Genesis of a Band Geek

When I was in middle school, we had the opportunity to join band, which was a big deal and almost everyone signed up. Kids chose which instruments they wanted to play, their parents would usually rent or buy the instrument outright. Those were the kids who picked flutes, clarinets, trumpets, and trombones. You occasionally had some baritones, and the drummers.

For those kids who couldn’t afford the rent or buy option, the school had some “loaner instruments”. Usually, they were the large brass types, dented and dull, which could still play a tune in the right hands. Tubas and french horns. You could take them home for practice, but at the end of the day, they belonged to the school.

My grandfather, a huge aficionado of classical music, convinced me that the french horn was a beautiful instrument, and could not go wrong in picking it. So, I did, meanwhile secretly envying my classmates with their dainty little instruments. I was given a “school horn”, which looked like someone drove over it with their car. Initially, I would take it home every day, and practice, until my parents would yell at me for being too loud. Coupled with the fact that the horn, in it’s case, was too damn heavy for any 6th grader to lug around, I stopped bringing it home.

My grandfather was right in that the french horn is a beautiful instrument. My ear can discern the french horn in an orchestra; a lovely, regal sound.

However, with new french horn players, the part is limited to playing the PAH-PAH to the newb tuba’s OOM!

Our spring concert rolled around, and my parents attended to see their daughter in her first big band concert. After, my dad remarked on how it didn’t seem like I got to play much. Did I like playing the french horn? Not really. Would I like to play something different? Yes!

After talking with my band instructor, he said I could switch instruments and play something else the following school year. The caveat being that I needed to practice during the summer to catch up to the other students.

Now, which instrument to pick. I flirted with the idea of playing the flute, only because my aunt had an old one I could have.

“What about drums?” My father had asked. A guy he did work for had an old kit that his son used to play on, but had lost interest. Mom wasn’t thrilled with the idea of trading a french horn for an even louder 5-piece drum set, but relented. So, Dad shelled out $100 and I got an old, silver drum set in my room. The heads were worn, and needed replacing, but it would be a good starter set. I didn’t have drum sticks, so Dad fashioned some sticks for me, and all summer I spent pouring over books of rudiments, learning sticking and music. I made sure to play the drum set only when my parents were working.

The following school year, I was excited to participate in band. The school had their own drums, so I didn’t have to worry about buying or renting a snare. I just used theirs. The same went with the sticks until I was able to order a pair of my own from my band teacher. Beautiful honey-colored drum sticks! I loved playing the drums, although there was a huge downside to being in the percussionist pit. My school bully also switched to drums. What was my joy, became my own personal hell as she picked on me for the hour we were in class (not to mention before and after), to the snickers of those close by, and the apparent oblivion of our band teacher.

As far as our band teacher (Mr. T) went, I think he was fairly ambivalent about me. He definitely had his favorites, but I was not one of them (and I was completely fine with that). However, he always was willing to stay after school and help me with a challenging rudiment or piece of music. He was always frank, tough, and demanded nothing short of the best of our abilities. He made me mad more times than I could count, but I always came out of it a better than when I started. From him, I learned that I need to keep doing something until I get it right. Never give up.

When my parents divorced, Dad uprooted us and moved to middle-of-nowhere Nebraska. The band wasn’t as great, and the percussion pit was heavily sexist. Boys get to play the drums, and if you had a vagina, why don’t you go over there and play the cymbals or the xylophone? Assholes.

Our first chair drummer managed to break him arm during a wrestling tournament, right before our Christmas concert. Our teacher, one-by-one, called all the boys in the pit to step up to the kit and play to music we had be rehearsing for the concert. Turns out, the boys in the group didn’t know much about playing a full trap. After a few awkward minutes, I stood up, grabbed my drumsticks, and took a seat at the stool. Some of my classmates snickered and made snide remarks, my teacher sneered. “You know how to play??” he asked. I nodded. He wanted me to demonstrate my abilities, I told him to just have the band start playing the damn song. So, he shrugged and raised his baton.

At the end of the song, everyone in the class turned around and stared. The concert came, and I played, just as I always done. My parents had long stopped attending my concerts, so I didn’t think too much about it until my Dad approached me the following week.

“Some guy at the gas station asked if you were my daughter.”


“He said he saw you play the drums last week at the school concert. He said he’d never seen anything like it. I guess you can play pretty good?”

“I guess so.”

He later was approached by three other strangers, all asking about “that little blond girl who plays the drums”. He never said it, but I’d like to think that made him proud.

A lot of band nerds out there get shit on for being band nerds. Anything with the arts is dismissed as being frivolous and not possibly amounting to anything but a hobby. The thing with being in a band, is that music doesn’t care what you wear, what you look like, who or what your parents do, or where you live. Music transcends anything material, and can take you to a place where you forget about your problems, your alcoholic father, your absent mother, or that the electricity was turned off in your house. Making music, being in a band or even solo, is like creating something that is bigger than yourself. If it was band-related, I soaked it up. Marching band, Symphonic Band, Pep Band, Conference Band. My hands would have blisters and callused from all the playing I did. I knew I always wanted this in my life, and made the decision during my sophomore year of high school, that I, too, wanted to be a band teacher. But, life happens and you end up taking a sharp right turn.

After the whole “little blond girl who can play drums” incident. My classmates accepted me better. My music teacher respected me. He even had me instructing the newly minted percussionists in the junior high in basic rudiments. Four girls signed up to for percussion that semester, and a few of my “students” went on to play for large university drum corps.

My husband surprised me with a drum set for my birthday. A beautiful kit, which I have added to and play once in a while. I’m excited to have it in my life, even more so about the idea of teaching my daughter how to play. It’s a shame that more emphasis isn’t put on the arts as they used to be. American education is geared towards tests and test scores, and not about learning and personal enrichment.

Band nerds are still cool to me. Anyone who doesn’t think so can suck it.


A Slower, More Emotional, More Derpy GB, RN

So, things have been all weird and stuff since I got pregnant. My boobs, of which I never though possible, grew in size. I always managed carrying them well before, with no back aches. Now, my lower back complains loudly of that added cup size. Not to mention the areola parts are the size of dinner plates. And they hurt. A lot. Log learned very quickly that as exciting as they may look, to touch (or even attempt to), will cause your wife to hiss like a damn feral cat.

As far as the belly goes. It turns out with chubby girls, baby just pushes what you already had, out. The upside is that baby is well insulated and protected. The downside is that no one can really tell that you are pregnant, especially in scrubs. Instead, you just look like you went on a bender over the holidays and you really need to consider laying off the pasta.

When I shower and am standing in front of the mirror, I look like something out of National Geographic. Log still thinks I am the most beautiful woman in the world. I love this guy.

During the first 10 weeks of pregnancy, I lost a lot of hair due to the excess progesterone in my body. Brushing my hair was really depressing. Brushing my teeth was a challenge that no one warned me about. I switched to a water pik for a while, which was a little better, unless I accidentally sprayed the back of my throat or tongue and was followed by ten minutes of torturous gagging.

As far as nausea goes, I had it in spades. Mostly in the mornings, peter out by lunch. I would roll my eyes at how cliché that was. I seldom could follow through and seal the deal. I hate throwing up. I do it with such force and enthusiasm that I pop blood vessels in my eyes and face. Of the few times I did have the Technicolor yawn, it was random, spontaneous, unprovoked, and into the kitchen or bathroom sink.

So, now I am settling into week 23. Just over the halfway mark.The nausea has pretty much subsided. Of course, I managed to catch some sort of upper respiratory virus that has rendered my speaking voice fairly trashed. Now, I sound like that lady who has smoked 3 packs a day for 30 years. Or about half the women on my father’s side of the family. Coughing and sneezing came with its own perils to clean and dry underwear. Also, something no one bothered to warn me about.

As funny as this is going to sound, I still don’t mentally feel pregnant. I used to think that some sort of transformation would occur and I would just “feel pregnant”. We’d go to ultrasound, and see the baby on the screen, and my brain would go, “Wait…that’s in your belly!” It’s so bizarre, the disconnect, but apparently that is normal. I only decided last week that I kinda like the wee girl that keeps kicking my ovaries. She keeps up with that, though, I might have to rescind my like. She will have to earn it back once she comes out. I already plan on talking with her about this after she is born.

Another difference I have noticed, and immediately forgotten, was how dumb I became since being knocked up. Pregnant Brain is real. The struggle is real, even though we forget about it ten seconds after we realize it. I used to be a genius. An intelligent firebrand. Now, I’m reduced to slack-jawed “Uhhh…” When Log asks me even simple questions such as, ” Why is the milk in the pantry?” and “What is 2+2?” I think his friends warned him. I don’t think he believed it. Especially when I see the realization dawn on him that he married a derpy woman and the deepest conversation he might ever have with me now is about what we should have for dinner, only after he has to remind me what dinner is.

Before pregnancy, I was an emotional rock. Never cried. Kept my feelings in check. Not anymore. I cry at everything. Every. Damn. Thing. Commercials. Facebook posts. A dirty sock. Throwing out leftovers that never got eaten. I didn’t cry, but I felt really, really, bad, about my car when we traded it in because I thought it would experience feelings of rejection. I also get mad, and stay mad, at a lot of stuff. Mostly things with politics, religion, and those goddamn anti-vaxxers. I really, really hate them.

Before pregnancy, my ability to hold my urine was practically a super-power. Other nurses would admire my ability to not have to go until the end of a 10 hour shift. I’d strut to the bathroom like some sort of Bladder Badass. Now, I scurry in shame ever 30 minutes to pee out 5 drops. I’m told to go my Kegel exercises with the religious zeal of a Southern Baptist in Utah, but in the next breath am told that in the end, it won’t matter.

Despite all these fun and adventures, I can’t say that I have been miserable. I’m told that misery comes in the third trimester with hemorrhoids, bloat, cankles, muumuus, and the countless advise of every person, stranger or not, on how to raise your child.

But I have my husband, who has been awesome. And I have a Snoogle, which has been pretty cool for sleeping. I’m sure I can make it to the finish line without too much trauma.

2014: The High Points

2015 entered in with the sound of small pops and the smell of gunpowder. I happened to have a bag of poppers that bought on clearance somewhere. So, Log and I rang in the new year blowing off a couple before going to bed. We did not do any parties, big or small. 2014 wore us out.

Log and I capped off the year with our wedding. We had originally planned on the nuptials being in May of 2015, but we got some unexpected news which made us move the date up. It turns out that our wedding date conflicted with my due date.

Yes, I am pregnant.

I have been seeing a fertility/endocrine specialist to try to figure out why my plumbing didn’t work, and apparently hadn’t worked correctly since I was a teenager. We didn’t go balls-out with out quest to get pregnant, which is to say we didn’t go IVF or anything that extreme (or expensive). “Let’s take it up to that point and see how it goes,” we told our doctor. So, she lined up some medicines, we kept track of stuff (I peed on a stick twice a day), and we planned romance! Truth be told, we didn’t expect things to work the first time out of the gate, but it did. I started feeling crappy, tired, and boobs hurt as much as they did when I grew them the first time around.

We both strongly suspected I was pregnant, but wanted a test to confirm. When that morning came, and I showed Log the positive test, he did a little nervous shuffle in the hallway, exclaiming in disbelief, “I’ve never gotten anyone pregnant before!”

Here we are, at the halfway mark, and are eagerly awaiting the arrival of our daughter. This one isn’t even out yet, and people are already asking about a second baby. Sheesh, people! We need to see if we even like this one first!

At any rate, we decided to move up the wedding date, and proceeded to put together a kick-ass wedding in a matter of 6 weeks.  The final product was the wedding we wanted. The food was delicious. The music butt-shaking. Everyone still talks about how awesome the whole thing was.

On a sad note, we had to put my cat, George, down. I will blog more of that later. I was looking over this blog, and realized that most of my posts are about pets and people dying. What a depressing blog. I need to work on that.

One a high note, we got new windows and a roof on the house! Now, when the wind blows, it doesn’t sound like the entire place is going to blow in. The day after we found out about our tentative bundle, Log called and got an estimate for the windows. I told him that nesting doesn’t usually occur until later in the pregnancy, but there’s nothing wrong with getting a head start.

Now, we are into 2015. So far, the year is off to a great start. I still like my job, at the clinic. Log has a new job. We traded in the PT Cruiser for a more sound, and less likely to break down every other week, Subaru. I’m a couple pairs of yoga pants and a Starbucks cup away from being a beady-eyed soccer mom. I’m sure a move to Johnson County would expedite the transformation, but a move to Kansas is unlikely as I predict that state will become the armpit of the Midwest. The Mississippi of Flyover Country, if you will. I’m sure I will rant about it later.

New year, new outlook. All sort of newy newness. I can’t wait to bitch about all of it.

Time to go fishing.

A Hand-crafted Ship…A Builders Harbor

It is with sadness that I report on the passing of Mr. Recommendation.

He does not figure prominently on this blog, but did garner frequent mentions on the old blog. For those of you who don’t know, allow me to elaborate.

Mr. Recommendation was my mother’s companion for almost 8 years. He once asked for her hand in marriage, he gave her the ring, and she accepted, but nuptials never materialized. I’m not here to get into the relationship between him and my mother, for it is not my story to tell. Instead, I will just tell you about the man.

Mr. Recommendation earned his nickname when I bought my first house. Him and Mother came over to inspect the new digs. Mr. R dabbled in home improvement, and everywhere he went, he had an idea. He always prefaced it with, “If I may make a recommendation…” My friend, Indy, gave him the moniker, and it stuck.

For the most part, his ideas were good. He an occasional bad idea, like suggesting I paint the raised wooden seam on the floor between the living room and the dining room (two different kinds of flooring…it looked like a speed bump) a bright, neon orange or yellow so people would see it and no one would trip over it. I vetoed the idea. I didn’t anticipate entertaining many legally blind guests. If I did, I’d just mention the floor thing.

But like I said, he had some good ideas. Mr. R was a guy who genuinely liked to build things with his hands. It gave him a certain pride and joy that his desk job didn’t give him. I went away on vacation, and returned with a beautiful new mantle over my fireplace. He installed all the new lights in the house, rebuilt my shower stall when it started leaking into the downstairs laundry room, redid aforementioned laundry room, helped me paint, remodeled my kitchen, and put new flooring down on the stairs and hallway when it was demolished by a St. Bernard. All for just the cost of the supplies. In the winter, he would clear my driveway. In the spring and summer, he would cut the grass.

He guided me on dives after I got scuba certified, and quite possibly saved me from getting eaten by a shark. I’m not sure, it’s just heresy.

75% of the time, Mr. R was a nice guy, and I liked him. The other 25%, he was an asshole, and no one liked him. He loved to laugh, but had lousy comedic timing. Most of his jokes would come out awkward, racist, and generally not funny. He loved to eat, never met a buffet he didn’t like, hated vegetables, and wasn’t very nice to wait staff. For all his flaws, which were many, he loved my mother, unconditionally. He would have given her the moon on a platter, but sadly, his body would not allow it. I suppose you could say he was a good step-dad to me, but I couldn’t allow myself to be close to a step-dad type because I’ve done that before, and I have had it taken from me. I still harbor feelings of resentment for it.

And so, we say good-bye on Friday to Mr. Recommendation. I will remember him when I hang decorations on the mantle, clean off the kitchen island, and trip over that damn wooden speed bump.

Celebrity Death Match: Nursing Edition

(Originally published 2006)

Welcome, ladies and gents, to the first ever Celebrity Deathmatch: Nursing Edition. Okay, so neither contestant is a celebrity, and only of them is a nurse…but why be bothered with trivial details when today’s match promises to be a harrowing, nail-biting experience.

And on with the show!

In this corner, standing a robust 5’2″, but wearing clogs that add 2 more inches to an already intimidating height. Short blonde hair, and hot pink scrubs…is the voluptuous, the sarcastic, with the ability to bring quivering First Year Residents to their knees: GB the RN! (wild applause)

And in this corner, towering at 6’4″, weighing in…well, we don’t know the weight because he broke the scale, a patient who is no stranger to psych meds, who boasts the ability to seduce unsuspecting females with his sheer manliness, presenting: Chester the Molester! (boos from the audience)

Both contestants take their place in the ring. GB on one side of the desk, Chester on the other. Before the match begins, we had the opportunity to talk to them both to find out just who will win this match, and why.

CDM: GB, why do you think you will win this match?

GB: Because I have a high IQ, razor wit, and quick access to hospital security.

CDM: Chester is 3 times your size. Aren’t you worried he will squish you?

GB: No…because I can always outrun him. I can toss some cookies from the galley at him and distract him while I run away to the safety of the Med Room.

CDM: An excellent strategy, indeed!

CDM: And you, Chester, why do you think you will win tonight’s match?

Chester: I will use my secret weapon.

CDM: And what would that be?

Chester: I will flash my penis at GB and she will become so enamored, that she will surrender herself to me and my wills.

CDM: What makes your penis so special?

Chester: It is magical. Why today, two nursing students saw it and they were so intimidated by it, they never came back to my room.

There you have it folks. Two opposing forces at work. Who will come out the victor?


Round One:

GBsits at the desk across from Chester’s room. She appears to be charting on her other patients. Chester comes out of his room and approaches GB. He is wearing a hospital gown and clutching a sock.

Chester: I have a question.

GB: What is it?

Chester: Well, I have a friend coming over tonight, and we plan on having sex. So, what is your policy on that.

GB: Would this be related to the escort services you were calling all day today?

(Wow! A quick sucker-punch from GB. That short girl sure is sneaky!)

Chester: We don’t want to be bothered. So, can you not come in the room because we are having sex?

GB: This is a hospital, Chester, not a hotel. It’s midnight and you need to go back to your room because you are disrupting the other patients.

GB 1, Chester 0

Chester turns around and drops the sock. He bends over to pick up the sock and the gown parts to reveal a very large, very dimpled ass. GB throws up in her mouth a little and vows never to eat cottage cheese ever again.

GB 1, Chester 1

Round 2:

GB is sitting at the computer entering orders. Chester comes out of his room, pushing his IV pole, still wearing his gown. He meanders down the hall, exposing his ass to the rest of the staff, and offers to show his penis to anyone who asks to see it. Charge nurse appears and orders Chester back to his room. The staff is nauseated. GB glares at Chester when he smugly returns to his room.

GB 1, Chester 2

Round 3:

Chester calls from his room announcing that he has peed all over himself and he needs the tech to personally give him a sponge bath. GB and staff tell him there is nothing wrong with his hands and he is fully capable of giving himself a shower. Chester goes off to the shower, but not before inviting one of the nursing assistants to come and take a shower with him. The staff all tell him no. GB is still glaring at Chester.

GB 1, Chester 2, Staff 1

Round 4:

It’s morning, and the day staff is in. Day-nurse is getting report from GB and appears to have taken his place in this match: a tag-team partner! Chester, not to be ignored, comes out of his room stark-ass-naked. This atrocity is witnessed by GB, Day-nurse, 2 residents, and 1 other nurse. The horror is collective.

GB/Staff 2, Chester 3

“My gown is too big” Chester complains while absently playing with his nipple. In unison, GB and Day-nurse demand he return to his room. GB also barks that he needs to shut his curtain because no one wants to his his naked butt. First year resident turns green.

GB/Staff 3, Chester 3, Resident -1

Chester comes out of room 5 minutes later with a sheet wrapped around his waist, only the sheet doesn’t fully wrap around, and there is an opening right in the front, strategically showcasing his wiener. All the residents retreat.

GB/Staff 3, Chester 4, Residents -5

GB stands up and points a finger at Chester and yells, “Get back to you room and cover yourself! If you come out of your room one more time, I will have the police come up here and they will deal with you personally!!”

Chester beats a hasty retreat to his room and closes the door. If one thing trumps his penis, it would be police with tasers.

GB/Staff 4, Chester 4

GB and staff ask his primary doctor for discharge orders and get it. Chester will be going home!

GB/Staff 5, Chester 4

And GB wins in a come-from-behind victory!! We tried to get a post-match interview with her, but she grumbled something about going home and jabbing sharpened pencils in her eyes before going to bed.

So, tune in next time for Celebrity Deathmatch where we will pit Lindsay Lohan against the entire medical encyclopedia of sexually transmitted diseases!!

Surviving Nursing School: Your First Patient

(Previously published, May 2009)

After mountains of prerequisites and enduring a waiting period of two-years because every other Tom, Dick, and Harry want to be nurses, you finally got into nursing school.

Hooray. For. You.

You get your list of crap you need for school…books, charts, other books to tell you how to read the nursing books because they are written in some dead language, but you really get excited about the list of stuff you will need for clinicals. Clinicals!! It is the opportunity to get out there and get your feet wet. You get to show off those new skills you learned in skills lab on a practice dummy that can’t tell you what an idiot you are for putting it in the wrong hole. This is your time to shine! You’ll be so good at it, the nursing instructors will have no choice but to pass you after your first day, and recommend that you take your boards immediately!

Usually, you start out slow. You get one patient to take care of for a clinical day, which generally lasts 8 hours, but actually breaks down into 4 hours when you subtract lunch…and conference with your instructor before and after your “clinical day” where you dissect everything you managed to fuck up without actually killing the patient. The day before “clinical day”, you go to the “clinical site”…which is just a fancy way of saying hospital or nursing home, to get information on that one patient that will be your charge for a total of 4 hours.

So, you get dressed up in your smart business wear, because you have to look professional when you go to piss off the nurses by stealing their charts to pour over for 3 straight hours, writing down all the information that is pertinent: diagnosis, past medical history, current orders, old orders, procedures, medications, when they last passed gas. If you’re patient is relatively new, you struck gold. If your patient has been there since the invention of the foley catheter, you probably pissed off your instructor at some point, and this is their retribution.

Armed with your mountains of notes, you go home and spend the remainder of the evening writing up care plans, and small essays defining the diagnosis of your patient, and researching every little medication the patient takes, right down to the medicated pad they use for their hemorrhoids. And when you are done, you have just enough time for a 2 hour nap, get up, get dressed in your snappy nursing school uniform, and report for clinicals…usually stopping at Starbucks on the way to pick up the strongest drink they make. (I blame nursing school for my caffeine addiction.)

Most nursing programs start their students out in nursing homes before exposing them to the cutthroat world of hospitals. You go, get your standard little, blue-haired lady. You give her scheduled medications. You give her a bath. You do an assessment. You chart about the whole experience. You spend the day talking to her and have her brag to you about her grandchildren, (or sometimes you get to hear them complain about their horrible children who put them in the home and never come to visit). You go home feeling good about the new career you have chosen for yourself because you get to help people. A relatively easy and positive experience.

Yeah, too bad that didn’t happen to me.

I got my patient assignment, and made a beeline for the facility after class because I was an excited, young nursing student. I asked the nurse for the chart of my patient, and I could have swore she smirked at me. Whatever! I sequestered myself to the staff break room and furiously wrote down everything, right down to the last time the patient pooped and a summary of what it looked like. As I wrote down the history, I gave pause to the phrase “morbid obesity”.

Webster’s Dictionary defines morbid as “grisly” or “gruesome”. Apparently, there’s Garden Variety Fat, and there’s Stephen King Fat. My patient being the latter.

After my copious note-taking, I went to my patient’s room. It was customary to introduce yourself to your patient, as the student nurse who would be taking care of them the following day. Maybe this served as a warning to the patient that they had approximately 12 hours to try to hurl themselves down a stairwell, or find some other means to get themselves transferred to another facility, hospital, or mortuary.

I knocked softly and entered the room. All the doctor’s notes in the world could not have prepared me for what waited on the other side of the door.

If Jabba the Hut and a troll doll were to make mad, passionate, love and out of that forbidden love created a child, that child would have been my very first patient in nursing school. For there, in a bed that could have easily supported the weight of a Chevy Silverado, lay my patient. All 700lbs of her. And crowning the top of her head was the hair in an eye-catching shade of hot pink. It was standing straight up, just like a troll doll.

After an internal struggle to keep my shocked and mortified expression in check, I talked with her for ten minutes. As I drove home, I tried to figure out just what I did that curried the anger of my clinical instructor. Not even two weeks in, and I was already pissing people off.

The next day, I show up, Starbucks in hand. I’m told I need to give my patient a bath, as in get her out of bed and into the shower. I blanch. This requires the work of ten nursing students, using a hoyer lift. We wheel my patient into the shower and proceed to hose her down, all coming out equally drenched. We find out later that the patient hadn’t seen the shower room since the previous semester when nursing students invaded the facility, and that this patient had just been getting bed baths up until now.

But on a positive note, I found the remote control she had been missing for a few days.

Somehow, I managed to survive the day. While I never had to have Bertha the Troll back, my other classmates did get their turns…and clinical days were much of the same: hoyer lift, shower, the twist being the item we would find nestled in her, ahem, folds. Sometimes it was food. Sometimes it was a comb. Other times it was something we couldn’t readily identify.

The charming, blue haired lady with delightful tales of her grandchildren? I never got to take care of her. Instead, I get the frosty old bat who complained about her hemorrhoids all the time. The mentally retarded patient that ate his boogers. The senile old man that pinched my boob and left a big, bruise. And the lady with Alzheimer’s that pulled me into the bathtub with her during that fleeting minute I turned my attention away.

And such was my first semester of clinicals in nursing school. Nursing…welcome to it.