And BTW…

 Yo, not me going almost TWO years without writing to you guys! I wish I could say it’s because I’m living life to the fullest, but let’s not kid ourselves. 

Truly, I thought about writing many times, but there was always an “I’ll do it later,” or “I don’t have anything worthwhile to say.” Or… “God forbid I jinx it!”

You may be wondering, jinx what? Well… funny enough, the last time I wrote to you all, I had been chatting with a gentleman dude guy… and that gentleman dude guy now gets to call me Mrs. Zimmer. 

Let me back that ass a bit.

November of 2023, I was hanging out with some of my work friends (shoutout to Mutiat, Erica, and Feba, who were all at my wedding seeing this thing through). We talked about how disillusioned I had become with dating in general and online dating in particular. While we were shooting the shit, the girls not-so-gently nudged me to give the apps “one more time. Just one.” In an effort to prove my point (and prove them wrong), I signed up for one right there and then. My matches appeared, most of them the ones who had been there for years (I myself had been on there, on and off, for 12 years). I liked the profiles I liked, and declined the ones I didn’t. I decided to be a bit more open to people who might not catch my eye first but who might have potential.

Honey, if you’re reading this, you were one of those diamond in the brute ones. 

I could tell he was cute 10+ years ago (his pictures were that old), and he seemed like an ok guy. So, of course, I didn’t message him. 

Until he messaged me quoting the best cold open of one of my favorite shows: Brooklyn 99.

Mind you, he had only ever seen that bit of the show, but that was a smart move.

So what did I do? 

Not reply for a month.

Look, I was already cynical about the whole thing, and then to top it off, it was really hard to keep up with several men in the chats, so I decided to give other guys who were more local the opportunity first. Well that didn’t work. It took me going on two dates with a guy named Jonathan and then being ghosted again (by said Jonathan) to give Brooklyn 99 guy a chance…

Oh and his name was also Jonathan. 

And despite him having a J name, and despite me having COVID pneumonia at the beginning of 2024, I kept messaging him back, and the messages kept getting longer and longer.

Before you are overwhelmed by elation or romantic ideas, or ovulation hormones, let me just say that the sparks were very much not there. There was no sexual tension, no shameless flirting, not even an ounce of romantic chemistry. It was like two people who just meet and get to know each other because they work together or have the same history class. There was no trepidation, no butterflies, no daydreaming. 

And one day, when my lungs stopped burning with pneumonia and I could avoid coughing for more than 2 minutes straight, I asked him to meet me. He was in Austin, and I was in Houston, so we decided that Brenham would be the fair half point (little did I know Brenham had such a powerful significance to him, or that it would be the place where our story would begin—more on that later).

We decided to meet the last Sunday of January for Mass at 11am and lunch afterward. I was a tiny bit late, so he was already waiting for me at the pew were we would sit. I walked into that church and immediately spotted him. He was cute. Fuck.

 Before nerves or excitement could take a hold of me, I realized how insanely nervous he was, so whether I like it or not, that gave me the semblance of control I needed to get through the date. We did mass (he gave me a hug for the sign of peace and I realized he was a great hugger), and then told me where we’d meet for lunch (and I got to see him running to his car and it was the funniest shit I had seen that month because I had been cooped up at home for three weeks with Covid and he did run in a very discombobulated fashion).

We sat for lunch. Without being prompted, he ordered a Coke Zero for himself. Like; what? How does this man know? Suspicious…

We both ordered Philly cheesesteaks and talked for a couple of hours. It was pleasant, but nothing close earth-shattering, love-at-first-sight shenanigans I had often dreamed about. Nice enough to give him a second date, though.

Except, ya know, he wouldn’t ask.

(Dear Reader, I would like to point out that Jonathan is face palming his own face right now, as he reads this. He is very aware at how many times he truly screwed the pooch. His mortification is enough of a punishment, please be merciful to him).

So I asked him on our first day. Then I asked him if he wanted to hang out again (he did). We went to the George H. Bush library in College Station, and to lunch, and I got to see the hella tism this man brandished. T’was hardcore.

For all intents and purposes, these were not real dates. More like two acquaintances hanging out. Each of us paid for our own food, there was zero flirting/physical contact, and he had a negative amount of rizz.

Once it was decided that we would go on a third date, I made up my mind to politely show up, eat, have a nice time, and then never see him again. It was just me telling the world, “you see? I tried, but it just isn’t working. It never will work. It’s pointless.” 

We went on the third date. Out of the three, it was probably the least interesting one in terms of conversation. He had clearly ran out of things to ask (or was too nervous to think of what to say). We went to the Blue Bell Factory in Brenham (best part of the date—truly  beautiful place), then lunch, then to this nursery called Antique Rose Emporium. We spoke less than ever, and it was February so the roses were almost non-existent.

I was ready to call it a day, to pay for my rose bush and never come back to this place (or talk to this man) again.

So imagine my surprise when this man plants a big ole tiny kiss on my lips. 

Dammit.

He got me on the one thing my body, heart, and soul had been parched from. For years. It’s like turning on the lights in a darkened room. It’s like not realizing how thirsty you are until water first touches your lips. Then you have to gulp. You have no choice. You need it.

That’s what happened on February 28, 2024, in the parking lot of the Antique Rose Emporium in Brenham, Texas. I knew I would never be able to forgo those pouty lips again, y’all. And that was equal parts tantalizing and terrifying.

Because why would I, a strong independent woman who prides herself on being a self-sufficient badass, not be terrified of needing a man for affection? It didn’t bother me before because it has been so long. But once that man kissed me, I was a goner.

Mind you, the fluttery feeling was short-lived. As we attempted to embark on this relationship, problems and misunderstandings emerged almost immediately. After all, these were to grown ups who had been alone their entire adult lives, and one in particular who had never been forced to talk about feelings, needs, etc (and let me tell you, reader… that wasn’t me).

But despite the sometimes abominable amount of problems we’ve had to face, despite the innumerable amount of times I had to almost walk away (or did), despite the misery that we’ve had to surmount, here I am, on December 31st, 2025, telling you about this husband of mine, who put a ring on my finger and promised to love me and honor me for the rest of our lives about four days ago.

When I wanted to run, when I wanted to shut him out, when I wanted to go scorch earth on everything, God somehow managed to pull me away from the rage, the resentment, the hurt, the cynicism, and—most importantly—God put the right words on Jonathan’s lips to mend and heal what needed to be mended and healed. 

It’s been fucking hard. The whole thing. One of the most difficult things I’ve done (and will continue to do). Training a man to put dishes in the sink and pick up after himself is wild (y’all train your kiddos, please). Forgiving and letting go of my pride when I want to wallow in my self-righteousness… that’s hard. But man, if God hasn’t shown up every time to remind me (and us) that this is worth fighting for. 

Shoutout also to Jon, of course, for being gracious enough to take it like  champ (even when he really didn’t want to). 

So here we are, a whole ass married couple, who will continue to bicker and disagree and rage and cackle and make out and love. Love hard. 

And yeah, I do get the irony of me being married. Me, the forever spinster, the man hater (I still hate men, except for one). If you’re sitting there being annoyed that I succumbed to the norm of getting married and having a family—worry not, I am more than annoyed at myself. But not annoyed enough to let this man continue on living without me. 

But if you’re sitting there thinking, well damn, do you even love this poor lad? Well, yes, reader. He’s got the best green eyes, and the craziest laugh, and vampire teeth and the most tender heart. He is adorable and the smartest person I know, even if that sometimes gets in the way of his emotional intelligence. 

It is a calm, sturdy, steady type of love, this one. Hollywood would certainly call it boring and cast us as the secondary couple who are there just to support the main characters in whatever quest they’re embarking. 

We are boring. Thank God. I don’t think I could have done another Romeo and Juliet-type of romance that ends in utter destruction. I’ll take boring and ordinary, please.

And to Jonathan, who is probably reading this not knowing what to make of it: 

You will always be the Ben to my Leslie.

So there you are, reader. More or less, that has been the highlights of the past almost two years.

New Year’s resolution is, naturally, to write more. Let’s hope I have enough time and desire to do so. 

😜

Your Favorite Medical Drama

 Yo, what up, shortie? It's me, your favorite blogger-slacker! I, of course, didn't feel like writing on December 31st (or any of the other 11 days afterward), so you did not get to read an insightful, awe-inspiring, end-of-the-year message from me, and at this point, it seems kind of pointless to do so.

Look, 2023 was another one of those years where I just kept saying, "Yikes" over and over again. I finally decided to give into my hypochondriac fever dreams and schedule ALL THE MEDICAL THINGS, to the dismay of my mother, who said, "Well, if you go on digging, you're going to end up finding." Kind of the point, madam. Naturally, I found out some of the things I was worried about were unfounded, while other things I had not even thought about were like OOP, HERE WE ARE.

Let me give you a rundown:

1. Like every hot girl in this world (LOL), I suffer from tummy issues. Specifically, the lower tummy part--me guts, mis tripas (that means tripe, sorry not sorry). These issues are pretty severe, to the point where they interfere with my daily life if I'm not careful about my food. So, imagine my surprise when I get a colonoscopy and the doctor shows me pictures of the most PRISTINE, FLAWLESS, YOUTHFUL COLON. My colon. Looked like a feckin' German tunnel, or a brand new plastic straw, or a pool noodle that hasn't spent a day in the sun. Mate, how? 

2. Nursing school left me convinced that I had an autoimmune disease. The hair loss, the weight gain, the weird hives that lasted for weeks. So imagine my surprise when I go to the rheumatologist and he spends 15 minutes with me and blurts out, "Well, you have fibromyalgia." Who? Huh?

But then the follow-up reveals that, sure, I have fibromyalgia, AND arthritis in my spine, but no actual autoimmune disease (because my tests were a "false positive" because the doctor said so, eyeroll). 

3. So I already knew I had arthritis in my knees, but lately, it feels like other things hurt A LOT MORE than my knees. Like, my back, which is precariously held together by my lack of mobility and flexibility... or my hip joint, which I am convinced is now just a collection of river stones rattling around inside a worn-off, empty Osarka plastic bottle (you know how crunchy they get). Like, shit isn't right in there. I know it. But the problem is... ORTHOBROS!

Let me briefly explain: orthopedic doctors are the Chads of medicine. They're the Jason Mendozas (The Good Place) of healthcare. They think very highly of themselves, but definitely aren't attuned to the needs of their patients, nor are they knowledgeable when it comes to other body systems.  In short, they just like breaking ya bones, foo. 

Jason Mendoza Wisdom

So every single time I go to the ortho doctor, he tells me to rest, take advil, and ice mah joints. Which, how? And also, all of them? At the same time?

The last time I was in there, I finally got him to give me a steroid injection directly into my hip joint, which, firstly, OUCH, and secondly, H*LY F*** THAT HURT FOR A WEEK. I had to use a foam donut to sit down. People thought I had hemorrhoids, ya'll... and we know my colon is immaculate, so that's not even fair. When the big ass bruise and the soreness subsided, I was only pain-free in my hip for roughly two weeks. Now the pain is back, badder than ever, and I'm supposed to somehow do physical therapy and also my hot girl walks for my mental health, AND ALSO WORK 12-HOUR SHIFTS ON MY FEET. 

4. All these joint problems/mobility issues seemed to get worse when I started an exercise program that involved skinny people moves (I should have known better). But my joints weren't the only thing that suffered. Imagine my surprise when my heart rate would get anywhere over 120 or 130, and I started SUFFOCATING. As in, coughing, wheezing, having a runny nose and a lump in my throat, and phlegm ready to come flying out of my mouth (TMI, my bad). I've never been the best at breathing--at the peak of my athletic career, I was notorious for getting a purple tinge over my face when the cardio got a bit much. But nothing could have prepared me for a pulmonologist telling me I have asthma. At 36 years of age, lads.

And then sending me off to a sleep study and a lung capacity study only to find out that, I also kind of low-key die in my sleep every night... which would explain why I am always so DAMN TIRED. But the lung capacity exam turned out to be normal, so I guess these boobs are good for something.

speaking of jokes, ^^^

So now here I am, with two inhalers, a CPAP machine, an assortment of pills for different aches, and a squeaky clean colon.

5. OH AND I WEAR GLASSES NOW TOO. BECAUSE OF COURSE I DO.

And look, I know that glasses are hot now, and nerds are beloved and cherished in popular culture now. but I just LOOK smart... that's it, man. It's deception, it's catfishing. I have to keep reminding myself that they are transparent eyeglasses and not dark sunglasses and that people can see me staring at them. 

6. Oh, and did I mention I had a tiny cancer scare? YUP. Went to the dermatologist for my one million moles, and, let's be real, the probability of one of those moles being a bit wonky was pretty reasonable. Sure enough, ended up having a biopsy on a particularly wonky one, and having to wait a week for the doctor to tell me, "Well, it wasn't a normal mole per se... but it ain't cancer, so you're good." Good? Tell that to the big ole hole in my back now (and the subsequent BLOOD-CHILLINGLY UGLY SCAR). On a for real note, though, I am so grateful it was a false alarm.

And now I am terrified, dear reader, because I still have several more appointments to check other things, like my ginormous goiter, my dysfunctional pee pee bag and pee pee tubing, my cholesterol, and suspicious hemoglobin A1C. What will become of me???? It's barely day 11 of this year and I've already had a concussion on the fourth day of this year for which I spent a night in the emergency room (I know, WTF) and COVID. Freaking covid.

What's next, Count Choculitis? (Don't tell my haters, they might add it to the list)

I realize I am the luckiest gal for even being alive. But do send thoughts and prayers and if you open a GoFundMe for my birthday this year, I won't be mad. These medical bills do add up. Plus my brain is still broken so the cuckoo meds are still being consumed--and the psychiatrist and therapist are still being seen.

Anyway, Happy New Year, reader! Hope yours started better than mine and that mine keeps yours in perspective. Hope your body is not a Kia after 100K, like mine is! Cheers!

You're on Your Own, Kid

 

Greetings to you, dearest of readers! It is a great pleasure to see you in the internet stratosphere once again. How have you been? Ok, great. Now back to me.

I thought today was important enough to celebrate with a blog post, thus negating all the other things in my life that merit a blog post and skipping the whole chapter about how I've been traveling a lot (a blog entry that shall remain pending for the time being). Today feels more significant than day trips or successful medical appointments or even more than unfortunate (and hilarious) things that just "always happen to me" because "my life is a sitcom." Yes, yes, I know I am beating around the bush too much, so let's get to the point: one year ago today, I became a registered nurse. 

Look, I know I have often discussed how amazing of an accomplishment that is, especially considering the fact that I had a Covid fever while taking the boards (don't blame me, reader, I was feverish but had not realized it was Covid until after the exam when I stopped at Walgreens and got a home test). The feat was nothing short of amazing, and I am very proud of myself. 

But just like all things in my life, nothing is ever just easy. The first year of nursing has proven to be a next-level challenge for my physical and mental well-being. The first few months, my poor body kept breaking down--monthly respiratory infections, swollen knees, dislocated hip bones (yup), weight gain, sleep deprivation, and let's not talk about actual physical hurt caused by being assaulted by a patient or incorrectly carrying/moving/turning a patient. It has been brutal. Moreover, there is the sobering reality of my mental health--finally succumbing to psychiatry and medications because "just therapy" was just not cutting it anymore. Many of this year's moments have not been my proudest or highest moments but, in fact, some of the most somber and lowest points of my life. 

You see, nursing is a lot more complex than just being a career that you love or hate. In a short year, I've come to realize that some days give me the conviction that I am literally doing God's given work to me, while other days leave me with a sense of "shit, what did I get myself into." It's never easy to answer the question, "How is work going?" because most of the time that answer feels like an "eh," but it's a lot more nuanced than that, and most people who ask the question don't really care to know. So it stays as something that only other nurses can understand. Which I think is one of the reasons why this year has been so... lonely.

Because everyone loves a funny nursing story involving gross bodily fluids or a floppy appendage, but almost nobody cares to check on you when everything feels like it's crumbling down, when you can't sleep at night for fear of what might happen in the morning, when the older nurses at work are cruel or your preceptor is too harsh or you get punched in the face by a deranged person. Suddenly, you find yourself in survival mode, so everything else in your life suffers, including all of the one-sided friendships you were trying to keep alive. So yeah, it's lonely out here, probably like never before.

Of course, there has also been exponential growth in terms of career. I find myself looking back, from November to March (the darkest of the whole time), and marveling at my resilience and sheer stubbornness to keep going, as well as the improvement I show in terms of patient handling, time management, etc. And I tell myself that I will do anything in my power so that the new nurses that follow me on this path won't suffer as much as I suffered. 

But, man, what an absolute champ you are, Cristina, RN. What a tender heart for those who suffer and what a careful mind to get things done. What a defender of what's true and good and beautiful. What a relentless fighter, my girl. There aren't enough words to describe the pride I feel for myself and the gratitude I feel that I can work with these hands to help people heal and take all of this love in my heart (that no one else seems to want) and give it to those who suffer. What an unequivocally hard and beautiful vocation. 

It is so easy for me to think about all the reasons why I don't like my job, but none of them have anything to do with my patients. I am tired all the time, I am more anxious than I have ever been, and I am so unwell that it's honestly a wonder how I'm still alive. But then I remember there are a few moments in my line of work that are so life-giving and so vocation-affirming that I cannot help but chuckle when I think about them. It's like God holding a big ole sign in front of me that says "Yes, dummy. This is the thing."

So, here's to one of--I hope--many years as a nurse. Thank you to all my patients who now watch over me from the afterlife (I wish there weren't so many, but the list keeps getting longer-- #fuckcancer). Thank you to all the patients who are still here fighting the good fight, giving me the privilege of being Jesus' healing hands on earth. But most importantly: thank you, Addi, Jordan, Tes, Valeria, Sani, Mutiat, Yessi, and Andrea. I will never forget all that you've done for me. Your words and your help (and your snacks) helped me and continue helping me get through the craziness of nursing.

To the people I didn't thank--I also won't forget.

As to me, I will probably continue to sleep poorly the night before a shift, overeat when I get home, and be a couch potato on my days off. And keep on keeping on, because I'm all I've got. 

The Year of the Tiger

 Happy New Year, lads!

Normally, the tradition was that I would write a blog post on the last day of the year and reminisce about the horrors of the previous twelve months... but I am at a point in my life where what I believe to be my ADHD is so bad that I can barely keep it together--this blog post is more shocking to me, the writer, than to you, dear reader... because I am baffled I have even gathered enough mental focus to write it (and I might be calling that prematurely... after all, what are only four lines of ramblings). 

On the surface, it would appear that 2022 was a very good year for me, and in many, many ways it was. I finished my hellish ride through nursing school, moved out of my parents' house, and finally started making some much-needed income (and spending it like there is no tomorrow). But the reality is that 2022 was one of the most brutal years when it comes to my mental and physical health. I do not know if it is the result of the nursing school trauma (I daresay it is), or the years of suffering that have finally taken their toll on me. All I know is that I am deeply sick--in my body, in my mind, and in my soul. 

Sometimes I look in the mirror and I do not recognize myself at all. I no longer see beauty, zest, vibrance. The extra weight, the wrinkles, the saggy bits, the even more receding hairline, the flatness of my once abundant mane. The absolute hurt in almost every joint. The lack of flexibility and mobility. The mental fog. The sheer exhaustion that doesn't seem to be healed with hours upon hours of sleep. The now dimmed spark.

Where did I go? Who did this to me? And why did I let them?

The first half of the year was hard because school had pushed me to the brink, and I had one particular professor who seemed hell-bent on getting rid of me. The summer was grueling with its overstimulation, its pre and post-NCLEX stress, its COVID perfect storm that ravished my body, and its share of novelty. At some point during the summer, I was convinced that the insomnia and the restlessness meant I had finally cracked and gone insane. Then the last part of the year was a sobering wake up call to the realities of nursing--including the cruelty of seasoned nurses who cannot care less whether you sink or swim. Then came deaths of patients... and my heart cracked more and more. 

My sister got married, my brother made fun of me during the toast at the wedding.
Then my brother got married (to the Church), and everyone around me was the happiest they've ever been.
Then I realized, at long last, that I ain't going to be marrying a man or the Church (or, in my case, as a woman, be a bride of Christ). I finally got the message, in 2022, that God has not intended for me to be a nun, or a wife, or a mother. Because a God who loves me wouldn't be withholding on any of those things until I learned a valuable lesson or became a better person (I've seen people who are much worse than me go on and find love, after all). So if I am going to go on believing that God exists and loves me and has a plan for my life, I must conclude that--for whatever reason--that plan does not include a family or a religious community. I can't realistically keep saying I just need to be patient until God sends me a husband. I am 35 years old. If God wanted to send me a husband, He would have sent me one by now. 

So, here's to a sobering 2022, to mind-numbing 2022, to record-breaking 2022, to heart-bursting-with-pride 2022. A year equal parts haunting and beautiful, challenging and rewarding, heartbreaking and life-changing. 

And here's to 2023. My only hope is that I might find the pieces of myself that I lost along the way and figure out a way to put them back together. Thank you for being here, reader. You are, as always, the realest. 

Sorry, Mom

 

“I will be 60 years old in 14 days, and I have no grandchildren,” she sighed—

Not as a reproach,

But as a fact,

Pregnant with disappointment.

I shot her hurt down 

With a classic “Me” remark—

“Good. Who wants to bring children into this sad world, to have difficult lives?”

I shook my head, knowing damn well 

that I do, 

‘Tis I.

‘Tis I who has a password-protected note on my phone with a list of curated names.

‘Tis I who made a puddle of tears on the floor at church when I saw a little girl who looked like what my mind had crafted as my first (always a girl).

I’m sorry, Mom,

For yet again falling short of the bar,

For being unable to entice,

For building a fortress of fear around my heart 

when I realized that all those infantile loves wouldn’t pan out,

when I realized that my true loves could only bleed me dry.

I’m sorry, Mom,

For turning out so selfish,

So rough around the edges,

So hard to love 

That I’ve become a shadow in a dark corner no one procures.

I’m sorry, Mom,

That those prayers I uttered in the silence of the night,

Those letters I wrote for him who’d win my heart,

Were a waste of time.

I’m sorry, Mom, 

For driving him away 

With my loudness,

My temper,

My body,

My ways.

I’m sorry, Mom,

That I deprived you of the joy

Of your old age,

By my stubborn obsession 

With being myself.

I’m sorry, Mom,

For not being “Mom.”

NURSING SCHOOL VLOG

 Yes, I am making you come to find the video here in the hopes that you will also read the posts. You're welcome:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Ob_jtuU-a8

Done. Deal.

 

I actually cannot believe that I get to write this. Me. The dumb-dumb, the class clown, the person who had to be reminded of deadlines constantly and who didn't update her calendar and who was always struggling in skills lab, the chick who still cannot get a grip on the pharmacology...

Somehow, mostly by the grace of God, I have arrived at the end of my nursing school journey successfully, after going through literally all the stages of grief, plunging into the depths of my mental illness, feeling the weight of loneliness, despair, and powerlessness, and suffering through the trauma of a degree that strips you of your confidence and makes you question your every move (I might be exploring the depths of my educational trauma for months and years to come). 

Either way, whether I had anything to do with it or not, I am enthralled by the miraculous fact that I made it, despite these two years being probably the hardest years of my life. And all I can say is how at a loss of words I am to express my gratitude to God and anyone who has made this journey possible. But then, a part of me is also in complete awe of myself.

What a lass.

What an absolute display of stubborn resilience. It's the stuff of heroines. And if I were a little bit less angry and whinny, it would be the stuff of Saints. 

I'm sorry if this sounds so braggy but I truly am in awe of myself. I walked away from a stable job, a well-paid job, a life of comforts and travel and treating myself. I walked away from much of my social life. I plunged into an unknown field at the age of 33, when most people are buying houses and having kids, and building their little empires... I walked away from everything I knew and started from scratch. 

Then the storms of life came: I was homeless for a month and taking turns between friends' houses. I got sick. I opened my humble home to people who walked in and out of my life (and then back in, and so forth). I lost my dear godfather to Covid. I took the blows of my autistic brother when he had meltdowns, and I bear the scars on my body. I cried myself to sleep many nights. I worked a horrid retail job, then a hectic office job, then a crazy hospital job. I failed exams and got kicked out of clinical and got yelled at by difficult professors. I lived off the food pantry and my parents' generosity. I moved three times in two years (or was it four?). I went to the gym at least once every week. I practiced my piano skills. I did amazing projects and presentations and got to lead some incredible people through our nursing school work. I went to mass almost every single day of those two years. I got mad at God then I got un-mad then mad again, only as I know how to do. I crossed half of the world to go see my best friend marry Jesus. 

All this added to nursing things like, oh, I don't know... your first patient EVER dying within the first two hours of your first clinical, or getting vomited on the face. Or all. the. poo.

There isn't a chance I did all of this on my own. No way. I am not that strong. I am not that good. I am not much of anything other than a needy mess. I wrote "Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam" at the top of every exam scratch paper and prayed for a miracle. And when things looked really bad, I begged Mama Mary and Papa Joe to hook it up with Jesus (and they sure did). Even when I wasn't aware of it, God's grace sustained me, his Saints interceded for me, my guardian angel stood by me, and my grandmas (and godfather) did a heck of a lot of pleading on my behalf up there in heaven. 

And even when I was furious with God about something or other, even when I doubted (Him and me), He sent his little human minions to help me: Lauren and Lou and Joanne and Rachel and Claire and Monica and my aunties and my parents. And the literal 60 or so people who bought tickets to my raffle so that I could afford to pay my rent and bills one month. 

So yes, I've done a very remarkable thing. I am infinitely proud of myself. I will stand tomorrow in front of 300 plus people and hopefully give a speech in which I won't throw up or have an anxiety-induced Mexican accent. But the reality of it all is that I wouldn't have been able to make it without you, reader. Because more than likely, you, who are reading this, are one of the people who just got me through this program, in whatever way large or small. So thank you. 

May I be worthy of the title "nurse."