Success – Laura Clark

SUCCESS

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.

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.

The esteemed doctor neglects my calls, so I leave the desk of downturned nurses’ heads scrawling their last-minute notes before shift change.

Helpless without a doctor’s scribble, Panadol will have to do for now.

‘I’m not in the 40 per cent of Victorian nurses who didn’t get a job,’ I repeat to myself, partly wishing I had been.

Eleni is surrounded by family. The contest of who can talk at me the fastest in Greek accents begins.

It’s after visiting hours, but I politely reassure them that an esteemed doctor will be in soon to see Eleni.

Some request tea.

I rush back to my post-op. Pain worse, pulse faint, blood pressure low.

And I wait for the switch to flick so I’ll know I’ve attained success. But I can’t find any ATAR number on my forehead anymore, only frightening numbers on the machine.

Understaffed, no other nurse is visible on the floor to help. A crying phone sits at the desk. I hear my whole body in my ears.

I call a code.

By midnight, I hand over and sink down the dim stairwell with aching knees. Untouched dinner rattles in my bag.

On my day off, I wake up in the afternoon to messages from friends, family and colleagues. I don’t answer.

I’ve missed my yoga class.

I eat some noodles from a cup.

I go to bed for tomorrow’s shift.

I exit the hospital doors at 11pm one night in 2016, headed towards the train station. I’m eager to hear the results that my family has been waiting for.

My phone tickles my hip. A text message from Mum says she’s in the car park for me.

Odd. Terrifying. I get into the car.

But who is this woman asking how my day was?

‘Mum,’ I splutter, ‘what is it?’

Tears answer me. Wait.

I gaze down at the scene. Two apparitions sit in this car.

He was healthy weeks ago. He’s worked hard since he was 16 to achieve his success.

But now he

is

going

to die.

I try to rewind so I can pay attention and understand how the lump formed, undetected, how it spread, so I might save him. So I might prove myself a successful nurse, and daughter.

But I couldn’t save him from the perverse, humiliating and painful deterioration he endured in the remaining months—something he didn’t want his daughter of 20 to witness.

Or to have to look after.

My sleep is filled with my family, life, then always morphing back to work.

Did I give all medications? What patients will I deal with tomorrow? Will my In-Charge be in a good mood?

I eventually realise, while becoming cosier with death, that I want to live.

A nauseated owner of a typical scrappy four hours of sleep, I hold the shoulders of a senior nurse.

Amongst the choir of beeping machines and call bells, her tears drop silently. ‘There’s never any thanks, just a spotlight on your mistakes,’ she says.

The warm wafts from the breakfast trolleys battle the fragrance of human defecation. I pray it’s not in my section.

This won’t be my future. Although I can’t go back to fight those numbers at school, I’m grateful for the journey and lessons. But I won’t pay the cost of grey hairs much too early. I become part of the one-third of Australian nurses actively thinking about quitting. Then I tell society’s success to piss off. I’ve re-evaluated mine.

Eventually, it’s just me and my success.

This girl is a lion

Jess Ali

This girl is a lion, I think She hunts me by looking away

There are creases by her eyes when she smiles (does she smile?) and wispy umber tufts at the cusp of her winter coat

I sit on my hands to keep from

reaching

out

This girl is a lion, I think She haunts me by staying away

I stumble between teak trunks, drunk on the sight of a sliver of sable, so soothing I’m sinking further into the damp heat of the earth

she catches my neck by the scruff and—pulls

This girl is a lion, I think She hauls me towards the edge

We dance through the flickering night feebly toing and froing the conclusion is foregone A purr or a growl

(does it make a difference when the ending is inevitable?)

This girl is a lion, I think I let myself be consumed.