Sometimes, I hate work.
It's hard to wake up early and get home late. To never see daylight on those days. To deal with confused old people or people that can't do anything for themselves that also happen to be on isolation. Being on isolation means we gown and glove up before going in the room. To make that person feel like a living biohazard. And also to bring out the color of my eyes. I struggle with the barrage of foul language that assaults my ears, the rude doctors, and that always, always present feeling of having more to do than my merely mortal body can accomplish. It nags at me like a sticker in my sock that I can't find to pull out.
I'll admit, after work one day this week, I confessed to Isaac that I don't think I can do this job anymore. We talked about options.
And then I went back. And I had, yes, a needy old lady on isolation. And in another room, a confused old lady who swore at me and told me to leave. I started dreaming about a long-overdue career change. And then, moments later, she apologized profusely and begged my forgiveness. I gave it. And my other patient said, "I'm so glad you were my nurse today. You made this day so much better." And I took my third patient for a walk in her leopard-print slippers and listened to stories about her grandchildren.
She was adorable.
My career change is back on hold.
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