Nursing School on Steroids – Part Three

The second semester of nursing school began much the same as the first. Most weekdays I would fight nausea with PB&J sandwiches nibbled throughout classes, and on Fridays I’d wake up at 4:30 a.m. for the long commute to training. The local hospital which I had worked at put me in an “on-call” status, so I could work whenever I wanted (which wasn’t often). I was even offered a contract that paid me $900 a month while I was in nursing school, providing I worked for them after graduation.

On the Fridays while doing nursing clinicals, I tried to avoid any heavy lifting as much as possible without anyone noticing. Otherwise, I might be asked to leave the program until next year. I had worked too hard to get this far. But let’s face it – nursing is a hands-on business. Inevitably I would be in a position where I would have to push a gurney or a wheelchair, lift someone up or roll someone over. I found weaning off steroids now was too much to handle, so I didn’t try very hard to cut back my dose. The withdrawals caused my body to ache all over anyways, and the healing shoulder made it worse. The prednisone helped in reducing the pain, but it didn’t do much for my nerves or anxiety. Fortunately, my clinical instructors seemed to understand and encouraged me with constant coaching, “You can do it; we know you can.” Even when I’d make a mistake, they would tell me to put it behind me and do better next time. They believed I could succeed.

I met so many wonderful patients in those hospital rooms. One unforgettable young lady was hospitalized for a urinary infection. She had been in a car accident several years earlier which completely paralyzed her, making her a quadriplegic for life. On the table beside her were several statues of little angels. Her favorite, she said, was called a Hope Angel. It symbolized hope and strength, and a reason to keep fighting. So while diligently taking care her, I banged into the table with the statues on it. I heard a crash. The only angel to hit the hard tile floor was her favorite Hope Angel – now with a shattered head.

We both just stared at the floor. Did I really just destroy a sick quadriplegic woman’s symbol of hope, or was this just a really bad dream? She told me it was okay; that she liked me and she didn’t want me to worry about it. But I think she just said that to keep me from crying. I probably had just done one of the lowest things a nursing student could possibly do.

It was probably against hospital and school policies (I didn’t try to find out), but I took her address with the intent of somehow finding a replacement. So I did – on eBay. Believe it or not, there is such a thing as a Hope Angel, and they all look alike (pretty much). I bought one that I looked like the one that I had decapitated, and drove a million miles on a dirt road into the desert one day to find her home. Her mother greeted me at the door, but seemed very suspicious of the reason for my visit. I was escorted to the bedroom, where my patient laid surrounded by cats. She said she couldn’t remember the last time someone had driven out to see her, and we spent a lovely hour together. The frail little person told me of the life she once had as a healthy, happy teenager, and how it abruptly changed not so long ago. It made my own aches and pains seem pretty insignificant.

Back at school, the semester was coming to a close and those of us who traveled on Fridays were told there were some extra openings at the nearby hospital, and we wouldn’t have to continue the long drive anymore. About three of us thought it would be a great idea not to commute – we would actually be able to sleep late – to 5:30 a.m.!

The thought of leaving a place with great memories and excellent clinical instructors was a sad one. They had convinced me that I could succeed, and had taught me so much. But I thought I’d do the sensible thing and accept the offer to transfer close to home. This was a decision I would soon regret.

There was a ceremony at school to celebrate completion of our first year of nursing school. It was held at the auditorium, and each one of the nursing students was called up to the stage and given a first-year pin. We all invited our families to watch the big ceremony. My daughter and husband were there to cheer me on. They were so happy for me. My dream of graduating from college and becoming a nurse was only a year away. But first, while all my friends would be working at hospitals all summer, I would have to get through another shoulder surgery.
Cheers!
TPP