My Brilliant Career

From the time I was about four, I wanted to be a nurse. Sporting a white cap with a red cross on the front, my navy blue cape billowing behind me, I tended to the various ailments of all my dolls, stuffed animals and the cat. My black bag was stuffed with bandages, multi-colored “pills,” hypodermic needles and other accoutrements needed to take care of my grateful patients. It was a big job and I executed it with bustling efficiency, my stethoscope swinging jauntily from my neck. Yep, a nurse was what I wanted to be when I grew up. No doubt about it.

I was always a very sensitive kid, a tad anxious from the very start and sympathetic to the plights of others. Sometimes too much so. When my beloved 16-year-old babysitter had to have knee surgery, I cried and fretted for days in spite of my mother’s efforts to console me. I remember creating a talisman of sorts that I sat on the headboard of my bed, fashioned to somehow send healing to my friend in need. Vicks Vapo Rub featured prominently in this scenario; as a result, I developed a bit of an addiction to it, but that’s a story for another day. At the time I figured it was just one of the many hazards of my profession. And besides, it smelled really, really good.

At age 15, when I was finally old enough to be a candy striper, my mom agreed to drive me the 20 miles one way to Wilson Memorial, the nearest hospital in our area. I sailed through my training with flying colors and at long last was issued my very own, bona-fide, red and white striped pinafore. One of my first assignments was in the lobby gift shop. I found this a bit disappointing, as I just knew there were suffering patients in need of my special brand of attention. That, and I couldn’t make change to save my own life, let alone anyone else’s. Clearly this was not a good fit, and I was moved to the Admissions Office. Here I spent time shuffling papers and making sure that all was in order. This was in the early ‘70s, long before the days of computer programs and digital records. The need for confidentiality was strongly stressed and when I came upon the name of one of my classmates, I understood why this was so. The private details of people’s lives were housed in these metal cabinets filled with manila files, not to be shared with others. Here, I learned respect.

After what seemed like forever, I was finally sent up to a patient floor. I was very excited to be among the sick and injured at last. It was a surgical floor, so both men and women occupied the labyrinth of rooms. A harried nurse put me to work refilling the blue plastic water pitchers perched on each patient’s tray. Methodically I worked my way down the corridors, bringing lifesaving water to all and favoring each person with my sweetest, most nurturing smile. All went as anticipated. Soon, I’d reached the last room and, after carefully peering through the door, I entered. An older gentleman (I was sure he was at least 40) was in the bed closest to the door, consulting with a nurse. Smiling, I picked up the pitcher on the tray next to his bed and asked, “Would you like me to refill your water pitcher?” The incredulous nurse waited exactly one beat before succinctly replying, “That’s a urinal.” Peals of laughter ensued and, my face as red as the cheerful stripe on my skirt, I fled. The ultimate lesson learned, after my initial mortification had subsided? Healing can be administered in many ways, and laughter really CAN be the best medicine. I have no idea what happened to that poor guy, but I’m sure I was a huge hit at the nurse’s station that day. Shortly thereafter I was given a new assignment, assembling patient meal trays in the cafeteria. This was fast paced and felt important, as I was helping to provide much needed nourishment to our patients. I really liked being part of a team, behind the scenes. Another lesson learned and, when I came upon a water pitcher, it was exactly that. A water pitcher.

In spite of my rough start, the pursuit of my illustrious career continued as I worked my way through High School. I still liked the idea of working in a hospital (though obviously NOT at Wilson Memorial, where my skills and reputation preceded me). I won a scholarship to a nearby college and decided I’d pursue a degree in Medical Technology. I also received a New York State Regents scholarship in nursing and in the fall of 1974, off I went. My Mother, although pleased that I wanted to further my education, was not 100% on board with my career choice. Knowing me as she did, with my still-intact tendency toward anxiety, melancholy and by this time flat-out doom, she had the following to say; “Why the hell do you want to work in a hospital full of sick people? It will just make you depressed.”

WELL. Here I was, face-to-face with a dilemma. In spite of our daily, vociferous arguments that were mostly (OK, totally) my fault, I had a huge respect for her opinion. I had just spent the entire summer weeping at the loss of my first love (also known around our house as “that goddamn kid”), and I had to admit that I possessed a strong proclivity for gloom. A tiny seed of self-doubt sprouted in my mind, and I began to wonder if she wasn’t right. Would I be miserable? Did I have what it took to face suffering on a daily basis? Filled with worry, I sat down on the narrow bed in my dorm room and took another look at the course requirements for my Medical Technology major. Biology? Well, ok. Vertebrate Morphology? Invertebrate Morphology? MATH, EVERY semester?!? Unpleasant memories of every math class I’d taken since kindergarten scrolled through my mind (along with my experience in the Gift Shop at Wilson). A fine sheen of sweat broke out across my brow, and I flipped through the catalog again. What did I want to do?? More than anything, I loved to read and write, and did both whenever I had a moment to spare. The litany of classes – Shakespeare, John Donne, Creative Writing - rolled out before my eyes, as golden and glittering as that brick road to Oz. There was a good chance that My Brilliant Medical Career would ultimately put ME in a hospital bed. I saw that mom was probably right. A degree in English Literature. This, I could do, and maybe even be happy about it. I would visit my advisor and begin the process of changing my major. I heaved a sigh of relief, and that little girl in the navy blue cape began to grow smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror of my mind.

At times, I wonder where I’d be if I hadn’t let my mother talk me out of my wish. I certainly could’ve been a nurse. Hell, I could have gone to medical school. None of those things happened, but life often grants us our heart’s desire, in spite of our best efforts to thwart it. From the moment he was born until this very day, my son has spent a lot of time in hospitals. Miraculous things have happened within those walls and, as his mom, I am again part of a team behind the scenes. The ultimate lesson learned, after my initial fear had subsided? Healing can be administered in many ways, often beyond the limits of our wildest imaginings.