3. Ally
3
ALLY
W hen an alarm goes off on the floor, everyone jumps into action, just like one of those hospital dramas on TV.
Every staff member on hand is trained so well that their jobs become second nature. There is no think; there is only do.
They’re completely unlike me, who hears this alarm and looks around, wondering what to do.
I’m not sure if Val says something to me, all I know is that she grabs my arm and drags me along with her as she and several other staff members run toward a patient’s room.
A light above the door is flashing red, telling everyone which room to go to.
Inside, Val releases my arm, and I stand back and watch the chaos ensue. A man and a woman stand by the window. The woman is in tears, her face is red, and her chest is contracting for oxygen. The man is standing behind her, holding onto her arm.
There aren’t tears rushing from his eyes, but you can see the worry on his face. Deep-seated wrinkles are around the corners of his eyes and across his forehead. He looks pale and they both have dark circles under their eyes, telling me they’ve been doing more worrying than sleep lately.
My attention goes to the patient, who’s stretched out on the bed. It’s a boy between the ages of twelve and sixteen. He’s young, thin, pale, and unconscious.
I jump to the side as a nurse wheels in the crash cart. I spin around in time to see Dr. Cole run into the room.
He stops before me, our eyes lock, and time stops.
Something is off about him now. His icy eyes seem darker. His brows are lifted in surprise, causing lines to form across his forehead. His thick lips are parted, and his breath is labored.
For a split second, it’s like we’re the only two in the world, but it’s over in the blink of an eye.
He rushes around me, moving over to the patient’s bed, and getting to work. There’s chaos all around me.
The blanket is pulled back from the boy’s thin body, and someone moves his gown aside.
Dr. Cole presses his stethoscope to the boy’s chest while everyone prepares for the next steps.
Val is holding the BVM to the boy’s face, squeezing the blue balloon-like piece to force air into his lungs.
I’m not sure what kind of experience I’m having. I can see everything going on, but I can’t move or help. I can’t hear anything but my heart pounding.
Dr. Cole is handed the paddles. He places them against the patient’s chest, and I see his lips move.
A second later, everyone steps away, even Val who pulls the mask from the boy’s face. His body arches off the bed as Dr. Cole pushes the buttons. Everyone turns to look at the monitors except Val, who goes right back to pumping him with oxygen.
Dr. Cole says something else, and everyone steps back. The patient’s body arches again, and everyone looks at the monitors. This time, the flat line begins to spike again. I still can’t hear anything, but everyone in the room takes a breath of relief.
“Ally, prepare the OR,” Dr. Cole says, looking at me.
What does that mean? Prepare the OR?
He can’t be talking to me, right? This is my first day. I don’t know how to prepare the OR. There must be someone else here named Ally.
“Ally!” he yells a little louder.
My body thaws. This time, my brows knit together as confusion sinks in. Who is he talking to, and why is he looking at me?
“Damnit, snap out of it, Ally!” he yells, and this time, his deep voice hits me in the chest, knocking me back to reality. He’s talking to me!
“Call the OR. Have the surgical staff scrub in. His surgery can’t wait until tomorrow. Got that?” he asks, looking only at me as the team prepares the boy for transport.
I nod and jump into action, running to the nurses’ station. I grab the phone and glance over at the directory for the extension to the OR. It rings once before someone picks up, and I pass along the orders.
The call ends abruptly, and I hang up just as the team pushes the boy’s gurney toward the elevator. Dr. Cole is right behind them.
As he passes, he looks over at me. “Did you alert the OR?”
I nod once, swallowing over my fear. “I did.”
“Good,” he bites out, picking up the pace as he rushes down the hall.
Suddenly, everything slows down and returns to quiet. I did nothing, and yet I feel as if I’ve run a marathon.
My hands are shaking, and my heart is pounding. My head is screaming, and I’m a little dizzy. I give in, falling onto the chair to catch my breath.
Tears flood my eyes as the shock wears off. My hands shake, and I can’t get enough air. Val stops on the other side of the nurses’ station.
She puts her elbow on the desk and looks over at me with a smile. “I bet you didn’t think you’d see that kind of action today, did you?”
My mouth falls open, but no words come out. I barely have enough control over my body to shake my head.
I watch the smile fall from her lips as a look of concern paints her features. She moves around the desk, grabs my hand, and squats so we’re at eye level.
“You poor thing; you’re in shock.” She looks at the hand she’s holding, watching it shake. “Take a deep breath, okay? Like this.” She takes a slow deep breath, and I follow along, only my breaths are short and shallow.
She shows me again and again, and with each breath, I’m able to go deeper until I have control over my body again.
“There. Did that help?”
I nod, but tears still roll down my cheeks. “It’s alright. Everything is fine. Just a little first-day jitters. Happens to everyone,” she says, standing and releasing my hand. She nods down the hall. “Why don’t you go to the restroom and get yourself cleaned up?”
I nod and stand, not even sure what she means by that, but I need a moment to decompress, so I go. I walk down the hallway in a daze.
Everyone around me looks like they know where they’re going. They all look at me with concern as I walk past in a daze. I know where the bathroom is; I passed it earlier. Now, I’m just relying on my subconscious to get me there because my mind is occupied by everything that just happened.
Why did I react like that?
How could I freeze up when there was a child there that needed help?
What if I had been the only one there?
Would I have remembered my schooling and jumped into action, or would I have frozen and let the child die? How in the world does anyone get used to this?
How much training does it take to remember what you’ve learned in an emergency and not break down like I’m doing now?
I push my way into the bathroom and stand in front of a mirror, leaning over the porcelain sink. It’s hard and cold, and I use that to ground myself.
What are the steps to calm yourself down when you’re having an anxiety attack? 5-4-3-2-1 Method. Name five things you can see.
I look around me. My hands, the sink, the tiled walls, the tiled floor, the window.
Four things you can touch. The sink, the faucet, the mirror in front of me, myself.
Three things you can hear. Water dripping. My breathing. Voices in the hallway.
Two things you can smell. Bleach and food from the cafeteria.
One thing you can taste… Let’s skip that step.
I look into the mirror now and see my red, bloodshot eyes. My lashes are wet and matted together, and mascara is running down my cheeks. I guess that’s what Val meant by getting myself cleaned up.
I wet my fingertips and wipe at the mess on my cheeks. It leaves them slightly red, but red is better than black. Once my face is clean, I turn and grab some toilet paper from a stall to blow my nose. Then I take a deep breath and wash my hands.
I feel better, but I’m still left with the question: Did I choose the wrong career path? Did I make a mistake? Have I been wrong all along?
When I thought about being a nurse, I always saw myself talking to patients, handing out medication, and doing routine checks.
I never thought about the emergencies that required me to remember my training. I screwed everything up. I should have worked toward a degree in business management or something.
There’s never a life-or-death emergency in business management.
It sucks that you waste four years of your life before you learn that you suck in an emergency.
What the hell am I going to do now? This is the only thing I ever saw myself doing.
I push the thoughts from my head as I exit the bathroom and return to the nurses’ station. When I stop across from Val, I lean against the desk. She looks up at me, offering a tight smile. “You know what?”
My brows lift.
“Things are slowing down here. Why don’t you go ahead and clock out for the day.”
“Are you sure?” I look around to make sure I’m not needed somewhere.
She nods. “I’m sure. You did good for your first day. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
“Thanks,” I breathe. “You’re sure?”
“Yep, kick rocks,” she says with a wide smile.
I don’t have it in me to laugh right now. All I can do is nod and start toward the locker room.
I don’t bother changing, I just grab my purse and coat and head for the elevator.
My body feels heavy, and I can’t figure out why. I’m not physically tired. I am mentally exhausted, though. How does everyone here deal with this kind of stress?
I feel like this should be the test on the first day of school to see if you want to work in the medical field. If it had been, I wouldn’t have wasted all this time just to learn that I suck at this job.
By the time I hit the lobby, I’m too tired to go any farther, so grab a seat on a nearby bench. I rest my arms on my bent knees, letting my forearms and hands dangle.
After a minute, I lean back against the wall, and my eyes move up to the ceiling.
What else can I do with a nursing degree? I could find a job at a pediatrician’s office. I’d still be a nurse and I’d still be working with kids. I just wouldn’t have to deal with life-or-death situations. I’d just take temperatures, check blood pressure, and fill out charts. A much more laid-back work environment.
But this is my dream. I’ve always watched medical dramas and pictured myself rushing from ER to ER, making life-saving choices, and having a dramatic, entertaining life that people would tune in for every week.
Shit… maybe I didn’t want to be a nurse at all. Maybe I wanted to be an actor who played a nurse. I roll my eyes.
I don’t know how long to sit there, but I know I can’t go home until I decide if I’m coming back. And I can’t decide if I’m coming back until I figure out if this is going to get better, if training makes all the difference, or if I simply made a wrong decision when choosing my major.
Have I tricked myself into thinking I’m meant to be something I’m not, or is this a case of imposter syndrome?
Am I just overthinking everything? Probably. Does that mean that I’m wrong? Not at all.
When it comes to working in a hospital, you either have what it takes, or you don’t.
My only question is: how do you figure that out?