the joy of being a nurse

This week is Nurse’s week. It is always celebrated around the May 12 birthday of Florence Nightingale, the founder of modern nursing.  Ms Nightingale would have been a remarkable person in any epoch, but the fact is she grew up in an age when females were rarely educated in anything other than domestic arts: needlework, arranging flowers, and genteel conversation. Fortunately for the world, her father believed girls should know as much as men, and taught all his daughters himself.

Although a brilliant organizer and nurse, Florence also excelled in mathmathics. She initiated the pie charts we see today, so that the men she dealt with could comprehend her medical stats. Thanks in large part to this remarkable woman, nursing is today a respected profession, and a trusted one.  In the beginning, nurses came from the lowest strata of society, had little or no training, and were often outcasts. Only these women would venture into the slumpots of England or the battlefields of war to tend the sick and wounded. Certainly no ladies of culture would deign to actually, gasp, touch the great unwashed of society. Today, nursing is a profession even a debutante would not disdain.

I’m proud to be a nurse. At the same time, I’m humbled to be one. If my patients have considered my skills a gift to them, I have long known that being a nurse is God’s gift to me. It has given back much more than I ever dreamed. Besides the ability to support my family, being a nurse has made me feel useful, needed, and valuable. At times, I’ve even had the privilege of making a difference in someone’s life. Supreme  joy!

Nurses have a saying–”nurses make the worst patients”.  Let me say this about that. If we, who are, or were once nurses, fight your kind ministrations of mercy when we need you, forgive us, please. We were used to giving care, not needing it. In the line of duty, we got used to neglecting sleep, food, and bathroom breaks, pushing through the pain of our aching joints, and working crazy hours. So when we find ourselves on the other side of the bed, being cared for instead of doing the caring, we may not handle it with a lot of grace. 

So before advancing age puts me in the bed, I want to say this to nurses everywhere, and very particularly to my friends who are nurses–you know who you are. Whether you work in a hospital, out in the community, or simply tend to your family’s nursing needs, you are invaluable, irreplaceable, and loved.

I salute you.

Reflections

Recently, I received a certificate of achievement. It recognized my 40 years in the profession of nursing. Aside from making me face my true age, it inspired me to reflect on the past, and how life has changed over those years. In those long-ago days, girls had fewer career options: teacher, nurse, or secretary. I toyed with being a nun, but not being Catholic eliminated that option. Hermit was not a career, so I opted for a career as a nurse.

It seemed a natural choice. As a child, when the kids on the block were playing cops-and-robbers, or the more politically incorrect cowboys-and-Indians, I played the nurse who patched up all the casualties. Didn’t matter which side the wounded were on, I tended them all. After I read the biography of Florence Nightingale, I would imagine myself on a battlefield, carrying a lamp, walking amongst the rows of bloodied and beaten soldiers. Having no medical knowledge, my imagination stumbled at that juncture. All I could do was offer a word of comfort, a cool hand on a fevered brow, or a clean bandage around a wounded limb. (Band-aid on a cut.) I had no idea how I’d get from A to Z, but I expected I would.  So, I studied and apprenticed, and after three grueling years of hospital training, I received a school pin, a cap, and a diploma. Forty years ago.

Things were different back then. Way different.

At the beginning of my nursing career, Viet Nam was the war du jour  and a thorny issue; Canada was filling up with American draft dodgers. Pierre Elliot Trudeau was at the height of his popularity; a friend of mine wrote a satirical song about him, recorded it and signed a copy for me. It should have been a big hit, but, sadly, was not.  I’m thinking it might be now, in retrospect of Trudeau’s effect on Canada.  In Quebec, when I started working as a nurse, it was okay to speak English; the measure of a man was in inches, not centimetres, and bakers used cups, ounces and pounds, not mms, and ccs and gms. Only medical people, scientists, and Europeans knew the metric system.

In the US, Kennedy’s assassination was still being hotly debated; was it a conspiracy, or a lone gunman? And now, the second Kennedy brother had been shot down. Would a third risk his neck to run for president? Not likely. And he didn’t, did he?

Civil rights had become the latest social wrong that needed to be addressed. Hippies, the drug culture, free love were the horrors of the day. Some things change, some things stay the same. Gay marriage wasn’t even a blip on the horizon yet. In fact, the word, gay still meant happy. There was no connotation to it whatsoever. Imagine that!

Handheld computers that spoke to you (think, iphones) were the stuff of science fiction; Star Trek, to be exact, the original series. Back then, computers were huge machines that filled an entire room, used only by huge corporations or the military. Blinking lights, whirring sounds, and assorted bleeps and whistles sounded off before the machine spit out a single sheet of information. I know, incredible. TVs were analog; bulky, and round.  VCRS and DVDS hadn’t been thought of forty years ago, let alone invented. If we missed a show, we missed it. No second chances back then. Yes, I lived through those hard times.

As for medicine, like any other field, it has evolved by leaps and bounds. We’ve made huge strides away from the early days of my training and archaic medical practice. At times, though, much like fashions, medical trends have come and gone, only to end up back at the starting gate. But that’s life. We start off young and eager. We end up……wait, no, that can’t be right…

Hmmm, I think I’ll start over and be a writer this time, how’s that?

Writers: nature or nurture?

I’ve started a new story. Brand. New. For me, this is the hardest part of writing—thinking of a what if, expanding it to a framework, and filling it all in. I must get to know new characters, flesh them out, and give them all different personalities, foibles, flaws, and personal crises.

This is creation of a human sort. Bringing into being a stage full of people I’ve never met before, giving them life. Designing scenes, costumes, set dressing, and props. I am the writer, producer, and director. Not the star, of course, but there are elements of my personality scattered amongst the players. There are elements of everyone and every situation I’ve ever been involved with or heard of throughout my life. You could say that I filter through on every page.  

But does all that make me a writer?

Stephen King believes one cannot learn to be a writer. You are born one, or not. You can acquire certain writing skills, but you cannot learn to be a writer. If that is so, how can you tell if you have that inborn ability, or whether you are simply very skilled at wordage? Does the latter mean you’re a fraud?

Where am I on that scale of measurement?  I love to write. Is that enough? Would Stephen King say I have the raw material with which to add skills, or would he tell me to call it quits right now? (Actually, If SK spoke to me for any reason whatsoever, I probably wouldn’t even hear what he said. I’d be too excited!) But really, who is in a position to determine it? If the proof is in the pudding, then I’d venture to say that  a writer is one who writes.

When I read that Mr. King gave Stephanie Meyer, creator of the Twilight saga a definite thumbs down, comparing her most unfavorably to J.K. Rowling, I felt a jab in my own writer’s gut.  Words like that could crush me–I might never put another word on paper ever again. (I suppose for Ms Meyer, though, the great success of her books and movies helped cushion the blow of that critique.)

But it was more than the cutting remarks about Ms. Meyer that hurt me.

Obviously, the more well-known an author becomes, the greater the chance of hearing harsh criticism. Naively, I see writers as a community of like-minded individuals, wanting the best for each member of the pack. So, it hurts to think one best selling author would turn on one of its own kind. Aren’t there enough critics around who are paid to write pithy remarks hurtful enough to tear the heart out of a writer? Must we do it to each other?

I believe writing a best selling book that is turned into a hit movie with a rabid fan base is a noteworthy achievement, indicative, surely, that one is a writer. But I also doff my chapeau to all  writers (published or not) who slave over each word to pull out of their very souls the next story that wants to be told. Please don’t give up.

You may be the next best selling author of your dreams.

Writer Envy

Is it just me, or am I the only writer that suffers from writer envy?  Am I the only one who thinks that every other writer’s work is better than mine?  Am I all by myself, feeling like, well, like rice pudding in a world of tiramisu? 

While I’m being candid, let me make one more appalling confession. 

I don’t like to read much.  Writers are supposed to read voraciously, so that’s tantamount to being a lawyer who doesn’t like to talk much.

It’s not that I read nothing, but I prefer non-fiction, preferably theological tomes.  In my misspent youth, I devoured romances, sometimes reading two Harlequins a day. Later, married with children, I had little time to read. I’d like to think I was living my own Harlequin romance with my own studly hero. Yes, I’d very much like to think that.

But time constraints no longer exist, so neither does that excuse. The sad truth is that as soon as I read one page, perhaps only one sentence of a book, I instantly realize it’s far superior to anything I’ll ever create. Doubt sets in; discouragement and despair quickly follow. (See my blog about The Eternal Pessimist to see where this usually ends up.) 

 Yet somehow, despite my neurotic insecurity, despite this crippling lack of self-confidence, I continue to write. Which mystifies me. I keep trying to think of a great idea that will become the next Gone With the Wind, or To Kill a Mockingbird. (There’s nothing insecure about my dreams!)

But where do those great ideas come from? That has to be the most frequent question a writer is asked.  And I’d really like to know the answer.  I know of one Avalon author who has written over 50 books. Fifty books! She publishes about 3 or 4 a year!  I’ve written four. Over the course of 20 years.  And the first was a memoir, which, according to a famous author of literary mysteries, is not worth counting. 

“Anyone can write a memoir,” she once said.  I’m not so sure that’s entirely true, but I see her point.  A memoir is your own life story. The plot, the characters, the story is already there. You don’t have to build it line by excrutiating line, pull it together out of bits and pieces, and labor over plot points, character intricacies, and black moments. You just have to write it down. 

At any rate, I figure that if Im going to write 50 books in my lifetime, I’ll either have to write faster, or live another 329 years. 

Excuse me, I have another 5,000 words to write before supper.

The eternal pessimist

You might not know this about me, but I am your basic pessimist.  In fact someone who knew me very well once told me I was the most negative person he’d ever met. Ouch. Unfortunately, even allowing that his outlook was pretty bleak at the time, he probably wasn’t far off. The fact is, I do tend to see the glass half empty. In fact, since the glass is half empty anyway, let’s just round it off to ‘empty’ and be done with it.

Your basic, doom-and-gloom Eeyorian pessimist, that’s me. (There’s a reason I gravitated towards a doomsday cult in the seventies, and that people are always giving me stuffed Eeyores.)

But, you know what? I’m turning over a new leaf. Not so far that you’ll hear me rhapsodizing over spilt milk or anything, but I’m going to have more gratitude attitude, not the usual, I-should have-known-it-would-turn-out-this-way- It-always-does, mind-set.

Always and never. The pessimist’s two favorite words. From now on they will come out of my mouth only when I’m talking about God. (As in, God never changes, and God always knows what you’re up to.) I’m going to stop looking at life through the always-never filter.

For example, I’ve been known to say, “Oh, Max, you’re always barking.” But is he, really? Of course not. Just because he rouses from a sound sleep to bark furiously at me when I get up from my chair to get a snack, is no reason to say the A-word. He’s no doubt thinking of my waistline, clever dog. Whatever. The fact is, it’s just not true that he always barks. It just feels like it.

And what about when I say I never win the lottery?  That’s not true, either. I don’t always buy a ticket. How many times might the ticket I didn’t purchase win? I’ll never know.

At any rate, to counteract my pessimistic outlook, I’ve decided my watchword for this year will be gratitude. When Max barks ferociously at the slightest sound, instead of complaining, I’ll be thankful I have an early warning system that is warm and furry, and likes to curl up with me on my lazy boy.  When my lottery ticket comes up a loser, I’ll be grateful that I had enough money to waste on a ticket. (I don’t really, but there it is.)   

Yessir, from now on, whenever possible, I’m going to turn the rainy days into sunshine and lollipops. What’s the harm in that?

Unless it’s freezing rain. Then all bets are off.

I Will Remember

A nursing colleague of mine died recently.

Sue was one of those rare gems that radiates all that is bright and beautiful about the human spirit. I didn’t know her as long as some, but she left her mark on me, and on anyone lucky enough to come within the sound of her voice.  She gave her patients nothing but her best.  She worked extra shifts without complaint, never made a fellow staff member feel small so she could feel better, encouraged anyone she saw who needed a hand up, and she had a quality I most admire in people–she never gossiped about others.  She was free with her compliments, but stingy when it came to allowing negativity to thrive in her vicinity. She always looked for, and brought out the best in those around her.  For her, a good joke was as good as a hug, and she was always ready for either one, preferably both.  I will remember, Sue.

This outstanding nurse, loving mother, and about-to-be grandmother will be sorely missed.  Sue brought the sunshine with her to work every day, refused to allow the muttering and grumblings of fellow nurses to bring her down. She put me to shame. By example, she taught me that cheerfulness, a smile, and a kind word have more influence than anger and harsh criticism.  I will remember, Sue.

Cancer took her too soon. Not content with losing a major battle with her several years ago, it returned, this time bringing with it too many friends to make this one a fair fight. Within months, Sue was gone. Like a candle in a strong wind, her light went out, suddenly and without mercy.

I don’t believe this life is all there is. I believe in life after death; not just in the idea that Sue lives on in our hearts, although she does.  But I believe that this physical body is simply an outer covering for our souls, our spirits, that never die. And I believe in a God who made us,  loves us, and who is merciful and just. Into his hands I commend my dear friend, Sue. 

I will always remember you.

Out with the Old, In with the New, sort of…

      Recently, I upgraded my old flip phone to a smart phone. I’m not sure why, exactly. It was perhaps a little impulsive.  I never thought  much about my old cell phone. It served few purposes, but came in handy to locate my sister if we got separated at the mall. Hardly worth the monthly fee, but there it was.  I also used it if my car was in the shop for a tune-up, and the mechanic had to let me know when the car was ready–although too often he would call only to tell me how much more work it needed.  (Highway robbery, if you ask me, but don’t get me started…)  In short, I used the phone so seldom that I didn’t even know my own number. It functioned strictly on a need-to-use basis.      

      Why then, you ask, did I bother even upgrading to a more complicated gadget? Good question.  I could answer that it was time for me to come into the 21st century.  (Thanks, but I’m happily ensconced in the 19th). I could  plead to wanting to keep up with the Joneses. (I’m already three generations of technology behind. There’s no way I’ll ever catch up).  But the real answer is that I felt left out.

        To illustrate, I must go back and tell the tale of how I almost started smoking. During my nurses’ training (in the middle ages), cigarette smoking was still socially accepted, even, gasp, in a hospital. It was allowed anywhere and everywhere in the building,  except where big signs read, OXYGEN IN USE.  NO SMOKING.  Imagine that!  At any rate, I was doing a month’s rotation in Psychiatry, and every morning, the staff would have a meeting.  The door would close to seal us all in the small report room, and then without fail, everybody would light up. With one exception. Me.  A haze of smoke, like warm, woodsy fog, enveloped us.  Day after day, the scene would be repeated. I began to feel an almost irrestible urge to bum a cigarette off the nurse next to me.  Just so I wouldn’t be, sigh, left out. Fortunately, my native shyness stopped me. To this day I count myself lucky to have emerged from Psychiatry smoke-free.  

      Which brings me back to the phone, and my rationale for getting one. The thing is, everywhere you go nowadays, people are using their smart phones. In the malls, waiting rooms, cars, theatres.  Even in the hospital cafeteria, as soon as meals are eaten, out come the phones. Nimble fingers text messages back and forth, or slide over the large viewscreens, seeing wonderous marvels on magical apps.  To me, it’s the smoky Psychiatry report room all over again. The siren call is unmistakable;  everybody’s doing it. Go ahead, don’t be left out.   

       What can I say? I succumbed. Just before Christmas, the longing in my heart could no longer be denied. I bought my own smart phone. I walked around quietly ecstatic, smiling every time I thought of it. My daughters chuckled as they watched me fumble with it, wondering if I’d ever get the hang of it.  Yet, surprisingly, after a few days, I logged almost 400 texts, downloaded three whole apps (before I lost my nerve and deleted one), took 23 pictures, and changed the wall paper back and forth before finally settling on the original. 

     Then, gradually, like coming out of a fog, my phone fever broke.  I simply turned the thing off and put it in my purse, where it stays until activated for duty, or for the day my car goes in for a tune-up.  

       My sister just chuckles, as she sits there playing with her new iPad.  Really.  What, exactly, does she find so fascinating about that silly gadget? Yet, it seems to keep her enthralled for hours. You see them everywhere nowadays, the malls, waiting rooms…I’m feeling a little left out.  Hmmm…