the finish line

For all the nursing graduates, the speech I gave at pinning:

The past two years have been a journey for us all. We embarked on nursing school wide eyed and naïve, unaware of how to use a stethoscope, a blood pressure cuff or where to find a pulse. We hung bags of kool-aid and we spoke to dummies, we learned medical terminology, medications and diagnoses as if we were learning a second language, phonetically sounding out words you may hear at the world champion spelling bee. We saw and did things in clinical that would make you blush, we were able to achieve level of comfort and familiarity with the human body that we never thought imaginable. We complained about the work-load, the expensive books, the demands of our professors, and the clinical hours. We cried when we felt exhausted and defeated by yet another seemingly impossible exam for which we studied tirelessly. We took multiple-choice tests until we were cross-eyed, barely able to bubble in our own names, and we were as surprised at our successes as we were discouraged by our failures. We began holding ourselves and one another, to a higher standard. Like an infant learning to walk, we stumbled, we fell and we got back up again, resiliently, until we finally learned to put one foot in front of the other. With that momentum, we became nurses at last. Unlike Disney movies, this transformation did not involve a fairy godmother or a magical wand, it did not happen overnight or while we were sleeping, it was far more linear that – nor was it as easy. Like an equation, the addition and multiplication of long hours, dedication, and integrity yielded this accomplishment. At times we of course silently wondered if we would arrive at the finish line, on time or at all – but we did and here we are.

Reflecting on these years, the ups and the downs, the laughter and the tears, there is no doubt that we have all grown. The challenges we have faced and the experiences we have had will forever remain a part of us. There will come a time when we meet a wide-eyed and naïve nursing student who will remind of us of ourselves, completely and utterly clueless. First we will hang our heads in pitty, thanking God we are no longer standing on a hospital floor looking like a deer in headlights. Then, a wave of nostalgia will set over us and as promised to all of our instructors, we will smile at that student and remember, maybe not so fondly, the challenges that they may face.

Thanks to the diligence and discipline of our committed professors, we have covered a substantial amount of material during these two years. We have learned pharmacology, Pathophysiology, health assessments and interventions. We have learned patience in understanding that humans are complicated and complex. We have learned how to care for them. We have also learned through experience and theory, that health care is an evolutionary field, constantly evolving to meet the demands of a growing and diverse population. Our greatest accomplishments have stemmed from our own evolution, and as this experience has taught us, change is good. We thought the shoes were too big to fill, the books were too long to read and the information was too dense to compute, and yet, true to the character of nursing, we have adapted. We quickly learned that learning was a skill that required fine tuning and we did just that. I am confident that, as a part of the solution and advancement of nursing, we will continue to educate our patients, ourselves and one another. For anyone concerned about the future of health care, about the integrity of the nursing profession, the graduates in this room should ease those fears. We have and will continue to be challenged and tested, and we will succeed, together. And ironically, what we believed to be the finish line, the sum of equations, the light at the end of the very long tunnel, in fact is not a finish line at all, because really this is only the beginning.

dear running,

you are there for me when I need you most. you are the outlet for unbearable grievances, unforeseen life changes, and I love you most because you always take me back after a lengthy hiatus. you comfort me even during the challenging last mile, during the steep climb, the unbearable heat, the drenching sweat. you remind me what pain really is, and you make my breaking heart hurt less. you give me the time, space, and meditation I need to uncover myself. you let me reconnect with the ground below me. you give me the miles and minutes to think, to clarify. you are cathartic. you give me the energy to get through a sluggish day. you make me focus on each step, purposeful. you taught me to wait it out, give it time, to run through the cramps, the spasms, the pain. you taught me that the only road blocks are the ones I create. you make my butt tight, so thank you. you taught me to keep going even though I want nothing more than to stop. you don't take my excuses, you challenge, push, pull, drag, and motivate me, even when my ability is in question. you force me to recognize my strength even when I feel I have none. you fill my lungs with air, and give me life. you teach me, through each passing minute and mile to just breathe.

babes

While I should be burried beneath my review books, I just wanted to take a second and post this incredible National Geographic photograph.



Caption of photo: An injured child receives medical treatment after the Haiti earthquake in Port-au-Prince on January 13, 2010. Elsewhere in Port-au-Prince, a pediatric nurse working in an orphanage described trying to save children during the Haiti earthquake. "Objects were falling from shelves, there was debris crashing all around," Susan Westwood told BBC News. "I clung on to the babies and shielded them as best I could."

I began my pediatric rotation just last week, and since have given a lot of thought to what pediatric nursing is all about. M first response: This is so sad, get me out of here. When I walked on to the floor and saw children suffering, I felt uncomfortable and my hair stood on ends. This was new ground for me and uncharted territory, the only children I have ever spent time around are healthy and bright, mostly just obnoxious and spoiled. Working on a medical floor, I wondered what makes them different, these little people? The miniature versions of ourselves, untouched and unspoiled by years of adulthood. The sympathy we have for children in pain is so much more intense than that which we have for whom adults are in similar crisis. When my patient, a 10 year old boy who had a brain tumor removed for the second time began to yelp in pain upon moving his head, I felt an incredible emotional response to that sound. The cries of children are high pitched and piercing, but mostly the sound just reverberates through your heart, pulls and tugs. Instinct tells you to comfort them, your emotional response might be to cry with them, but really, you know that ultimately, nothing is going to take away their pain. You would swallow it whole if you could. But this isn't the Green Mile, and there's no magic trick to play. I have always sworn off pediatrics, I could never imagine working with such a vulnerable population, it just seemed unfair and unbearable. Even with the profound sadness of human suffering, I felt inspired by their courage but mostly by their spirit. Children have such a bright inner light, curiosity and joy, but these children have dimmed. As uncomfortable as this suffering makes me - for the first time on any clinical rotation, I felt at home. But maybe that's because Disney movies are playing in the background and I might still be 12 years old.