03/11/10
So far, getting back into nursing has proved to be tedious at best and terminally boring at worst. Oh, sure, I understand why it’s necessary for me to be retreaded, but I don’t think it’s written down anywhere that I have to be deliriously excited about it. In two days, I have amassed six packets of information, all but one of them multi-paged, on topics like “informed consent,” “wound assessment,” “organ donation and transplantation.” And let’s not forget “postmortem care.” I now know how to report abuse, neglect and exploitation, not to mention having a working knowledge of when to use restraints and seclusion training. By the end of the day next Tuesday I should be well versed in a plethora of patient care services including but not limited to fall risk assessment, pain management, blood administration, IVs and palliative care.
And yes, as unattractive as it may be, I am whining. I am giving myself permission to have a pity party. I have a terrible cold and no Clint to make over me and feel sorry for me. He would fix me a hot toddy, pile covers over me and order me to sweat it out. I’ve had a headache for 24 hours, probably a result of the three large vodka drinks I consumed last night when I was playing Bingo at the country club with Loren. No, that is not a typo. I actually went to Bingo at the club last night. Not that there is anything wrong with Bingo, and Loren is really good company. What’s really got me feeling so pitiful is the liquor I drank on what amounted to an empty stomach. Note to self: You are nearly 62 years old and you know better, especially since you had class today.
I haven’t had an original thought all day, and that is what is really eating at me. I’m supposed to be a writer but I don’t have anything to say today. I am going to blame it on the vodka.
(It’s better than nothing).
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