Saturday, November 6, 2010

Drunk on Crazy

So I'm driving home from work this morning trying figure out why I have chosen the schedule that I did.  Who, in their right mind, would take 5 classes, work 40 hours a week, still cook meals and tend to 2 small boys (and 1 big one if you count the husband).  I could give some crappy, sappy, violin answer like, "I'm making sacrifices for my family." or, "I trying to get the most out of my experience before I become a real nurse."

All of that is bull crap. 
I do because I want to.
I do it because I'm crazy.

I do it because the differential on weekend nights makes it worthwhile when I get my paycheck and I can eat out beyond the first 3 days after payday. 

How do I survive? I have no freaking clue.  Fridays are the most painful day of the week for me.  I get up at 6:30 am.  I get the boys up and dressed.  I get the first born off to school.  Then I fart around the house until it's time to go to class.  Then I come home and deal with the boys until it is time to go to work for 12+ hours.  There is no nap in there, so by the time I get to work I'm tired already.  And the drive home from work is usually filled with expletives and dares to motorist who have no clue that I'm ranting and raving in my car like a lunatic because I haven't been to sleep in over 24 hours.

Red Bull no longer gives me wings...I am detoxing from Pepsi...I hate coffee...I hate my life.

Tonight was particularly interesting.  One of my patients spent the entire night rotating between barfing, gagging, moaning, stripping, and removing medical equipment.  I was torn between mommy mode where I go in the room, smack hands, point finger in face, and sternly say, "Stop that foolishness and grow up!" and petty, juvenile mode where I wanted to stand in the doorway and pluck the ice chips at the patient I'm supposed to be feeding them too. 

I have to go back tonight. 
There's a good chance I'll have the same assignment. 
I really should be sleeping right now.
I'm currently doing laundry as I am typing these words. 

I'm not superwoman.  On no day do I ever strive to be that.  I am just a neurotic perfectionist that thrives on the strange and unusual.  I am a strange and unusual person.  I'm going to get through my work by dancing small jigs inbetween checking blood sugars, emptying foley catheters and racking my brain for questions to ask my nurse so he or she won't think I am not willing to learn. 

If you think this post is funny, good.  I say good because I burst into delicious peels of laughter at the thought of the last few months of my existence.  And as the darkness of exhaustion eat away at my vision, I bid you all good washing machine just finished.  I'm going to load the dryer and then electric slide into sweet slumber.

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