12 Hours
Its 6 pm. You walk in the door and realize in a short twelve hours you’ll be going back.
You open the fridge and grab a cold Fat Tire. You’ve gotten fussier with your beers as you’ve gotten older. It has to be decent beer these days. Your beer usually needs a bottle opener, no more screw or pop tops for you.
The first one barely hits the sides. It’s been a day. Most of them are, aren’t they? It’s a job few people understand. When you think about it — you can’t even name a nurse you know that doesn’t drink. You all go out, everyone orders a beer, or wine, or whiskey. It’s that kind of work. You don’t judge each other — everyone knows. No one drinks sweet tea in your world.
But for the next twelve hours you are free. There will be food after the beer. And mindlessness. Relaxation. A well deserved hot soak and some soft blues to carry you away. Meditation. Maybe some reading — there’s the chakra book or that new novel. Or even TV — a new season of Dr Who beckons.
This time is all you have. Twelve hours. At 6 am tomorrow morning— you’ll go back. Clock in and start all over again. You’ll do the things. All the things that make you a nurse. An OR nurse.
Some time in these next twelve hours — you really need to remember that you are more than all those things.
It’s the only way Real Ann has a chance.
Wish me luck.
