My job

It's 7pm and my tired eyes already want to close until morning. The only thing keeping them open is the fact that Brooke is dropping off Angie here later and I just can't miss the opportunity to see those lovelies. So, I write to help the weight feel not as heavy.

I noticed yesterday that I don't ever write about my job. I'm not sure why, because that has been my life this summer. Besides being an RA, bridesmaid, and making a trip to New Orleans, it's all I've done.

It has come with it's fair share of adventures, shaky hands, racing heart, and deer-in-the-headlight looks. I can't believe I've neglected to document them.

This week's work schedule has sucked me dry.

I wake up in the morning with red eyes and messy, knotted hair that I wet in the sink just to make it not stand up in ways hair shouldn't stand, and wish I could crawl back into my warm cozy jersey knit sheets.

I usually think while I'm brushing my teeth "You can do this...coffee will be ready in 2 minutes...you can do this...farmers and surfers wake up at 4am....you can do this...." Self talk. Gets me through.

I get to the hospital around 7am. There are already about 7 or 8 dedicated smoking veterans sitting in front telling the same stories they tell every day. I'll stop and chat if I'm not running late. Oh, but if I don't then I'm sure to get a "HEY!!! DOES THIS MEAN YOU'RE NOT MY GIRLFRIEND ANYMORE?!" I turn around, smile and shake my head no. A reaction that is very common and very necessary throughout the day.

After an expected awkward interaction with someone in the elevator I make it to the 5th floor and find out my assignment.

There is piece of paper with my name and my coworkers names on it that tells us where to go. The paper sometimes tells me to go work on a certain floor, or it tells me that I am assigned to a "one to one" which just means I have to sit with a specific patient for the entire shift, never taking my eyes off them. A patient can be put on this for various reasons: they are a psychiatric patient, suicidal, homicidal, or have severe dementia.

Each assignment is equally challenging in it's own ways. Working the floor means nonstop motion, two days ago I worked on the floor and I only sat down once in 9 hours, for my 30 minute lunch break. A 1:1 means a lot of sitting and patience.

Last night I got transfered to a 1:1 after already working most of my shift in the ER. It was my first suicidal 1:1. It shook me up.

The man had a sweet, kind, soft spoken spirit. We chatted about politics briefly, talked about his dog, how he liked gin, and other odd things. Then I had to listen to his heart and lungs for his admission assessment. I told him "I'm going to listen to your heart and lungs" and put the stethoscope over his heart. He asked "where is my heart?" I said "right here, where I am listening". He told me he thought his heart was down further, kind of in his abdomen. I said no and clinched my fist placing it on his chest showing him the approximate size of his heart, and where it is in his body. He joked about how small my hands are and how he hopes his heart isn't that small. I finished the assessment and sat down. He started dozing off so I started reading a little of "A Lamp Unto my Feet" by Elisabeth Elliot (which is wonderful, by the way). He groaned a little so I looked up at him. He opened his eyes slowly, and stared blankly at me for a few seconds then said "I'm glad you told me where my heart is, because I would have missed. Now I know where to shoot."

My heart sank.

I swallowed down the huge lump in my throat and said "Mr. ____ , please don't say that. Neither I or anyone else wants you to hurt yourself." he replied "I don't want to hurt myself...I want to kill myself." I frankly said "It will hurt. Not only you, but your family, your wife, your kids. So many people are affected by your choices." He said that he has thought about that but just doesn't think he can deal with the pain of living for however long he is meant to live.

He was suffering with serious depression (obviously). He couldn't sleep. He was plagued with nightmares every time he closed his eyes, unless he got drunk. He saw death as his only way of escape.

He cried as he told me about it.

I held back tears and just stared at him.

No words came out.

For the first time at work, time went too quickly. Before I could say what I wanted to say, what I felt like I needed to say, the next nurse was coming into the room to relieve me.

If I could go back there I would tell him that he is valuable and loved.

I'm not sure what else I would tell him. I'm not sure that there is much more to say in moments like those.

All of a sudden my mornings don't seem so hard.