One of the features of WordPress is that it displays the stats, most popular posts, incoming/outgoing clicks, and googled terms on one convenient page. For the most part, the googled terms that lead people to my site have been less than thought provoking, although I have learned there are many parents wondering about the effects of too much sugar and whether or not autistic tendencies can be treated with ADD/ADHD medication. Oddly enough, someone actually googled “master schedule,” of which I will write a follow-up post about soon enough.

There was a phrase, however, that caught my attention this morning: what is nursing school schedule like.

One word came to mind: complicated.

Once upon a time, I was a nursing student. In the fall of 2002, I registered with our local community college to complete the 2-year nursing program in which I would graduate with an Associate’s Degree. Unbelievably, our little community college has issued some of the most well prepared nurses. I hesitate to say well trained, as there is hardly a classroom setting that can train one for changing a bed or wiping a shitty ass. Oh wait, that’s motherhood. There is nary a class that can prepare one for the real-life situations in which the adrenaline is running so high it threatens to burst forth through the top of one’s head.

As I had a few requisite classes to complete before beginning the nursing courses, I spent the winter and summer semesters getting caught up on biology, chemistry, physical education, and nutrition. Bless my father-in-law for babysitting my two children, aged 3 and 15 months, on those days I was in class.

I was accepted into the Nursing program and began my official studies in the fall of 2003. My courses were science-based, with Anatomy & Physiology being one of my favorites. I continued my studies through the winter semester and decided to get some hands-on experience (and money) by working as an aide at the hospital. Had I begun my hospital work directly on the nightshift as opposed to days, I believe I would have seen the error of my ways much sooner. You’ll remember, however, that I am a Type-A Virgo, the worst possible marriage of anal-retentive and uptight, perfectionist tendencies, if ever there was one.

As school ended in May, I transitioned to working nights at the hospital. The schedule was made bearable by two things only: I was working per diem and on the best floor imaginable, Maternal-Child Care aka Labor & Delivery. My summer nights were spent taking mom and baby vitals, stocking rooms and baby warmers, cleaning delivery carts (I’ve handled my fair-share of bloody placentas, the smell, oh which, is quite metallic). I rocked, and I burped (the babies). I comforted and coached moms through labor. I made lab runs and acquiesced to every request imaginable. I answered call bells and silently cursed those patients who would abuse them. Can you change my baby’s diaper? Here, let me show you how to change/bathe/feed/hold ‘cause ain’t nobody gonna do it for you once you leave this place (okay, I wouldn’t say that part). I helped teenage mothers nurse their little ones. I saw and touched many boobs. I assisted as little boys were circumcised and was glad my own son survived the scalpel before I knew the full procedure. I watched families mourn the loss of their babies. I stood by as nurses and doctors argued about patient care.

I occasionally filled spots in Pediatrics (which I liked) and Med/Surg (which I hated). It was Med/Surg that stank of hospital. It’s where old people were tethered to beds with alarms and where ancient people muttered incoherently. It’s where I learned to appreciate the fact I still have my dignity. Can anything be more humiliating to an elderly man than being wiped by a 20-something nurse’s aide? It’s where I learned to test blood sugar and not just check or clean the glucometer.

There were nights I babysat patients in the ER and psych wards, dangerous men who, thankfully, had been given enough sedative to knock them out for the duration of my 12-hour shift. Use this if you need it, said a guard, indicating a walkie-talkie. Pound on the door and yell if you need me. What the?? How was a 107 pound female supposed to contend with a fully-grown, drugged-up psych patient if he all of a sudden woke up?

Despite all that, I enjoyed my time at the hospital. What I didn’t enjoy, however, was the lack of sleep. After working a 12-hour shift, I would come home and sleep for 1.5 hours before my husband had to go to work. I then had to get up and care for my two kids, aged 4 and 2 by that time. I would get in a few hours sleep during naptime, but that was never a given. Then my next shift would start at 7 PM. I don’t remember that summer well, other than the fact I transitioned into what my daughter termed, “mean mommy.”

August came and with it, the panic that ensued as I realized school was about to begin. How were we going to make our schedules work? Clinicals started promptly at 7 AM, which meant that my husband would have to prepare Hannah for kindergarten each day. He would then have to drive Jacob to the school’s daycare, which would consume at least an hour of his morning. My husband also travels for work, so then what were we to do? We couldn’t very well ask his parents to help, as they live more than an hour away. We had no friends, neighbors, or extended family to lend a hand when our schedules inevitably conflicted.

Tensions ran tight between my husband and me as we both realized our quality of life was suffering. I was entrenched in my job at the hospital, and we knew things would only get worse as I became more involved with school. Hannah was upset that I would be missing her first day of kindergarten, and Jacob, at two years old, was acting out and showing the beginning signs of his issues.

My husband and I had a huge blowout one morning, the only one of our 8.5-year marriage. He left for work, and I crumpled on the floor in a heap of snot and tears and anger and frustration.

Somberly, I picked up the phone and called the admissions office at my school. I am dropping out of the program, I announced. It’s ruining my family.

I then drafted a letter of resignation to the hospital.

And just like that, the weight of the world was lifted off my shoulders. I felt relieved, although I hated myself for quitting. Not only did I enjoy my time at the hospital, the nursing position would have been our ticket out of debt and our train to financial security.

Now we are pinching pennies and living paycheck to paycheck. Each month is a struggle.

However, it didn’t take long to find the good in the situation. Just two months after letting go, I realized I was pregnant with Bridget. I’ve resumed my role as full-time mom, and I’ve begun writing (for pay) again.

I reflect on my memories of school and work with great fondness. But it was an impossible schedule, not conducive to life with family, especially young children. With a traveling husband and no one to help, school was just not an option. For me, there are four things more important than a nursing career: Ian, Hannah, Jacob, and Bridget.

A friend of mine just began the same nursing program. So what advice do you have, she asked before summer. She’s a Type-A just like me. Say goodbye to your family for the next few years and make sure you have others who are willing to help. In addition, even though Jacob and her son are no longer in preschool together, I reminded her never to hesitate if she needs someone to watch her little boy for the afternoon (she has school-aged children, as well).

I think I will call on her and see how she’s doing.