My 8 hour shift turned into a 16 hour debacle because somebody didn't do their job correctly--because of that, I worked a double. I'm even too tired to spin today, though I did take my knitting up to the yarn store so I could partake in group therapy. It was refreshing--especially since none of those ladies used the F word, or called me a liar, or screamed the word bullsh*t at me a hundred times.
When I got home in the wee hours from work, I went upstairs to grab a pillow and a blankie with a plan to finish my last 5 hours of on call with a nap on the sofa. Tip-toeing down the stairs so I wouldn't wake the house, I slipped on the bottom step, whacked my wrist on the banister and landed sideways on my ankle. My ankle is OK, but I'm concerned about my wrist. I have an abrasion, tenderness and some swelling, but pain that shoots down into my thumb. It hurts, but not as much as my psyche after a night of abuse. I'm trying to let these feelings go though, because in the midst of all of that chaos, I was graced in manner I did not expect.
You see, I was ripping my trunk apart looking for equipment my patient had to have. Overwhelmed with anxiety because
someone was cursing at me I couldn't find it, I was getting more and more frustrated and beginning to question the memory that made me think it was even there in the first place. I stepped back from my trunk, looked up at the sky and asked God, "please put that suction catheter in my hand." Two seconds later, I lifted a file folder and there it was...the answer to my prayer. Instant calm.
In the aftermath of such a crappy night, it pays off to remember that though I may have felt isolated and alone, I wasn't. Not really.