt with my name stenciled on the back was fashioned into a make-shift pouch by folding up the bottom half to hold tightly against my body. Jerry would grab a spider and I’d snap open the pouch as he dropped it in. I could feel their spiky legs poking me in the stomach and managed to hold it together until, all of a sudden, something foreign (which I later discovered to be a loose string) brushed across my upper thigh.

My nerves sent an impulse to my brain that said, “Hey, smarty pants, one of those death spiders is crawling down your leg at this very moment!” I panicked. The pouch was flung open and, as I was hopping around screaming, I batted my arms in a downward fashion hoping to sweep away any persistent spider still clinging to me.

Jerry’s initial disappointment in me didn’t stop him from accomplishing his goal and the tree house in which we used to play soon became an obstacle of horror packed with dozens of spiders watching us with scores of beady, black eyes.

To this day, I still have nightmares about overgrown Golden Orb Weavers coming to get me. Big brother’s mission accomplished.

A new school year brings new challenges

Last week, my family returned to school. I began my last year of the nursing program, my husband is taking more classes towards his degree, my son entered the 5^th grade and my daughter started kindergarten. This makes my house officially “homework central” so please don’t come over unless you want to help fold laundry.

My husband and I exhibited good behavior in our classes, but my son and daughter had a few tricks up their sleeves that were revealed on the fourth day. It appears that most elementary teachers are generous enough to give children a 3 day “free pass” on their actions. This would explain the positive comments in both of their daily reports.

My son is a talker and I was already anticipating that this issue would be addressed before too long. He’s in the HAART program and maintains high grades, but, like his mom, he has a difficult time cutting off the chatter when he’s on a role. Fortunately, minimal time and energy was expelled in the correction of his motor mouth tendencies.

My daughter, otherwise known as the “X” factor, had her own agenda. Her daily reports are based on a color system: green means satisfactory, yellow stands for warning and red represents the implementation of a time out.

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday were all green days, but by Thursday, her cooperation level dropped and she began talking back which earned her a yellow warning. I discussed the importance of respect for one’s elders, but this had little effect because she dipped into the red zone on Friday complete with a phone call to my husband.

We decided a behavior chart would be an appropriate method of addressing both children’s issues so I picked up some cheap toys and put them in a container. Every day there are no teacher complaints, they each get to put a sticker on the chart. Once all five weekdays are filled, they get to choose a toy. Both displayed enthusiasm and excitement over this possibility and eagerly debated on which toy they’d pick first.

This week began well for both, but it would appear that 3 days is just too long to be good. While my son was busy not staying on task, my little girl was given green marks by her teacher, but in aftercare, she had an altercation with another child. Not content to resolve their problems with an adult, my daughter decided that biting was well within reason and left a mark on the other child’s arm.

I’ve never seen such an abundant flow of manufactured tears as I did from this child when I picked her up. She sobbed her way to the car and was sent to her room when we arrived home where she promptly fell asleep. Playing “Jaws” is pretty exhausting work.

When my husband got home and heard the report, he asked her to tell him what happened. Though she can’t normally contain her usual ear-blasting conversation level, she managed to whisper a barely audible translation of events that included a game of tag gone wrong and being bothered by this other child whom I have come to think of as “the victim.”

No rewards this week.

Kindergarten is a big adjustment for some kids. My own memories are hazy at best and involve finger painting and dressing as the letter “U” for parent night. I can only hope this is a phase that will pass. In the meantime, steel mesh uniforms might not be a bad idea.