Future RN

[reginleifirie]

[jspark3000]

Things I’ve learned not to say in the hospital at the very moment of pain and tragedy:

“Everything will be okay.”

“You’re so strong!”

“Pain is what forces you to grow.”

“God has an amazing plan for your life!”

“God is using this for your good.”

“God just wanted another angel in heaven.”

“It could’ve been worse.”

“At least you’re still alive. At least—”

“Cheer up and stay positive!”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“I understand what you’re going through.”

“Time to pray really hard and read more Bible.”

“God is using this as a wake-up call.”

“Be the change you want to see in the world.”

— and other motivational poster clichés.

Things I’ve learned to say in the hospital at the very moment of pain and tragedy (and even then, not every time):

“I’m sorry.” “How are you right now?” “I don’t think it’s wrong to be mad.” (Or scared, or hurt, or sad, or weeping, or uncertain.) “How can I pray for you?” “I’m always here.” Or the best thing: listen.

— J.S.

[purplechocolatekisses]

Help Everyone Find A Job In Their Field

[dossantos23]

this was very helpful

[secondyearnurse]

Helpful for my nursing grads!

[copingnurse-deactivated20240217]

My Heart.

[thegoddesswithinkelly]

Definitely cried watching this. 

[nursingcapsarecool]

Well now my makeup is ruined.

[half--agony--half--hope]

Was super not ready for how much that made me cry.

[nurse-alli]

being a nurse is so much more than passing meds and doing tasks. 

[crustybatrn]

I wasn’t prepared for that from an outside perspective.

[caringintensely]

No words indeed.

[nurse-x-ramblings]

I get a little bit offended whenever someone says you’re smart, why didn’t you become a doctor, implying we don’t have the smarts; it insults both professions. People may be well intentioned, but it actually insults us as nurses, as though we are lacking in intelligence, as though we failed out or couldn’t cut it in the big league, as though our worth as a critically thinking caregiver isn’t as important. Walk in our shoes for a day. The scope of our practice; what we have to learn, understand and do on a daily basis would probably shock people - but that’s neither here nor there. It sends the wrong message to young girls and boys when we only tell them when you grow up you’ll be as smart as a doctor, excluding the possibility of nursing as a career of worth. It insults doctors, and meds students a little too, because it sends people a message that if they don’t cut it they’ll join the ranks of a nurse - and really, there’s a lot of great doctors out there who respect our profession just as much as we respect theirs. I’m happy with my choice, I didn’t “trade down” to become a nurse. It wasn’t a second choice. I don’t believe one profession has more value or intellect than the other, but I do believe some of the smartest people I’ve met haven’t always necessarily been educated, just as some of the most educated people have surprised me by saying the most narrow minded things. Intelligence is investing in a career that matters to you, not what society tells you to do.

A Nurse, nothing more, nothing less.

[Reflections on Nursing, National Nurses Week]]

(via dancingnurse-ed)

[birdasaurus]

We Are the Rhoads

[thesearabbitcomics]

And now I’m afraid of my own shadow! Just kidding! She’s kept me alive to this point so good job!

[caringintensely]

Nope this is legit, when my kids asked me about vaccines we Googled picture of kids with Polio and watched videos of babies with whooping cough.

Educate. By any means necessary.

[boluscoffeestat-deactivated2020]

This is quite literally my childhood. Not only trauma but surgeries gone awry. Personnal favorite was always “The Man Who Swallowed Draino”. That one was pretty infamous in our house.

[wayfaringmd]

When you confuse your work with your identity, you mistake feedback as a personal attack.

Jon Acuff

(via wayfaringmd)

[whatshouldwecallnicunursing]

How all really good change of shift reports start out.

[humansofnewyork]

“The MDs build the treatment plan. The nurse’s job is to get it done. We’re the ones who are always there, making sure every single moment of every single day is the best it can possibly be. What’s going to take away that nausea? What’s going to take away that pain? How can we convince the doctor to let this kid see some sunshine? We know when the kid has a play at school. We know which massage therapist they love and which member of the family is most likely to persuade them to take their medicine. These kids rely on certain nurses like they’re gold. A lot of time these kids won’t listen to the doctor. But they’ll listen to their nurse.”

[humansofnewyork]

“A big part of a nurse’s job is translation. We have to turn medical language into common language. We explain the ‘why’s.’ Why they can’t eat. Why there is pain. Why their hair is falling out. You never know what those big medical words mean to a child, so we do everything we can to demystify them. If they play sports, we may describe their tumor as a baseball. And everyone knows that baseballs don’t belong in your belly. Ninety percent of them play video games, so sometimes the cancer is a monster. We’ve got to shoot the monster. We’ve got to bomb the monster. But we’re going to work together and get that monster. We’ll use any frame of reference that they understand: their favorite TV show, their favorite book, their favorite toy. And if we have an adolescent who’s a little bit angry, we’ll just shove our foot up the cancer’s ass.”

[humansofnewyork]

“The nurse is in that room day in and day out. You give a piece of yourself to that child. But intimacy has its dangers. You have to be able to set it aside. You can’t come in on your days off. You have to be able to go home at the end of the day and have a glass of wine, or go rock climbing, or visit with friends. If you can’t go home and rebuild, you’ll burn out. You won’t be able to handle the losses if you’re just surviving off the wins. Because the losses are severe. You were allowed into that child’s life at their most intimate time, and you were trusted. And that is a gift. And even in death, you learned something from that child that made you a better person and a better nurse.”

[nurse-x-ramblings]

Dear Burned Out Nurse

You’ve been doing it repetitively, rising each day after hitting snooze four times, eating the same breakfast, motionless under the steam of a hot shower, dressed in the same crisp blue Monday scrubs you artfully avoided ironing by hanging them immediately out of the dryer the standard laundry Sunday, hair slicked back, danskos slipped on your exhausted feet, the scuffs the only evidence of a well worn nurse. Except your eyes, they’re void of expression.

You’ve been squelching it, pasting a smile as you drift from room to room, introducing yourself as the nurse for the day. Report sheet meticulously organized into sections of diagnosis, history, allergies, labs, meds, ivf, and little boxes of things you need to complete on your shift. Your rooms organized into clean zones, neatly labeled IV lines, supplies dated, linens stacked early in preparation of the afternoon rush to clean your patients, backup IV bags at the ready for the next shift.

You’ve been pushing it so far back, that when your new admission arrives, you’ve done it all before. An ETOH patient, combative, dodging spit and flailing arms, slurring his words, suggestive commentary, but it doesn’t offend you, you’ve done all this before. You hook him up to the monitor, drifting in and out of consciousness as your co worker argues with him to calm the hell down, tying him down with restraints. You follow on the other side, knowing full well this Houdini will make his way out in about four seconds, but you tie the restraint anyway. You spend your day pushing Ativan, and infusing multivitamins deep into his veins despite his yelling to leave him the hell alone, to let him die - and you wonder rhetorically, where’s the meaning with restraining patients, stripping even the inebriated of their dignity and rights?

You’ve been ignoring it, ignoring the emptiness, ignoring the void of emotion when your patient goes into cardiac arrest and you go through the motions. You’ve been here before, the broken rib cages, the shouting of orders, the bloody mess, chaos, and machinery invading your previously quiet room. You’ve been here before, the devastation of loss and screams down the hall, and somewhere in the corner of your mind, a little voice is saying, “this isn’t you, where’s the feeling?”

You’ve learned to subdue the voice of reason, for you’ve learned no one wants to know the darker side of nursing, the ghosts and memories that haunt you at night, the voids that replace it during the day to keep you functional, no one wants to hear the struggles it takes to rise each day and do it all again, no one wants to hear that every day isn’t sunshine, smiles and saving lives, no one wants to equate nursing with the harsh realities you face each day; it’s a world people seldom understand, or truly connect with.

So you go on. You endure, quietly. You go on. You let it be, today. You endure the darkness, for there’s still a part of you that recognizes and accepts it comes in waves, and the emptiness you’re feeling now won’t be an eternity. You go on, for you’ll find your way back in the intangible inspirations that first struck you about nursing, the simplicity of trust your patients have when they look up at you, the appreciation for considerate coworkers when you’re drowning, and the quiet strength you’d forgotten was there, the intense adrenaline you sometimes feel when you’re coding a patient, fighting for them to come back, come back to us. And the quiet calm you intermittently feel that you’ve chosen to continue this journey of simply caring for others when they’re frightened and vulnerable. You go on today, for you remember what drives you as a nurse, the curiosities, the joys, the despair, the darkness and the change of waves in beginning again when it all feels lost.

[myallnaturallife-blog]

Tru tho

[nursegif]

WHAT’S IN NURSE GIF’S BAG?

So I thought I would make this post because my bag has helped me survive night shift/nursing in general. I bought this cosmetics bag at Target, it was a little expensive but I’m sure you could find a similar one for cheaper. I put it in my nursing bag and bring it to work every night.

So what’s in it?

It has three sections - 

1. Medications - I get tension headaches so I added Excedrin. You could keep Benadryl, Advil, Tylenol, Prevacid, etc. Just get the small bottles.

2. Boxes - BandAids have been so useful. I slam my hand on things or snag my arm on the door all the time. Midol for obvious reasons. Don’t laugh at the Imodium, I literally saved a preceptor one time because she got suddenly sick with diarrhea and pharmacy didn’t have any medications they could give her.  I also keep assorted packs of meds like my Claritin. I put my feminine products in this compartment. These flossers are also a life saver. After I eat lunch I feel like I have food in my teeth, so these babies are the bomb.

3. Hygiene - Mints for after lunch breath, chapstick for every reason ever, makeup remover/facial cleanser wipes (you never know when you will get something nasty on your face), hand moisturizer, dry shampoo, deodorant. I also have a small contact case and contact solution for contact emergencies. On the other side of this middle pocket I have a couple of small bills ($5 and $1) just in case I forget my card and need food.

Other things you could add - nail file, small toothbrush and toothpaste, extra hair ties, powder, hairspray, neosporin, hydrocortisone cream, etc, etc.

[cardiacattack-deactivated202106]

These are great ideas! So organized! 

[nurse-on-duty]

Most Prescribed Meds

[lakefrontnurse]

When my alcoholic uncle died - and how it impacted my life as a nurse

A recent post from another nurse was so beautifully honest and vulnerable that it made me lose my snark and just get human for a minute. So I will share an experience and I have permission from all involved. I had an uncle who was a terrible alcoholic. It ravaged every aspect of his life, his work as a union tradesman, his ability to be a father or husband and his relationships with his brothers and sisters. My mom and I often visited him when he’d get admitted to the floor. I could never bear to see him in the ER. Dirty, belligerent, withdrawing in the DTs. I was embarrassed because I knew he was a frequent flier. I was embarrassed that I was embarrassed. We tried to drop him groceries and buy his Dilantin every month, but he moved around a lot, mostly renting rooms above taverns. He wanted nothing to do with sobriety. He used drugs when he could, but whiskey was his poison. In the end he only tolerated a few beers a day to keep away the shakes. To any nurse or medic or doc who new him he was a local drunk, but to me he was my uncle. I knew him as a kind loving man as well. I remember family BBQs and him tossing me up in the air as a kid. I remember him showing up drunk to thanksgiving and not making it out out of the car before passing out. I remember the disappointment in my family’s faces. I remember the shame in his eyes. I remember driving around his neighborhood looking at the entrances of taverns to see if he was passed out. I wondered if anyone would know to call us if he died. I wondered if he even had any I.D. But they did call. And I knew when I saw him at age 55 in the ICU Weighing 90 lbs dying of Hep C and esophageal CA that he didn’t have a lot of time left. I was a nursing student and an ER tech but I knew in my heart this time was different. I saw people fear him. I saw nurses treat him as if he was a leper. One yelled at him to be still while she gave him a shot of heparin and he grimaced in pain. Nurses came in one by one to start a heplock and he grimaced in pain. Despite knowing better after the 4th nurse was unsuccessful I begged them to stop and give him a break. My hospital I worked accepted him into impatient hospice. I was relieved. When he arrived I saw the 2 EMTs toss him on the hospice bed and walk out without saying a word while he grimaced in pain. They probably got held over and he probably didn’t seem like an urgent transport. They didn’t want to touch him. I didn’t say anything. I was scared to touch him too. He was emaciated with a huge head and a gaunt appearance. I wondered if he had AIDS. I felt bad for thinking that. I still kissed his forehead and told him he was going to be okay. Because I loved him. He was my family. And then I saw nurses treat him with kindness. I saw the beauty of a non judgemental hospice team make his last 96 hours on Earth a time where he could make peace with his demons. I saw Roxy drops for the first time and I saw him get some relief from the pain of untreated cancer, from the pain of dying. I saw them allow me break the rules and lift his frail body into a wheelchair, fashion an old fashioned posey to hold him up and take him down stairs for his last cigarette on Route 30. I was able to spend my breaks with him. I got to suction him and help give him a bed bath. I got off my 3-11 shift and spend a few hours with him watching a baseball game on replay. I sat with him in silence and I held his hand. I finally knew what people meant when they said the dying watch their life play out in their minds. I swear I could see it happening. I asked him if he was thinking about things he said “yep”. I asked him if he wanted me to stay or go and he said “stay”. So I stayed. I heard the death rattle for the first time. I cried to a veteran hospice nurse and she explained how the Scopolamine patch would help. I finally felt what it was like to be helpless to a family member in need and her words of comfort and years of experience meant everything to me. She said he probably had 48 hours at the most. I read “Gone from my sight” the blue book of hospice by Barbara Karnes. The whole family trickled in. His kids, all his brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews. His children told him they loved him and they forgave him. We kissed his forehead and washed his hair. My mother shaved his face. His daughter said words of kindness that relieved him of any guilt or regret. I saw this beautiful cousin of mine watch me suction him and she asked how I could be so calm and so strong. I didn’t feel strong or knowledgeable but when you are the “medical person” in the family they see things in you that you didn’t know you had. We surrounded him with love and light and he died surrounded by everyone who ever meant anything to him. The nurses even cried. I got to see the dying process for what it was. It was beautiful and at the same time so humbling it brought me to my knees. I have never forgotten that feeling and I pray I never do. Is alcoholism a disease? We debate it as health care providers and wonder about the others whose lives have been impacted by the actions of an alcoholic. The amends that never got made. I guess I don’t care if it’s a disease, a condition, or a lifetime of conscious choices and poor judgement. In the end it’s a human being, usually a dirty foul smelling human being with missing teeth who may or may not be soiled in urine and vomit. Sometimes kicking, hurling obscenities, racial slurs, or spitting. Often doing all of the above at once. It’s hard to empathize with a human being who arrives packaged up that way. It’s hard to care or to want to go above and beyond. And I don’t think you should ever feel guilty if you don’t have those feelings. That is okay. It’s natural to wonder about the damage these people may have done to others. Wonder how many lives they might have ravaged. Please don’t take their pain as your own. At least try not to. It is not your pain to carry. And we all know that is easier said than done. But please, Treat them with dignity. They feel. They hear you. Give them the care you know you are capable of giving. I can tell you I hold a special place in my heart for every nurse who touched my uncle with a gentle hand. Who cleaned him for the fifth time when he was vomiting stool. Who asked him to smile. Who smiled back at him. Who stroked his forehead and put a cool washcloth on it. I am eternally grateful for anyone that saw beyond his alcoholism and saw a person. A human. A child of God (if you believe in God). A father. A son. An uncle. And I believe in my heart he felt the same way, even if he didn’t or couldn’t say it. If you have that patient. That difficult, hard to like, dreadful patient. Don’t think you have to love them or even like them. You don’t. But if you can preserve their dignity and show them the kind of nursing care that anyone would deserve, than you are good. You are the reason we are the world’s most trusted profession. And even though you don’t know it, someone saw and felt it, and it meant the world to them. Go to bed and sleep soundly because you deserve that. - J.R. RN

[cranquis]

…wow.

Now go back and read it again.

[md-admissions]

God, I needed to read this tonight.