In which my horror stories become your entertainment.
I work at a Skilled Nursing Facility as a Nursing Assistant. This month marks my one-year anniversary there! It's a really tough job, and (if I'm being totally honest) I have a love-hate relationship with it. It's crazy and overwhelming every minute of every day, and makes me want to cry and pull my hair out. It's also beautiful and wonderful, because I get to meet and help people, some of which are nearly one-hundred years old. (ONE HUNDRED!!) One day I was sitting at a table feeding four lovely ladies, when I realized they were all in their mid-to-late nineties. I just sat there with my mouth hanging open for a little while, stunned and amazed over that realization.
So is life at Provo Rehab and Nursing. Moments of awe and laughter, entangled with moments of frustration and fatigue. I like to think of it as "life bootcamp" because, to me, each eight-hour shift feels like a concentrated life segment on fast-forward. This job brings out my character flaws, and then forces me to correct them . . . a crucible for growth, of sorts.
Anyways, I was at work yesterday, and went into a resident's room with my co-worker to wake them up for dinner and transfer them into their wheelchair. Before transferring the resident, I bent down to empty their catheter bag into a plastic container for disposal, for the thousandth time in my life. I simultaneously looked up to talk to my co-worker, continuing a conversation from earlier. While talking, I forgot to pay attention to the catheter bag, and finally looked down right as the plastic container filled to overflowing. . . and then all over my pants. I was soaked, in urine, from my thighs down. I had no words, but I'm sure the horror was plastered all over my face. Wide eyes, mouth gaping. The absurdity of the whole situation, as absurd situations often do for me, brought plenty of laughter. And not just any laughter, but the loud, obnoxious, paralyzing laughter.
I was busting up. Because, when healthcare horror stories become reality, what else can you do but belly-laugh?
So is life at Provo Rehab and Nursing.
So is life at Provo Rehab and Nursing. Moments of awe and laughter, entangled with moments of frustration and fatigue. I like to think of it as "life bootcamp" because, to me, each eight-hour shift feels like a concentrated life segment on fast-forward. This job brings out my character flaws, and then forces me to correct them . . . a crucible for growth, of sorts.
Anyways, I was at work yesterday, and went into a resident's room with my co-worker to wake them up for dinner and transfer them into their wheelchair. Before transferring the resident, I bent down to empty their catheter bag into a plastic container for disposal, for the thousandth time in my life. I simultaneously looked up to talk to my co-worker, continuing a conversation from earlier. While talking, I forgot to pay attention to the catheter bag, and finally looked down right as the plastic container filled to overflowing. . . and then all over my pants. I was soaked, in urine, from my thighs down. I had no words, but I'm sure the horror was plastered all over my face. Wide eyes, mouth gaping. The absurdity of the whole situation, as absurd situations often do for me, brought plenty of laughter. And not just any laughter, but the loud, obnoxious, paralyzing laughter.
I was busting up. Because, when healthcare horror stories become reality, what else can you do but belly-laugh?
So is life at Provo Rehab and Nursing.
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