S UC C ESS Our Year 12 teacher flicks her finger in front of the class. ‘Girls, preferences need to be in by this date!’ But what do I want to be? I have many interests, from sciences to arts. No, I can’t study arts.
‘How are you going over here?’ Ms Mount disturbs my leg jiggling. ‘Looks good, remember your ATAR number though.’
‘Did you study for today’s test?’ My friend, Carla, elbows me. I shake my head.
She nods, satisfied, but we know we both have. Thou must attain thy holy numbers.
The corridors are empty. Girls are bunkered down studying. Stragglers exchange the questions: ‘What are you doing?’ and ‘Where are you applying?’ ***
I decide what I’ll be at a careers expo.
Squirming through enthusiastic faces, hands offering brochures, and free pens, a ‘Nursing’ banner pulls my attention. ‘Make a difference! Be respected! Ongoing opportunities!’ Wow. My grades are high enough. And I guess I’m pretty caring. *** In nursing class, I immerse myself in the theory and wait for the passion.
Since only 39 per cent of Australians aged 24 to 34 manage to complete a bachelor’s degree or higher, I’m relieved to make it through my third year. Relieved that I’m headed towards success, despite carrying an $18,000 debt after three years of study and 840 hours of unpaid clinical placements. ***
I’m thankful to sit among the 20 graduate nurses of 2014 at our hospital orientation.
Neatening my purple collared shirt, I hear that 3,000 out of 8,000 Australian nursing graduates didn’t gain work. ‘Congratulations.’
***
‘I’m still waiting for that cuppa, ya know?’ Greg complains through his oxygen mask.
04
Laura Clark ‘Sorry, Greg.’
After completing morning medications for five patients, each with two to five pages of medications— unfortunately not all oral—my bladder warns me that it hasn’t been relieved since 6am. A cow has four stomachs. A nurse must have four bladders.
I weave between patient rooms. Each day I might complete two bed baths, two supervised showers, four bed linen changes, two intravenous antibiotic administrations, one intravenous cannulation, two drain tube removals, three hourly urinary catheter checks, two bloods, one electrocardiogram, two preparations for surgery, one transfer to rehab, one full assist breakfast, and pestering the kitchen for one ‘wrong’ breakfast, all by midday.
The prospect of leaving on time at 3pm genuinely excites me—with the trivial sacrifice of my lunch break. I set up my trolley and sterile field and complete Greg’s wound dressing change on his barrelling abdomen while he waits for his cuppa. Smiling, I transport old, red muck stuck to the bandage to the bin. I hear more about how Greg expects more.
I say something soothing and deliver his insulin injection, thankful for no name calling. ***
I find myself wondering what success means to other people as I comb bedbound Eleni’s cloudy hair while another nurse helps set up the blood bag for transfusion. I explain to Eleni—an older Greek lady—the procedure. She looks at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. ‘Your room 16 is buzzing,’ my colleague reports as she dashes out. ‘And 17!’ The guilt of spending precious time in one patient’s room hits me. But I hold her hand as she stares at the line of red liquid going into her arm.
I dart into the next room, nursing instruments in my pocket and around my neck twanging. My post-op complains of pain. His chest—a gorgeous surgical site with neat stitching and steri-strips. There is no analgesia prescribed in his chart. I swear.
