Maybe med school

The murder of Dr. Tiller on Sunday got me thinking about my career's trajectory. I set out in a career in nursing in 2004 in order to work against Bush Jr.'s restrictive policies on abortion; I decided to train in the very information and procedures he was aiming to restrict. I could be the safe "back alley" abortionist should it come to that.

Fast forward to June 5... I work in county jail as a registered nurse: the only job I could get in a state overrun with mid level providers with more experience than I. Said state also has laws that restrict the performance of medical and surgical abortions to physicians, which means that, were I to get a job as a nurse practitioner, it would not be in an abortion clinic as I had originally envisioned.

By becoming a physician, I would no longer have to fight for the career I want because physicians are licensed to do everything. They are also better trained for their jobs and their role is better understood in the health care world. Maybe it is time to stop trying to have the career I want the hard way and go study for the lifetime pass to the field about which I feel most passionate.

The Sisyphysian Life

We all know people for whom life seems out to get -- the paycheck doesn't get deposited, they start jobs that end before they can blink, the medication refill gets hung up in the pharmacy, they land in jail minutes before an important doctor's appointment. It is for these folks that I provide nursing at the county jail. And it's exhausting.

Warranted but harsh criticism

I am usually unsuccessful at tuning out ambient noise, other people's conversations and the like, which is how I've gotten myself into trouble several times, most recently at work.

I walked into the nurses' station and a conversation between two nurses, "What is the Twin RX?" "It's a treatment." "For what?" "Hepatitis." *TV 'wrong' noise here*

There is no treatment for hepatitis. The Twin Rx is a vaccine (preventative measure) against hepatitis A and B. It was with this information that I interjected into the conversation.

And the nurse handing out the wrong information says, "You know what the problem is here, the problem is that I wasn't talking to you. If I was talking to you, I could understand why you're confused, but I wasn't talking to you. B understands me, don't you? [B nods]. So that's the problem here."

Oh smack.

He was really harsh, which stung, but what bothered me more was the criticism; I hate being called out on my weaknesses. (Funny, who does?) In his defense, it must get old having someone correct you, as I have done so before. Then again, it gets old having to fix someone's errors from erroneous information, too.

30

This is my year 30th year on the planet as Jennifer. Well, it will be in a little over two months, but I'm getting a head start on my project for this, my Year of 30. The project is hiking by myself (someone go resuscitate my mother, please). Yes, hiking by myself.

This idea stemmed from a conversation with my friend David about his hiking alone. He does it all the time! But he's a boy.

Perhaps it's a function of being a girl or growing up in suburbia in the 80s. I dunno. But I was raised (splendidly, capably, but with a little bit of fear) to always have a buddy when leaving the house. Perhaps the 'always' is an exaggeration, but it certainly seems like that is the ideal. In light of not having a conjoined twin, I have interpreted 'always have a buddy' to 'have a buddy when one leaves the confines of civilization, such as when hiking, backpacking, snowshoeing, etc.'. But Year of 30 is the time to change that.

I shall tell someone where I'm going and shall bring my cell phone, but damnit, I'm going it alone. The following photos are from my solo adventures undertaken in early celebration of my Year of 30.

The view from one of many lookout spot along the Red Rocks Trail in Matthews Winters Park.







The Speer Blvd. bridge as seen looking west from Confluence Park. Though not outside civilization, it is my favorite city spot, which I visited this week, so it is included.






Top photo: A crystalis in Matthews Winters Park. I've gotta go back and see the end result!

Evening ride

Man (walking on sidewalk pushing shopping cart): I didn't know I was on a bike path! I didn't know I was on a f*cking bike path!

Me (riding bike on sidewalk): I didn't know I was in a grocery store.

Man: F*ck you! This is not a bike path!

Me: Not tonight, thanks.

Working Colfax

I had jokingly threatened to work my corner of Colfax if a nursing job didn't materialize 'soon enough' (whatever that means). Well, I've managed to fulfill both goals (or at least the verbal harassment portion of the latter).

For those not in the know, I am working as a registered nurse in a medium sized correctional facility in a town south of Denver. Thus far I have trained in the infirmary, where prisoners stay if they're detoxing from a substance or just can't live in general population, i.e. the person in a wheelchair, the man who is so sick he's turned a shade of gray, etc. And I have been trained to work in the pods.

A 'pod' is a living quarter of this facility's inmates. There are 6 pods each with 5-6 day rooms with 20-ish sleeping quarters off the day rooms. There is one day room for women, the remainder are for men. Most of the cells don't have doors, but the day rooms are kept closed and locked most of the time with a person in 'the tower' overseeing all of the inmate's activities within the pod.

Each pod has an exam room in which I check blood pressure, give insulin, check wounds and change dressings and give medications. Indeed, many of these skills I learned in nursing school; what requires instructing is the policies and procedures of the jail and what just takes time is getting familiar with the personalities of the inmates. Such as those of the men in 6A.

Six-A is 'the hole' of Pod 6. It consists of a day room off of which there are 7'x7' cells housing one man each that are kept locked 23 hours a day. The men on this unit are half a step away from the bottom of their housing options (the bottom being the behavioral control unit in the infirmary) so they have little to lose, which makes them, uh, perhaps more vocal than their counterparts in other day rooms.

Which translates into my getting catcalled, just like I might working Colfax. For several days running, this little ol' black guy would wait until after I medicated him to make his appreciation of my ass known to every man on the unit, "Look at her. She has a nice ass. And she KNOWS she has a nice ass. Yes, she certainly does know she has a nice ass. So-and-so said she has a nice ass and she knows it and I know it."

So, while being a nurse may be a better regarded and less illegal profession than walking the streets and working the corners, sometimes the atmosphere of the two jobs is the same.

Nearly Virgin Hare

Despite some controversy as to whether I was a 'virgin' (=new) hare or not, I laid a Hash trail today. The weather did not cooperate; it was overcast with variable amounts of rain. Because I laid trail with flour, I ended up sticky, pasty mess, of which I did not get a photo. Believe you me, it was messy! As with most experiences, I learned from this one.

A) 25lbs of flour is plenty to lay a ~5mi trail.
B) If the trail is well-marked, folks won't balk at its ~5mi length.
C) Try to avoid laying trail so as the hounds stay within site of the start of the Hash.
D) 11 cases of beer is plenty for seven Hashers with some leftover.
E) The public seems less antsy about powdery white substances randomly strewn about, but I think I'll color my flour next time just to be safe (but, no, I didn't see the haz-mat crew. Anyone else? Bueller?)
F) I didn't get snared because the fastest FRB (=front running bastard) wasn't present. In the future, I will prelay the end of my trail, as well as the beginning, as insurance for avoidance of pantsing.
G) I like haring; I'd do it again.