Got kicked at work the other night. Not a hard kick, luckily, as I was dodging backwards as it came for me, but kicked nonetheless.
[When people complain about nurses making too much money, or trying to take our pensions away, I wonder how many of them have jobs where they get kicked at. “But you made that choice!” I hear them say, and then I always want to say things like, “I do it because you can’t, asshole,” But anyways.]
It’s more of a shock thing. And an angry thing. I’m usually hyper vigilant. And I know better not to get into bed with a patient like I used to, heh — when someone’s thrashing around, about to lose their ET tube, I used to be the one who’d throw myself in there trying to keep it in — to keep them safe from themselves in their delirious state. (And, honestly, safe from our new bebbe doctors who rotate through and who may not actually understand things yet. Yay for working at a teaching facility.)
Since my back injury, I’ve had to rethink that. If a doctor doesn’t want to give me meds or believe what’s going on because they aren’t there, well then, they can come in and reintubate, when someone loses it. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll try, within reason, but I’m not getting hurt again. You only get — as nurses are fond of telling one another — one back.
(I have also, on more than one occasion, had visitors/relatives tell me they wanted to stay in the room during some procedure, and straight up asked them if they’re the fainting type — and then bluntly stated that I’m not going to catch them if they fall. Because I know too many people who’ve caught dead-weight falling, and injured themselves permanently, getting yanked to the ground by grown men.)
I’m mostly just irritated that it happened. Mad at myself more than the patient. (Although a little mad at them too :P.) But better me than one of my smaller coworkers, or pregnant coworkers, god forbid.
Anyhow. Feeling blue tonight. Been away from my current project for a few nights now at work and read some YA novels I’d been meaning to read for awhile and now I have a case of the I’m-not-good-enoughs.
My husband says I do this every book, and possibly I do, so hey. It’s just that I want my book to be as awesome as the ones I just read. It’s good, but you get the picture.
It’s weird, having this be a self-imposed project. I thought I’d be less stressed about it (and in many ways I am) than all my things with deadlines, but instead because I chose it — or, it chose me, like a kitten or puppy of a book — it counts more because it matters more to me.
I’m settling down to transcribe the notes I’ve made to myself the past few nights in the car and to do some big-picture paper-outline stuff to help clear away the cobwebs. Here’s to hoping things swing back up.