Friday, 12 October 2007
Ok, So I figured I should tell you a little bit more about me. I am 30, I am a Labor and Delivery Nurse in a Level 3 facility, so we care for moms/babies as young as 24 weeks gestation! This job has changed my life, and my outlook on many many things. Watching a family long for a baby will really change your view on certain issues. I also work part time at the Maricopa County Jails, as a Psych nurse, I love Psych nursing, it is great, and it has also helped me to learn mental illness is a disease just like cancer, diabetes, and alcoholism.
I have an amazing family, my parents are still together, I have 3 sisters, one who lives 734 miles to be exact, away from us! My younger sister and I just drove to San Jose to visit her last week! It was a fun time!
I'm going to go to ASU to pursue my degree further. I would like to be a Womens Health Nurse Practitioner someday. I have a boyfriend named Brian, we have been together for only 6 months. We have ups and downs... We are very different and yet sometimes exactly the same. Sometimes we want the same thing out of life and others we want the opposite. It's hard to know where things are moment to moment.. I know that sounds negative but it's not as negative as it sounds.
I believe the intent of this Xanga will be to share about work, I have a job that has no out, no way to vent etc. and there are some days that you need to share what you can to help stabilize yourself. Below is a poem, perhaps it will give you a look into my world of nursing!
What Will You Take?
By Karen Roush, MSN, FNP, RN
By Karen Roush, MSN, FNP, RN
Will you take the newborn's cries,
the toddler giggling though tears?
All the curses thrown through
whiskeyed breath, the blood spots
on your clothes? The coffee breaks
you never took, the end-of-shift reports?
The egos and the maniacs, the stat
requests, the orders left, the monitors
going off across the room?
Will you take the husband's gesture,
reaching for her hand, when he's told
that after loving her 47 years,
his wife will never recognize him,
nor remember their children's names?
And what about the toddler
with the iron branded on his back,
its blistered rows of steam holes
weeping through the gauze?
Will you take his screams of "Mama"
when the police remove her from the room?
You must take the first Code Red,
the run through the halls,
people stepping back
to press against the walls.
The crack of ribs,
the litany
of atropine and epi,
the lungs pushing against the Ambu bag,
the heart leaping
against your hands.
And the woman with the flawless face;
you can't leave her behind. The way
she applied her makeup, perfectly,
only hours after surgery
that took both her breasts.
Don't forget the nine-month-old
with yellow skin, waiting for the liver.
Or how beautiful snow is when seen
from windows of the ICU
on Christmas Eve.
Will you take the words you found,
that first day on the floor, when the doc
pronounced-There's nothing more to do-
then promptly left the room.
Take one last look now back down that hall.
Your shift is done and others wait to take report.
the toddler giggling though tears?
All the curses thrown through
whiskeyed breath, the blood spots
on your clothes? The coffee breaks
you never took, the end-of-shift reports?
The egos and the maniacs, the stat
requests, the orders left, the monitors
going off across the room?
Will you take the husband's gesture,
reaching for her hand, when he's told
that after loving her 47 years,
his wife will never recognize him,
nor remember their children's names?
And what about the toddler
with the iron branded on his back,
its blistered rows of steam holes
weeping through the gauze?
Will you take his screams of "Mama"
when the police remove her from the room?
You must take the first Code Red,
the run through the halls,
people stepping back
to press against the walls.
The crack of ribs,
the litany
of atropine and epi,
the lungs pushing against the Ambu bag,
the heart leaping
against your hands.
And the woman with the flawless face;
you can't leave her behind. The way
she applied her makeup, perfectly,
only hours after surgery
that took both her breasts.
Don't forget the nine-month-old
with yellow skin, waiting for the liver.
Or how beautiful snow is when seen
from windows of the ICU
on Christmas Eve.
Will you take the words you found,
that first day on the floor, when the doc
pronounced-There's nothing more to do-
then promptly left the room.
Take one last look now back down that hall.
Your shift is done and others wait to take report.
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