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When a Nurse Is the Patient’s Family
Over my years at Ricochet, I’ve been very plain about my choice of career. It’s my handle. Most nurses feel similarly; being a nurse isn’t just a job. It isn’t just a career. It’s an identity. Much like the military, nursing school tears you down to rebuild you in the form of a nurse.
We adopt this willingly at first, grudgingly later, then with resignation, then with acceptance, and later, far later, with a touch of regret, perhaps.
Two people-watching episodes this past week brought into focus the real crisis in public health. WuFlu is not a public health crisis, in itself. Rather the grossly politicized exploitation of this novel respiratory disease virus, in service of the lab coat left system, advocated by Woodrow Wilson in the late 1890s and starkly warned of in President Eisenhower’s farewell address, has corrupted and effectively silenced real public health advocacy. Consider two real public health perennial campaigns, largely lost in the noise of COVID exploitation.
Many of you have heard my saga about my bout with cancer and chemotherapy; that is only marginally what this post is about. As a result of my experience, I realized that I had made a major change in my perspective about my own agency in a way I’d never known. It was partly inspired by my husband, who is a skeptic about many things but is big on taking responsibility. But I also began to realize that beyond his support, I had to, wanted to, take charge of my own medical decisions, which meant that I was taking charge of my life in a whole new way.
When the surgeon first confirmed I had cancer, he told me that it wouldn’t shorten my life; actually, he tried to reassure me with that comment on two or three other occasions. I was surprised that he said that, but in spite of all the advances in breast cancer treatment, I guess the first thing a woman might think is, “Am I going to die”? My reaction was, “This is so darned inconvenient.” Maybe that was a thought of denial on my part, but I still feel the same way.
Clever title, isn’t it? Of course, I’m not a doctor nor a medicine woman, and over the last few weeks I’ve learned how inept I am at diagnosing just about anything.
I learned something interesting earlier this month. If you want to donate your body to medical research, there’s usually a minimum weight requirement. If you’re an adult, you need to weigh at least a hundred pounds. If you’re too emaciated, for example, from a long illness, they won’t take you.