Self-Diagnosis


Sorry things have been a little quiet around here. I had a great streak in September with all the new-and-exciting-adventures-of-a-first-semester-nursing-student. Then school hit its first round of testing and projects due followed by me getting hired. Yay! Income! More on “life things” later.

One of my classes is Assessment. This is where we are to apply all our anatomy and physiology knowledge to actually understanding a patient’s complaints and medical history. Yet, I as I sit in class, here’s what I think about:

Skin and Wound Care: “Hmm…I remember Aunt’s scleraderma was complicated by a wound. I’ll have to ask Mom about her history before she was hospitalized.”

Cardiovascular Unit: “I never heard what the underlying cause of Kit’s PE was except that it was some blood disorder. I wonder who would remember?”

Or when we’re talking about strokes and CVAs, I remember Hugo’s massive aneurism. Or while talking about congestive heart failure, all the events surrounding my grandpa’s hip surgery and why he needed special attention.

It amazes me how much emotion I still have towards these events and how much I’m still grieving them. Then again, I’ve found that in times of transition when I’m undergoing change in my own life, things that “I should be over” well up again. Any anger or “processing” that I need to do in my own situation seems to want the distraction of past events. In the past, I was willing to blame external factors – i.e. changes and disruptions to my life were others’ fault. I should be angry and disappointed in another for my problems.

While I’m unwilling at this point to not lay blame entirely on myself, I am willing to recognize the intrinsic factors that are complicating my perspective. I’m still adjusting to moving to Indianapolis and life has yet to feel “normal” here. I’m feeling forgotten by someone who I hoped would continue to show interest in me from a distance. I’m starting with a new job. And then, of course, you have the normal estrogen and progesterone cycles of a woman. I like to think I am immune to their effects of fluctuation, but yet, am not. I’ve posted a few things on my Facebook page that have drawn criticism from family and friends.  And while I *know* nursing school is where I need to be, there is still a twinge of self-criticism that likes to rear its head every so often: “Why weren’t you smart enough to figure out yourself and life before 30? The clock is ticking on babies and life. Get to work.”

Before moving to Indy, I knew that this transition would have an impact on me because, as my Godmother wisely reminds me, moving is on the same list as death and divorce of the most stressful life events. So, before I moved, I looked into my options for counseling. I wish I had set up with the Orthodox nun who is a licensed counselor before going to the campus office, but oh well, it’s someone. But my plan to have a monthly appointment “just to check-in” was not to be. Nope. The dreaded words…”I think there’s a lot we can work on. We could meet once a week or every other week?”

Just what everyone wants to hear: You are more messed up than you think you are.

I’m stubborn. I want to fix myself. Part of my guilt is knowing that my first inclinations are not to prayer and scripture because that would be admitting that I’m fallible. I take comfort in that I’ve admitted I’m not done on life’s journey. That I need to be saved by grace through faith every minute.

Pride is a b*tch.

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