The Room (Week 6, IIB)
SO, the blogging thing kind of went downhill once I got home from Louisiana. Life this summer felt like it was moving in slow motion. I didn't have ANY friends there so I spent a lot of time alone. The rotation itself had it's own set of challenges, and it seemed like once I got home life sped up and I'm still wondering where the last 12 weeks have gone. We had our family from Virginia visit, I finally got to catch up with my college friends (and we are savoring finally being so close together again). I've spent a lot of time with my parents and visiting people I didn't get to see all summer. I tried to cram all of summer into about four weeks once I got home.
It seems like things really haven't slowed down, because contrary to my Louisiana schedule where I worked half days and did nothing else but go to the gym, I usually work about 7:30-4:30 on this rotation and I have something almost every night of the week. I am loving the normalcy of "working" (I call it working so I forget that I'm paying tuition to do a job) and then seeing friends or making myself busy in the evening. I love making dinner and having people to cook for and spending time watching football and 'our shows' with my parents. I am adjusting just fine to living around other human beings over the age of five again. :) The best part is that I love to cook, which means mom and dad are okay with cleaning since they don't have to cook. It's a win-win.
When I was in school at Creighton, one of the most terrifying things for me was practicums. I am a decent test taker, but I am overly fearful of making a fool out of myself or messing something up. I am a learn by doing, usually taking more than one trial. Things don't make a lot of sense to me until I do them myself so a practicum is like, downright terrifying. (If you're not in healthcare, this means that there is a simulation set up in a fake hospital room for you to go in.. anything from tough conversations with patients, transferring patients to a different chair, or creating a treatment on the spot based on a question the patient asks.) They all ended up being fine, but one of the scariest moments for me was the knock on the door.
That's a big deal during practicums - I heard people say that actually lost points for not knocking on the doors before they went into the room, because in the hospital, you need to knock. For at least two weeks before practicums, I didn't sleep well. I didn't usually eat a whole lot for a few days before, and the night before I would wake up often in the night going through the motions of the test I needed to run or the questions I needed to ask, and going through any possible results and how I might respond. THESE THINGS TERRIFIED ME.
So it all seemed to sum up to the moment you knock on the door. You often knew NOTHING about your patient, including whether they were male or female, until you opened it. And after that, it was all winging it. For the next thirty minutes, I felt like I was having an out of body experience. Like I was watching myself do the things.
I now go through this motion at least ten times per day. Needless to say, it's much less scary in real life. That might be because in a real hospital room, there's no computer screen reminding you of your time restriction, no video camera recording your every move. No patient who has been trained on their script just hours before. Just real people with real issues who have real questions and need my real help. And real is much easier.
Another thing I'm noticing is that I tend to associate people with their room numbers (otherwise I get REAL lost)- but in inpatient rehab, those people don't tend to be there longer than two weeks, at most. 210 could be a patient who had a stroke and shows a little weakness and speech delay one week, and a patient with Guillain Barre the following who can't move anything but his fingers. 245 could be the precious old lady who calls me by the wrong name for two weeks but thanks me with tears in her eyes for all my help, and then the following week it could be the man who refuses to ever get dressed and throws things at me because he is so angry about his surroundings. The Room contains many options - and more and more, I am enjoying the challenge.
When I was in school, I was worried about remembering the protocol for things for fieldwork - everything from stretching, to theories, to electrical stimulation. I'm learning on fieldwork that the protocol is probably the least of my worries - there are plenty of people willing to help me remember that, and I can look it up. What is difficult is the people in the rooms.
It is the lady who has dementia, so telling her we need to 'practice' getting dressed or other things does her no good - she forgets that she cannot do it. She has been getting dressed for 80 years on her own. Why should she practice? She is agitated that I suggest this.
It is the lady who tells me over and over to leave her alone, but because of the way insurance dictates things, I still have to do my best to get her to treatment twice a day.
It is the man who just had a major stroke and cries because although he knows his wife's name, he cannot figure out why his brain can't form the words to say her name.
It is the person who cannot keep food or medication down, so therapy consists of getting sick every few minutes.
It is the person who has not lived in the United States very long, so they have so many questions about their healthcare, and it seems that no one has the time to truly explain this to them.
It is the man who is struggling because his wife was already scheduled for another surgery tomorrow, and he wants to be home taking care of her.
It is the person who cries because they are too weak to give themselves a shower - they weep over their lost independence and modesty as they lay in bed and I give them a sponge bath.
The most fun part of this job is figuring out the people in the rooms.
The lady with dementia will be motivated by the pictures in the hallway of Kansas crops because they remind her of her past. We will walk by them often during treatment to keep her in a happy mood.
The lady who tells me to leave her alone will soon learn that I, too, am a cat person, and we will find something we have in common. Maybe we will do exercises in bed to talk about our cats.
The man with the stroke will soon learn to say his wife's name and much more. We will have conversation about the world series and his previous job while I stretch him so that he is reminded that this diagnosis is not all of him, it is only part of him.
The person who cannot keep medication down will soon learn how much I care about her when I wipe her chin and remind her that maybe today it is best that we sit and chat instead of moving around too much.
The person from a foreign country will feel comforted when someone finally understands what they are asking and finds a way to explain it that makes sense to them.
The man who is struggling because he wants to be taking care of his spouse will come back to visit one week after discharge and he will open the door for his wife and help her up the stairs.
The person who weeps over their lost independence will send the hospital into cheers when they show up to visit one month after discharge, and - after they left the hospital wheelchair bound - they are able to walk to the nurses station and say hello - they are greeted by tears and applause.
My job is incredible because I am learning to care less about what I 'Should' do - and more about being in The Room.
It seems like things really haven't slowed down, because contrary to my Louisiana schedule where I worked half days and did nothing else but go to the gym, I usually work about 7:30-4:30 on this rotation and I have something almost every night of the week. I am loving the normalcy of "working" (I call it working so I forget that I'm paying tuition to do a job) and then seeing friends or making myself busy in the evening. I love making dinner and having people to cook for and spending time watching football and 'our shows' with my parents. I am adjusting just fine to living around other human beings over the age of five again. :) The best part is that I love to cook, which means mom and dad are okay with cleaning since they don't have to cook. It's a win-win.
When I was in school at Creighton, one of the most terrifying things for me was practicums. I am a decent test taker, but I am overly fearful of making a fool out of myself or messing something up. I am a learn by doing, usually taking more than one trial. Things don't make a lot of sense to me until I do them myself so a practicum is like, downright terrifying. (If you're not in healthcare, this means that there is a simulation set up in a fake hospital room for you to go in.. anything from tough conversations with patients, transferring patients to a different chair, or creating a treatment on the spot based on a question the patient asks.) They all ended up being fine, but one of the scariest moments for me was the knock on the door.
That's a big deal during practicums - I heard people say that actually lost points for not knocking on the doors before they went into the room, because in the hospital, you need to knock. For at least two weeks before practicums, I didn't sleep well. I didn't usually eat a whole lot for a few days before, and the night before I would wake up often in the night going through the motions of the test I needed to run or the questions I needed to ask, and going through any possible results and how I might respond. THESE THINGS TERRIFIED ME.
So it all seemed to sum up to the moment you knock on the door. You often knew NOTHING about your patient, including whether they were male or female, until you opened it. And after that, it was all winging it. For the next thirty minutes, I felt like I was having an out of body experience. Like I was watching myself do the things.
I now go through this motion at least ten times per day. Needless to say, it's much less scary in real life. That might be because in a real hospital room, there's no computer screen reminding you of your time restriction, no video camera recording your every move. No patient who has been trained on their script just hours before. Just real people with real issues who have real questions and need my real help. And real is much easier.
Another thing I'm noticing is that I tend to associate people with their room numbers (otherwise I get REAL lost)- but in inpatient rehab, those people don't tend to be there longer than two weeks, at most. 210 could be a patient who had a stroke and shows a little weakness and speech delay one week, and a patient with Guillain Barre the following who can't move anything but his fingers. 245 could be the precious old lady who calls me by the wrong name for two weeks but thanks me with tears in her eyes for all my help, and then the following week it could be the man who refuses to ever get dressed and throws things at me because he is so angry about his surroundings. The Room contains many options - and more and more, I am enjoying the challenge.
When I was in school, I was worried about remembering the protocol for things for fieldwork - everything from stretching, to theories, to electrical stimulation. I'm learning on fieldwork that the protocol is probably the least of my worries - there are plenty of people willing to help me remember that, and I can look it up. What is difficult is the people in the rooms.
It is the lady who has dementia, so telling her we need to 'practice' getting dressed or other things does her no good - she forgets that she cannot do it. She has been getting dressed for 80 years on her own. Why should she practice? She is agitated that I suggest this.
It is the lady who tells me over and over to leave her alone, but because of the way insurance dictates things, I still have to do my best to get her to treatment twice a day.
It is the man who just had a major stroke and cries because although he knows his wife's name, he cannot figure out why his brain can't form the words to say her name.
It is the person who cannot keep food or medication down, so therapy consists of getting sick every few minutes.
It is the person who has not lived in the United States very long, so they have so many questions about their healthcare, and it seems that no one has the time to truly explain this to them.
It is the man who is struggling because his wife was already scheduled for another surgery tomorrow, and he wants to be home taking care of her.
It is the person who cries because they are too weak to give themselves a shower - they weep over their lost independence and modesty as they lay in bed and I give them a sponge bath.
The lady with dementia will be motivated by the pictures in the hallway of Kansas crops because they remind her of her past. We will walk by them often during treatment to keep her in a happy mood.
The lady who tells me to leave her alone will soon learn that I, too, am a cat person, and we will find something we have in common. Maybe we will do exercises in bed to talk about our cats.
The man with the stroke will soon learn to say his wife's name and much more. We will have conversation about the world series and his previous job while I stretch him so that he is reminded that this diagnosis is not all of him, it is only part of him.
The person who cannot keep medication down will soon learn how much I care about her when I wipe her chin and remind her that maybe today it is best that we sit and chat instead of moving around too much.
The person from a foreign country will feel comforted when someone finally understands what they are asking and finds a way to explain it that makes sense to them.
The man who is struggling because he wants to be taking care of his spouse will come back to visit one week after discharge and he will open the door for his wife and help her up the stairs.
The person who weeps over their lost independence will send the hospital into cheers when they show up to visit one month after discharge, and - after they left the hospital wheelchair bound - they are able to walk to the nurses station and say hello - they are greeted by tears and applause.
My job is incredible because I am learning to care less about what I 'Should' do - and more about being in The Room.
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