Image credit: (Noam_Jacques31 on Reddit)

It’s day. 

I spend almost every day off outside my balcony right after my shifts in medsurg. 

The day is blindingly bright, and I should be sleeping, but I take the time to follow the tree branches like veins against the sky. Easy to puncture, I think to myself, something I'm usually not good at but with practice, I will get better.

My tuxedo cat Bucket nuzzles my legs as I sit down on the creaky canvas seat. I feed her some catnip and she returns to her bucket habitat. Oh to be a cat, where the most important thing on my to-do list is napping,

The day brings light, but also dark. As much as people want to believe that hopelessness is most prominent at night, it also plagues our minds in the day. And if anything it's worse. Thinking that you're supposed to be okay when you’re not. But a new day always brings hope. For change. To do something differently. My work life inevitably fills my mind.

Gif credit: Testament of Youth (2014) by english-idylls

I have mixed feelings about the job. I realize it's very demanding and inevitably taxing on the mind, but it’s also a very rewarding one. Without talking about the gifts patients give me. It's why I joined in the first place. Being there for someone in that way, when I wished someone was there for me. I remember a lady in her 20s who had to undergo surgery. Linda, I think was her name . . .

“Will I be ok?” she asks trembling. I hold her hand as tightly as I can.

“Of course you will,” I smile back.

The sound of a flatline bleeds its way into my ears.

I grew up having multiple surgeries as a kid. I wanted someone to hold my hand when I went under. As pathetic as that sounds. I want to be watching over someone as they put their lives in our hands. When their minds go black maybe they’d feel less of a burden— the loneliness seeping into their bones. I've seen firsthand what anesthetics do to people. Enveloping them in a comforting blanket of nothingness, it's no wonder why people dont want to wake back up. It's cold here.

A gust of wind jostles my clothes reminding me to grab a blanket from inside. I snag my heart-spotted throw and wrap it around me like a cocoon. Squeezing away all the harsh memories and discomfort. I know the job isn't easy, but it's better when you have a strong team by your side. One that doesn't tolerate nurse abuse from both staff and patients. And one that provides a livable wage. The images of my roommate's uncleaned dishes all over the house haunt me.

You see people in their worsts but you have the privilege to help. 30 years in I know the job is the dark but also, weirdly, a light in my life. It helped me realize that life is so fragile, to make the most of it. My cat then suddenly meows really loudly. I smile at her. 

“I just fed you!” I giggle.   

Image credits: (Egadzz_ on Reddit)

It's light now.

I spend almost every sunrise outside my balcony right after my 12-hour night shift at the psych ward. The warm glow of the sun caresses my skin in contact I'm not used to. I was never hugged, my hand never shaken, but probably because I usually have vomit or blood somewhere on me. It was a nice change even if it didn't come from another human. Something my patients deserved too. All their stories of loss, trauma, loneliness, or all three. The triggers that made people think they’d be better off dead. Or the years of neglected help from both the government and those around them that made people lose their control. Control. What life is all about. Whether you have the ability, or resources, to handle the crashing and burning of a spinning turbine. It was unfair really. And anger would always turn into sadness. I'd cry with them, at home, in the confines of my room, having that luxury of letting it out, something they probably do not have. 

I hear the soft brush of leaves, their labyrinth of autumn texture contrasting the simple orange sky. It was easy to get caught up in people's stories, the branches of complexities. The what could've and should've and the ghost that remains. I learned it's okay to cry. Maybe not in front of patients—I want to be strong for them, but for myself. 

Gif credit: Leaves in the win by LoveThisPic

I hear the faint beginnings of conversations from my neighbours, the subtle whispers of what they have to offer the oncoming day. There wasn't any anger in their words like the people of last night from bar fights and aggressions. It was a day to start anew. To breathe out. 

“Pick up kibble for Charlie,” a person says on the balcony below me. 

What do I have to do?

I relax at the cool sensation of the metal railings, peering at the edge and admiring the serenity of the moment. The buddles of dogs passing by sidewalks, their fluffy tails swaying in the wind. I was content with my job. I loved patients who felt like they could trust me enough with their gaping vulnerabilities. A thing I know is hard to do, as being here symbolizes they’ve been let down time and time again with empty words and faulty bandages. I had no time for mistakes, for hesitations. Today I had to be good enough. But what if I wasn’t?

Am I too new in this system, only having graduated 2 years ago? There are so many horror stories that plague the internet, both from our side and theirs. Either lack of funding or nasty nurses; management that only cares for the coins they can pick up after our shifts.

I'm worried that the pain of the world will bury me underground with fire. I'm trying—trying— to see the good. 

Am I being too sensitive?

Do I feel too much to be good at this?

Am I really cut out for this job?

Image credits: (notaregularusername on Reddit)

Its dark now.

I spend almost every sunset outside my balcony right before my 12-hour night shift at the ER. It always consisted of the same thing; crossing my fingers I dont get plunked in the nose because I knew for a fact management wouldn't do shit. 

The sun has set with its shades that paint the city blue. It's a disgusting blue, or rather, a hopeless one. Where every object from everywhere looks born from the same empty sky. I slam my hands on the wooden railing, splinters prickling my skin. I was questioning my life choices. Why were we deemed the heroes, yet selfish and entitled when asking for a raise?  The job was a perplexity, a double standard.

The cars stop passing by the streets, a day full of work for most has finally come to an end. The absence of the whooshing makes the air feel eerily still, stagnant and sticky. The garages that line these alleyways below me are cold, blocky and dark, lit by the long abused lamplights that contain slow buzzing moths. I hated the oncoming night. It never felt right for the day to end when things still had to happen. Things still needed to be fixed. Everything felt too short. Incomplete. Not enough time in the world. 

People try to forget their problems, their incompleteness, in a dreamless slumber. I always had dreams though. Nightmares of beeping machines; failed resuscitations. The unbearable weight of I could've done more? That I wasn't enough? My mind wanders  . . .

The mans son lays there lifeless on the bed as I continue my CPR compressions hours past the final call.“This is your fault,” the man cries. It was wasnt it?

Rain starts to dribbling, echoing on the wooden slabs. This is why I prefer the night shifts—Sleeping during the days when the light comforts me in its illusionary glow. The world is filled with so much pain and hurt. It's hard to think of the good when you keep hearing the cries of parents, lovers, and friends. I hated it. But I kind of had mixed feelings about the space between my free time and my job.

The squeal of a motorcycle breaks me from my spiralling sadness and I inhale a deep breath. Breathing: the only coping mechanism I acquired just last year. When my co-worker reminded me to breathe after the patient stopped.  As much as it was a dreadful thing, staring at endless nothingness, knowing I’d inevitably lose more patients and watch them suffer, maybe it was time I realized that I was doing my best. But to conclude that as true, is a mental effort that I can only imagine will take years to accomplish. 

I worked hard.

I studied hard.

Am I being too hard on myself?

Gif credit: After The Storm by Matt Schaffter