Wow. Is it me, or does it seem like just yesterday we were doing that?

I have vague memories of that day. I remember crossing paths with Becky in the bathroom, trying on the drawstring pants, which looked a darn sight better than the elasti-band pants from Landau. I remember some grumpy lady telling us during the orientation session that we’d better quit our day jobs, and my sister telling me not to freak out. I remember failing the math challenge because I failed to follow the directions.

Then there’s the first day of class. Remember, Melanie told us how we’d become friends, and study together, and help each other in clinical?

She was right. I don’t know how I would have made it through without those of you I am privileged to call my friends. And one thing I realized today: I have learned as much from each of you as I have from the nurses in the hospital and our instructors. Here’s just a sampling—and remember, even if you’re not listed here, I’ve learned something from you.

I have learned from Jenn that it is possible to read a doctor’s handwriting. I have learned from Sara, Deb, and Kim that having had a critically ill child makes you more compassionate and more appreciative of life’s little moments. I have learned from Jami that it’s possible to have a positive attitude in the face of your mother’s life-threatening illness. I learned from Carol that you can exhibit grace, peace, and great sorrow—all at the same time—when you lose a parent. I have learned from Judi and Marilyn that there is much to be said for keeping your mouth shut and listening (notice I said “learned”; I still can’t do it). I have learned from Andy that the quietest people often say the funniest things when they do talk. I learned from Becky the importance of focusing when I’m studying, and really being with my family when I’m not. (Oh, and she had good potty-training tips, too.)

I learned from everyone that we are all different but special (in a good way). I learned we all have widely varying nursing interests—and that that’s a very good thing. I learned never to underestimate someone with a goal and determination—no matter what that person’s background and talents. I learned that we are all smart, compassionate, beautiful, and strong.

Thanks for the lessons, everyone…I hope I continue to remember them as we go our separate ways.

Carry on, Angels—as registered nurses.

Then I read this entry from my sister’s LiveJournal. My sister, an RN for more than a decade, has spent the last two weeks in Haiti, where she has helped out a friend’s clinic and gone out with a truck into Port Au Prince to help the wounded. She speaks the language fluently, so she is able to really listen to the stories they tell. Today’s entry broke my heart. 

I am truly blessed. And what a gift it is to be a nurse — to lend a hand and alleviate suffering in a very real way!

It’s easy to lose sight of why we chose this path in the first place.

I’ve had the opportunity, especially in the last few months, to be reimnded of my own reasons for choosing to be an RN, and the conclusion I’ve come to is that nursing is a gift we give not only our patients, but ourselves, too.

In May of 1980, my dad, then almost 61, was diagnosed with lung cancer. I was just shy of 14 and at the end of eighth grade, suffering from all the insecurities and frustrations most early teen girls struggle with. As a teenager, I imagine I had little sense of my dad’s (and my own) mortality. For me, the ensuing nine months were painful more for the front-row seat I had for my dad’s rapid and inevitable decline. His initial surgery—and my subsequent visit to the ICU following it—was traumatic enough. Going with him to radiation treatments (which, back then, seemed to fit better in Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory than in a hospital), watching him suffer with wrenching nausea and vomiting after his cancer metastasized to his liver and he began chemotherapy, and finding him moving furniture up the staircase in the early morning in the midst of a sepsis-induced hallucination—all these things left me feeling incredibly helpless. His final decline was marked by several hospitalizations and discharges. He spent his last week at home, a shadow of his former self, unable to read or write—but died in the hospital when pneumonia and respiratory failure finally claimed him.

My dad’s death left me frightened of hospitals and vowing to avoid them at all costs.

Fast forward to December 2009, as I visited my ex-husband’s father at his home. My 17-year-old once described this man as “The person on earth who’s the most like Jesus,” and he was right. “Dad” was what I called him, long after my relationship with his son dissolved in ruins. And he always introduced me as his daughter, long after the divorce. And, for all intents and purposes, he was my father—much longer than my own dad had had a chance to be. Ironic might not be the right word, but my second Dad was now facing his own mortality after a 3.5-year struggle with glioblastoma, a rare but lethal brain tumor. He fought the good fight, and was granted good quality of life, but by the time I saw him last on December 11, he was tired, struggling to eat, and minimally aware of his surroundings. I was privileged, that night, to be able to participate in Dad’s care in a way I wouldn’t have been able to prior to going to school. Nothing I did was particularly skilled—it was simple ADLs—but I wasn’t scared, and I wasn’t sad. And, as my ex-sister and mother-in-law and I tucked blankets around him, I leaned down and told him I loved him. For a moment, he seemed to be present again, and said, in his characteristic fashion, “Love you, Beth.”

 A week later, he was gone, passing away peacefully at home with his wife and daughter by his side. His last words? “Love you.”

I know that if it hadn’t been for nursing school, I would not have been as present as I would have liked to be for Dad. While I didn’t contribute much to his care, I was able to be with him—and, in a way, provide him the things I would have liked to give my own Dad. Truly, a gift for me—one I hope I will be able to share with others.

 What has nursing given you?

 When the days drag, your eyelids are drooping, your day job’s got you down, and you swear to GOD you can’t come up with another nursing diagnosis for your concept map, take a moment to breathe. Breathe, and then think about all the people who have made this journey a bit more tolerable—and, in some cases, more joyful. Make a mental note to appreciate them a little bit more.

Forget the occasional jaded nurse who sits behind the nurses’ station and never really gives you any input on the care you’re giving the patient. Think, instead, about that RN you’re always delighted to be assigned to—you know, the one who makes sure you’re included in report, makes sure you watch everything she does with the patient, and, in general, reassures you that someday, you, too, will be this comfortable and confident in a clinical setting.

Then, resolve to, as they say, “pay it forward.” When you, too, have finally earned the letters “RN” after your name (and that day will come sooner than you think), and an eager-but-nervous student nurse introduces him/herself and says “I’m assigned to your patient today,” take a moment to remember the nurses who helped you along the way. Then breathe and take that nervous student with you into the patient’s room.

And make the next person’s journey a little bit easier.

I dumped everything on the couch when I got home and sat down with a glass of wine (The number one cause of cirrhosis, it turns out, is nursing school!). I started leafing through this month’s issue of Nursing 2009, and I read a feature (“Listen to your patients’ stories”) that reminded me of one of the most important nursing skills–and it’s one all of us have and many of us are very proficient in: listening. It was filled with touching stories of nurses listening to patients’ stories. Here’s an excerpt:
There’s a growing interest in encouraging nurses to not only collect facts about patients but to listen to the stories patients are telling. Nurses are in a privileged place because, as trusted members of the healthcare team, we hear the stories of patients at their most vulnerable and have the opportunity to help them to learn, grow, or even experience a peaceful death. Listening to the stories of patients enables a deeper, richer understanding and more effective intervention.

It reminded me that while I still may be struggling with the academic concepts and the clinical skills, I came into nursing school with one of the most important. So when you’re having a bad day at clinical, or the Webstudy grade tab just isn’t your friend, try sitting down with your patient and listening to their stories.

P.S. I have a PDF of the article. If you’d like to read it, let me know and I can e-mail it to you, or you can find it on Ovid!

Yesterday on the way to work, I popped All That You Can’t Leave Behind into my car CD player. I have more recent U2 CDs in my car, but this one just caught my eye. First track on the album: Beautiful Day, which is has great, bright piano music as an intro and simple lyrics–obviously the words “beautiful day” come up over and over. Listening to it took me back to the time when the album came out, in the fall of 2000. I was a newly single mom dealing with a verbally abusive ex and a lovable but completely immature folk singer boyfriend. On good days, I was great, but on low days, I felt as if I couldn’t crawl out of bed. And yet, I remember distinctly one morning listening to that very track: the morning several friends and I were preparing to run the Philadelphia Marathon. Despite the fact that it was still dark out and we were all facing our own individual struggles, the music revved us up and put a smile on our face.

I thought back to the obstacles I was facing then, and how they seemed insurmountable at the time, and yet I still found beautiful days of immeasurable happiness–and, moreover, I survived with the love and support of those around me.

So today, when you feel like nursing school is one big uphill slog, think about those moments that make each day beautiful, and think about the time you will look back at this struggle and smile, for you survived it surrounded by people who want to see you succeed!

Happy Friday, Angels!

I’ve realized that when it comes to my family, it’s not the quantity of time I spend with them (especially the teenagers, who sometimes do little more than spare me a grunt or two), but rather the quality and consistency, that counts. In other words: tradition (cue Fiddler on the Roof music here). Something you do regularly, that your family enjoys, and can count on. It doesn’t have to be a long something, but you do have to do it consistently.

Because I’m from the Midwest, my traditions have always centered around food (which you could probably surmise by looking at me). I’ve long since ceded dinnertimes to my husband (he’s better at it and he’s there more often), but my kids (big and little) have some definite breakfast favorites that are easy and tasty. All three of them can participate in the making of them in some way,  and they all freeze or refrigerate well. Best of all, the time we spend making and eating them is time spent together, and it often involves messes and laughter–welcome stress relief.

I’ve included two recipes here, as well as a link to another that I love. But maybe food’s not your thing, and that’s OK. Just find your own tradition–and enjoy those precious moments, Angels!

Pumpkin pancakes

Found this recipe on allrecipes.com when I was trying to use up leftover pumpkin from a pie. They taste like fall and Thanksgiving. Mmmm.

Sausage swirls

My youngest can’t say “sausage swirls”; instead he says “snausage squirrels,” but however you say it, they’re yummy. Got this out of a Christmas cookbook from a famous cook who lives in Savannah.

1 pound sausage (bulk stuff – like Bob Evans)
2 regular cans Crescent roll dough

Cut sausage into 8 pieces. Separate dough into rectangles (you’ll get four from each can, eight total); seal rectangles with fingers. Spread one piece of sausage on each rectangle. Roll up from short end. Chill rollups for half hour or so. Cut each rollup into 4 pieces (you’ll have 32 total).

Bake at 375 for 18 – 20 minutes on a well-sprayed/greased cookie sheet.

My mom’s bran muffins

Yeah, I hear ya already. “Ewwww, bran muffins.” Really, they’re good. Even the three-year-old likes them. Best of all, it makes a HUGE batch that keeps in the freezer for up to five weeks, which means you can make only as many as you need at a time. Nothing beats hot muffins on a cold morning!

7 cups raisin bran cereal
5 cups flour
3 cups sugar
5 teaspoons baking soda
2 teaspoons salt

Miax dry ingredients in a large bowl (leave room; it’ll expand as it sits). To this mixture, add:

1 cup vegetable oil
4 well-beaten eggs
1 quart buttermilk

Mix well. Store covered in fridge. Do not restir. Bake at 400 degrees for 20 minutes in greased muffin tins.

We made it through the first weekend! One more courageous step closer to May 18th!