I realize in this uniform I feel like nothing. Isn’t that the opposite intended effect of uniforms? Yet I also feel like a machine as long as I am in this off-tone green, surgical green. Efficient, faceless, a carrier of nosocomial infections.
We call patients ‘clients.’ Clients often want me to tell them something I don’t know yet.
Nursing school evokes olden days of purity or effacement. Short nails, no nailpolish or else, hair back, no make up.
My pet peeve is workers without name tags. Even now I’m still catching on who is a care aide, an LPN, an RN. Wear your nametag!
‘Luanne, I need to change mr x’s fentanyl patch. Can you come to the narcotics cupboard with me?’
‘Actually, my name is Eileen,’ she answered, and went back to her task. Well fuck, whats MY name? Oh right, I have a name tag. I look like a crazed Muppet but my name and rank…annoying student….is plain.
Antineoplastic drugs work by a nonselective killing mechanism. They are excreted in shit and spit. Gloves and a gown and a mask must be worn by healthcare workers when providing petsonal care of such clients to avoid damaging our own DNA.
I pictute bpne cancer like the muck that grows on rocks in stagnant eatet. I picture it creeping like a ghost ship through blood.