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. God forbid you mix them up. 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, addressing a detail of my query but not the point which was a patient In pain. She went back to her task. Well fuck, Eileen, whats MY name? Bet you care less. Oh right, I have a name tag. I look like a crazed Muppet on It 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 bone cancer like the muck that grows on rocks in stagnant water. I picture it creeping like a ghost ship through blood.