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.