wild child

Sometimes I have to hang out of moving vehicles at midnight to hear the dirt and rock kicked up by wheels, to feel wind tangle hair, to see stars and moon dancing overhead. Sometimes I have to drive fast and roll down windows and scream at the top of my lungs. Sometimes I have to listen to loud music and sometimes I need nothing but the sound of my breath escaping my lungs accompanied with the distant chirp of crickets. My nights look like running with horses, hopping fences, and "what's past that tree line?" It's sitting on a bridge with a creek raging under my bare feet.  It's falling into unseen holes in the dirt, and laughing until it hurts. It's danger and drama, not the kind that harms or tears down, but the kind that stirs life and challenges routine.

Mama, I'm sorry I climbed without stopping, and leaped without looking. Daddy, thank you for scrubbing gravel out of my road rash and for teaching me how to fight. Raising me was endless bruises, scrapes, and knotted hair. It was wild stories, imaginary friends, and vivid dreams. It was calming me when the storm raged inside, and knowing when to let me roam free. And to my love, my best friend, my partner in this dangerous life, thank you for loving me without cages, without boxes, and without clipped wings. Your love is twinkly eyes that watch as I dance, and a gentle reeling in when I've gone too far. It is laughter that penetrates walls and ignites fires in deep, dark places. It is a lightness, and yet a depth. Thank you for loving this wild child well.

for the good of the patient

Nursing is a profession rife with difficult decisions. Should I give this med? Should I call the doctor? It is both a science and an art. It requires analytical, mathematical logic as well as creativity, communication, and compassion. It takes individual initiative along with a large dose of teamwork. To do nursing well is to walk a tight rope. It's a juggling act with the most precious objects: people's lives. 


One such difficult scenario is when the nurse becomes a patient. I recently became ill with influenza and I felt this visceral war in my conscience: Do I call in sick and leave my coworkers in a bind? Do I suck it up and fulfill my obligation to work? What if I expose others- including my patients? It got to a point where it would have been impossible for me to work; I could barely lift my head off my pillow. But during those times when symptoms were just starting, or I was beginning to feel better but symptoms still lingered, that the decision to go into work or not became difficult. 

I have a duty to my coworkers and my employer. I owe it to them, and to my own integrity, to be a hardworking, reliable employee. Because of this duty, I hate calling in. I want to do my part. I know what it's like to work short-staffed. But what about my two other duties- to myself and, more importantly, to my patients? I can't be very effective as a nurse if I don't take care of myself first. And an even bigger concern, especially in cases like influenza, could I potentially do harm by caring for patients? 


While I have a duty to my employer, coworkers, and self, my biggest duty is to my patients. The Board of Nursing, which grants licenses to practice nursing and is designed to protect the public, charges nurses with the responsibility of doing what's right for the patient in all situations. Sometimes what's right for the patient isn't always what's best for me, my coworkers, or my employer. However, I took an oath to "devote myself to the welfare of those committed to my care," and while the flu may be something minor to a young, otherwise healthy person, it could be a death sentence for an elderly, immunocompromised patient. So when faced with a difficult decision in nursing, it must always come back to one question: what is best for the patient? I would rather lose the affection of my peers or lose my job than lose my nursing license, or worse, lose a patient.