Just Like Riding a Bicycle

I was right; it was like riding a bicycle.  Last night ended up being not so bad, after all.  What a relief!  Sure, my shift was busy and a little stressful at times, but I dealt with it.  Admittedly, I was a bundle of nerves when I walked onto the floor and introduced myself.  It’s never easy being the new girl.  It’s even more difficult when the new girl feels like a fish out of water.  There I was, in an American ICU, scared out of my mind.  I plastered a smile across my face, but I was trembling inside.  I doubted myself.  I had grown accustomed to the practices and pace of my ward in Australia, and was certain I had forgotten every last bit of my critical care training and time management.  But, as I sat down with the outgoing nurse to take report, it all came back to me.  I remembered what questions to ask.  I understood what I needed to do.  I was able to formulate a plan for the night.  Even though I knew it wasn’t going to be an easy night, a wave of relief rushed over me.  I did belong there.  I could do the job.  It’s going to be a while before I gain all of my confidence back, but last night was a good start.

Diving Back In

The time has finally come.  After running around like a madwoman for the past week, getting physicals, immunizations, and re-certifications, I’m finally ready to go back to work.  Tonight will be my first shift back, and I have to admit, I’m incredibly nervous.  I need to lie down and take a nap to prep for my overnight shift, but I doubt I’ll get much sleep, thanks to the butterflies in my stomach working overtime.  It’s been a year since I’ve worked as an R.N. in the States, and nursing here is a whole different ball game from nursing in Australia.  Here, I’m expected to be more aggressive and autonomous.  Here, I actually have to do head-to-toe assessments, start my own IVs, chart, and truly manage my patients’ care.  I haven’t done any of that in a very long time.  I really hope it’s like riding a bicycle and all of my skills will come back to me once I’m on the floor and working.  Nonetheless, I have a feeling it’s going to be a very rough and stress-laden night.  I have to dive back in at some point, though, so I might as well do it now.  I’m just going to stay positive and think good thoughts.  Wish me luck!

This Old Apartment

Little by little, piece by piece, all of our Australian possessions are being sold off.  First, it was the car.  Then, the washing machine.  Yesterday, the TV.  Today, the refrigerator and dining room table will be gone.  I know they’re just things, but they are the things we collected to make this little apartment our home.  Now, they are slowly disappearing and our apartment is becoming no more than an empty shell.  It doesn’t seem to bother Mouse one bit, but maybe that’s because he never really considered this place his home.  I did.  So, one appliance and piece of furniture at a time, I’m saying good-bye to my life out here.

Seeing all of this stuff go, and knowing my time here is coming to a close, is incredibly sad.  Living and working in Australia was a life-long dream.  I worked hard to get here, secure a job, and obtain my visa.  For so long, this was my main career objective and goal.  Knowing that it’s nearly over leaves me feeling somewhat lost.  Now what am I supposed to do?  I guess it’s time to figure out some new goals.

On Wednesday, we turn in the keys to the apartment and Mouse flies back to the States.  I have one more brief adventure, a girls’ trip to Melbourne, but I’ll be on a plane headed to Los Angeles a week later.  I really cannot believe this is almost over.  I’m going to miss this place so much.  (Except for the rain, of course.  I’ve seen enough rain to last me a lifetime.)

Readjustment

It’s strange, but it doesn’t feel like I’m really done with my Aussie nursing experience.  It just doesn’t seem possible.  I know I’ve turned in my badge and said my good-byes, but it still hasn’t sunk in that I don’t work there any more.  Rather, it feels as though I’m on my days off and will be expected back soon.  I’ve woken with a start every day, checking the time, ready to hop out of bed; until the sleep-induced cobwebs clear and I remember that I’m not late.  Right now, there’s no such thing as late.  (A difficult concept to embrace.)  I nearly had a mini panic attack yesterday, when my phone rang in the wee hours of the morning.  For a split second, I assumed it would be my charge nurse, inquiring as to whether or not I was planning to work my shift.  Of course it wasn’t, but my heart didn’t stop pounding until I heard my friend’s voice on the other line.  It’s funny how a little bit of social conditioning can so easily and deeply penetrate one’s psyche.  I wonder how long it will take me to get out of the habit of feeling like I should be at the hospital.  I wonder how long it will take for my body to readjust.  I imagine when Mouse arrives and my life begins to feel like less of a limbo, it will all hit me.  Until then, I just have to relax and embrace my newly-attained unemployment.

Last Day

I can’t believe today is my last day of work.  It seems like just yesterday, I was freaking about my visa status.  I remember the stress and urgency of it all.  I remember exactly how scared I was to start my first day.  I can still feel my heart pounding and my palms sweating as I walked into the hospital’s massive lobby.  I remember meeting everyone and hoping that I would fit in.  And now this experience is nearly complete.  It feels like I’ve just begun to settle in, hit my stride, and get comfortable; now it’s time for me to go.  It doesn’t seem possible.  I knew this wasn’t going to be permanent, but I never imagined it would fly by so quickly.  It’s bittersweet, really.  I’ve truly enjoyed my time here, and I’m going to miss it.  But I am ready to go home.  I’m ready to go back to American nursing, even if it is a tad more stressful.  And, more than anything, I’m ready to be rid of these ridiculous uniforms…

Emotional Exhaustion

Nursing can be exhausting.  The patients, their families, even the doctors, all take their toll on me.  I can handle the physical exhaustion.  A good night’s sleep is all I need to remedy that.  But the emotional exhaustion is a different story; it doesn’t fade so easily.  It gets to me - it permeates my brain, infects my soul, and drags me down.  It makes me feel so much older than I am.  Yesterday was so thoroughly draining that I could barely pull myself out of bed this morning.  And, as I sit here mulling it over, I still don’t feel right.

Maybe I take things too personally, but it’s hard not to.  I’m supposed to be an advocate for my patients.  How can I do my job when the doctors won’t listen?  I would like to believe they’re the experts and they know what’s best, but I’m afraid this isn’t always the case.  I’m the one who watched this patient slowly deteriorate throughout the day.  I’m the one who saw her slip deeper and deeper into the abyss.  Maybe the doctors are right.  Maybe her symptoms are simply a part of the post-operative healing process, and will resolve of their own volition.  But a nagging suspicion tells me this isn’t so.  I was always taught that medicine should be proactive, not reactive.  So why are they simply waiting for the other shoe to drop?  Why are they happy to let her be until she becomes compromised?  It seems irresponsible. 

Most of the time, I try to avoid comparing American medicine to Australian medicine.  These are vastly different medical systems with vastly different schools of thought.  And, quite honestly, who am I to say which is better than the other?  I don’t have the statistics to prove or disprove either one.  But, as a nurse trained in the American system, it’s gut wrenching to see this type of thing happening.  Maybe my patient wouldn’t fair any better with more aggressive treatment, but I can’t stand feeling so helpless.  It makes me so angry.  But for now, all I can do is watch this situation unfold.  I hope my instinct is wrong.  I hope I go into work today and see that she’s improved.  I hope, I hope, I hope…

Picky, Picky, Picky

Sometimes work just makes me want to scream.  I enjoy my job, really.  Overall, this has been a great experience.  And I truly do like and respect the majority of people I work with.  Even more importantly, I appreciate the hospital’s commitment to nurse education and training.  I often wish this had been my first job out of nursing school.  I would have learned so much.  But, I’m not a new grad and I don’t need the same training or supervision.  I know how to insert an NG tube.  I know how to change a PICC dressing.  I know how to care for a tracheostomy.  I’m experienced and competent.  I understand that, being relatively new to this unit and Aussie nursing, I still need to prove myself and my skill level from time to time.  I understand my superiors must be confidant I am competent to care for my patients.  I even understand that a lot of my hoop jumping is the result of working for a government agency – such organizations breed regulation and conformity.  What drives me insane, though, is certain people’s insistence that their way is the only correct way.  I must twist the gauze just so, otherwise I’m not doing it right.  (What!?!)  Proper education is one thing.  Being obsessively controlling is a completely different story.  Some days, it’s all I can do to refrain from rolling my eyes.  Some days, it’s all I can do to stop myself from making snarky comments.  But, that’s exactly what I do.  I smile and nod, acknowledging my superior’s expertise at said skill and do my best to comply with his/her instructions.  I just have to remind myself that this is all part of my learning experience.

The Casualties of Night Duty

My apartment looks like a war zone.  If I didn’t know better, I would swear that a bomb had gone off in here.  My bed isn’t made.  My clothes are strewn everywhere.  The dirty dishes are piled up in the sink.  This place is atrocious.  I’m almost embarrassed to admit I live here.  The sad thing is, I’m really just too tired to care.  Such are the casualties of night duty. Every last drop of energy has been sucked from my body and my care level has dropped to zero.  All I want to do is lie on the couch and doze off into a television-induced coma.  It’s a sad state of being, but after three long nights at the hospital plus Thanksgiving thrown in for good measure, I’m zapped.  So, here I am, wallowing in my own filth, watching reruns of American sitcoms.  The whole situation would make me feel pathetic, if I had the energy to waste on such emotions.  Instead, I’m just numb.  I can only hope that a good night’s rest will boost my spirits and energy levels, because this is just plain depressing.

There is Nothing Fun about Working Weekends

I don’t think anything makes me feel like more of a social reject than working weekend night duty.  My shift doesn’t start until 9pm, so I end up sitting at home, killing time, tormented by the sounds of my neighbors’ merrymaking.  As I try to prep for a long night at the hospital, I’m stuck listening to their loud music, even louder conversations, and uproarious laugher.  Call me silly, but I end up feeling like a lonely, old spinster, listening to the world having fun without me.  It’s pretty depressing.  I know working nights and weekends are simply a part of being a nurse, but that knowledge does little to ease the pain of feeling like the only person in my neighborhood that’s not having fun.  The drive to work doesn’t help much, either, as I’m confronted by hoards of people out and about.  I watch enviously as they socialize on rooftop bars and verandahs, sipping on drinks and chatting with friends.  It’s tantamount to torture.  But, since I’m stuck with these shifts, I just have to remind myself that every weekend isn’t like this.  There are times when I get to dress in my weekend best and join in the revelry.  There are times when I’m the one having fun.  This just isn’t my weekend.  (Come to think of it, neither is next weekend.  Ugh!)

Vastly Different Experiences

A few days ago, I was teamed up with a young, Irish nurse.  One of our patients was an absolute mess, so we decided to clean her up and change the linens before the next shift arrived.  As we worked, we chatted.  “What kind of beds d’ya have in America?” she asked.  I must have looked at her strangely, because she continued on.  “I just think these automatic beds are amazin’.”  She waved the controller around, playing with the buttons.  “We don’t have anything like this back home.  Our beds are still manual.  Ya have to crank 'em.”  I couldn’t help it; I had to chuckle.  The bed she was so enthralled with was ancient by American standards.  I’m pretty sure we stopped using such models in the 1970s, and I told her as much.  We both laughed and continued on with our work, chatting and comparing nursing in Ireland to nursing in the States.

That’s one of the best things about working out here, though – meeting and talking with such a wide variety of international nurses.  I love hearing the first-hand accounts of what it’s really like to nurse in other parts of the world.  The Scottish nurses tell of the strict “Ward Mothers”, who rule the hospitals in nun-like fashion, striking fear into the hearts of all the junior nurses.  The British nurses complain about their ridiculous patient loads, often caring for more than twelve patients at once, including immediate post-operative patients, who require frequent monitoring.  The Indian nurses talk about how the patient’s family members typically stay at the bedside around the clock, providing the majority of the patients cares, so the nurse can focus on more medically-related tasks.  The one Romanian nurse I’ve met tells how the physicians would prescribe antibiotics for inpatients, but because the hospital supply was non-existent, the family members would have to retrieve the medication from the black market.  (Imagine!  In the U.S., patients aren’t even allowed to take their own medications from home.  In Romania, the patients only hope for survival is to obtain medications illegally!)

I find such vastly different experiences and backgrounds absolutely fascinating.  I’ve heard it said that nursing is nursing, no matter where you are in the world, but I have to disagree.  I understand the same basic principles apply, but every country and healthcare system develops its own unique personality and workplace culture.  Nursing in the U.S. is not the same as nursing in Australia, or the U.K., or even Canada.  But I’m appreciative that I’ve been able to learn some of the differences firsthand, as this is knowledge I will carry with me throughout the remainder of my career.

The Itch I Had to Scratch

Why Australia?  I can’t even count the number of times I’ve been asked this question over the past year.  Potential employers quizzed me during interviews.  Family and friends queried when I told them our plans.  And everyone (coworkers, patients, everyone) I meet out here asks, often incredulously, stupefied I would leave the glitz and glamour of Las Vegas for sleepy Brisbane.  (Of course I have to remind them living in Vegas isn’t nearly as glamorous as one might imagine.) 

Why did I push for us to come here?  Why was I so determined?  Believe me, I’ve thought long and hard about this.  I’ve wracked my brain trying to figure out exactly what made coming here such a priority in my life.  I know things would be easier if it weren’t so important to me.  Life would be much simpler if I had been happy to continue on as per usual back home.  But that wasn’t enough for me.  I’m not sure why, but it just wasn’t.  Sure, I can cite logical motivations like professional development and life experience, but my need to come out here was driven by much more than any of that.  It started years before I even considered nursing school.  It came from somewhere deep inside, something I can only attribute to an innate restlessness and wanderlust.  Moving to Australia was an itch I absolutely had to scratch.

Maybe it was because Australia sounded so exotic.  Maybe I was taken in by the stereotypical images of sandy beaches and bodacious surfers.  Maybe I was just in love with the idea of it all.  Whatever the reason, coming out here was a priority for me.  I didn’t want to look back on my life and wish I had been brave enough to do something different.  I didn’t want to regret not taking the chance.

As I approach the nine-month mark, I have to wonder if it has been worth all of the stress, expense, and trouble.  Nothing has gone as planned and life out here certainly isn’t what I imagined.  But being here has helped cast a new light on my life.  I’ve learned so much about myself, and my relationship with Mouse.  I’ve learned what it feels like to be a foreigner.  I’ve experienced a different take on nursing.  I’ve formed incredible friendships.  And, most importantly, I’ve had a blast throughout all of it.  So, yes - it was worth it all.

A Much-Needed Victory

I spend a lot of my time as a nurse feeling frustrated.  I get frustrated with the doctors.  I get frustrated with my patients and their families.  I get frustrated with the seemingly never-ending mountains of poo that abound on our ward.  I get doubly frustrated when I don’t see my patients getting better.  Many days, I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle.  With all of this frustration weighing me down, it’s a wonder I have the will to get up in the morning.  But then, along comes a patient who reminds me how miraculous modern medicine can be.  It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling, and a sense of pride in knowing we not only helped save this person’s life, but also preserve its quality.

Her story isn’t necessarily unique.  She is a very average, middle-aged woman who was getting ready for work one morning when she suddenly collapsed.  Her husband found her moments later, unable to speak or move the entire right side of her body.  He rushed her to the Emergency Department, where they determined she had suffered a massive, ischemic stroke.  Believe it or not, she was lucky.  She had been found in time and made it to the E.D. in time to qualify for lysis treatment.  It’s risky, but can also produce miraculous results.  When she came up to our ward, she still couldn’t communicate or move her right limbs.  But as time progressed, so did she.  By midnight, she was chatting with me, telling me about her job, and using both arms as if nothing had ever happened. 

I know it wasn’t a really miracle.  I know her recovery was a result of years of medical research and trial and error.  But for me, this was a little miracle.  After a long, hard, frustrating week, I needed a victory.  And there she was, asking me for a glass of water.  It’s ironic how one person’s medical emergency can be another’s epiphany.

The Bedpan Diaries

I swear - if I have to change another adult diaper or spend another day fetching bedpans at five-minute increments for little old ladies with teeny-tiny bladders, I am going to scream.  After today’s patient load, I have had my fill.  I don’t know as if I can even look at another bedpan without feeling a sense of dread.  But, of course, tomorrow will be more of the same.  I can’t get out of it.  Our patient population makes such undesirable, annoying exercises a constant necessity.  And, of course, I can’t really scream, as doing so would be unprofessional.  Nope – I just have to smile, be kind, and continue on with the menial tasks I have come to loathe, all the while wondering if this is really what I worked so hard for. 

Part of my frustration simply stems from working on a ward again.  Less acute patients require a different type of care than critical patients.  And, while I have appreciated taking a step back and working with more stable patients, I am beginning to miss the challenge of the ICU. 

The other part of my frustration stems from Australian nursing as a whole.  As I’ve alluded to in past entries, Aussie nursing is vastly different from American nursing.  The Australian nursing model seems determined to keep nurses functioning at a more domesticated, less medicalized level.  It’s what I imagine American nursing to have been ten (even twenty) years ago. 

Aussie nurses don’t collect patient’s medical histories or complete head-to-toe exams.  They don’t draw blood or start IVs, unless specially certified to do so.  And they have to double-check almost everything.  The lack of autonomy is often astonishing (and maddening).  From my perspective, they simply don’t oversee and organize their patients’ care to the same extent as their American counterparts.  Instead, they are obligated to focus on the very basics of care:  bathing, changing the linens, fetching bedpans, and dozens of other tasks, which could easily be carried out by aids.  To my American sensibilities, it seems like a waste of nursing education and resources.  (More importantly, it seems like a waste of my nursing education and skill set.)

Maybe I would feel different if I were working in an ICU right now.  Maybe I would feel less like a cross between a pill-pusher and pooper-scooper and more like a real nurse.  Please don’t misunderstand me, I do enjoy my job and I am loving this experience; I wouldn’t trade it for the world.  But I would really love to go an entire day without changing diapers!

Not All Rules Are Meant To Be Broken

It’s funny.  In my everyday life, I’m not a big fan of rules.  As far as I’m concerned, rules exist for the sole purpose of being broken.  I like being unconventional.  I like living my life in the land of “what if”.  But as a nurse, I thrive on rules.  I see them as a necessary means of protecting our patients, their families, and even us nurses.  A hospital cannot function without rules.  Our patients’ treatments and outcomes could easily be compromised without them.  The rules may not always be popular or fun, but they are a must in the hospital setting.  Even the most inane rule has a purpose.  

As staff nurses, we are required to follow these rules and enforce them.  And it never fails to astound me when patients and their families somehow think they are exempt.  We post signs.  We provide explanations.  And yet, these people look right through us, as if we don’t exist, as if the words coming out of our mouths are unintelligible.  Even worse, they become hostile, calling us names, questioning our competency, and making threats.  And this doesn’t just happen here; it’s the same in the states.  

I know it isn’t easy having a loved one in the hospital.  I’ve been there and know they’re scared.  But I can’t do my job when I’m constantly running into roadblocks.  I can’t concentrate on my patients when I’m wasting time fighting the families.  It’s frustrating and nerve-wracking.  It makes me want to give up.  I just wish these people could see I’m on their side.  Just because I’m not telling them what they want to hear, doesn’t mean I don’t have their best interest at heart.  My intent is to provide the best possible care for all of my patients.  I wish they could see the big picture and comprehend the clinical rationale behind my words and actions.  I know it’s a lot to ask, but I wish they would just try to understand.

Let the Chaos Begin

It’s funny how work can go from a nice, relaxed pace in one moment to cluttered chaos the next.  Take, for instance, last night.  One moment I was laughing and chatting with my patients, breezing my way through their evening observations and medications.  The next moment I was rather frazzled and frustrated.  And it’s not like anything catastrophic happened to turn the tide.  No - it was a series of little things that just kept gathering momentum until they became a full-blown storm, leaving me feeling winded.

It all started when I had to run downstairs to pick up a narcotic from the pharmacy.  (What a pain!)  When I came back, I received orders to prep a patient for CT – STAT!  (Even though he’s been waiting ALL DAY.)  Then I found myself traipsing through the hospital, going from ward to ward, hunting for a medication no one had bothered to restock in our supply.  Next, another nurse needed help checking out narcotics, which she promptly spilled, requiring the entire lengthy process to be repeated.  Oh – and then I had to search for a doctor, any doctor willing to write a simple insulin order for my diabetic patient because his regular team had forgotten and left for the day.  Then another patient required an immediate ECG.  And just when I thought I was getting organized, another nurse dragged me into her room to start IVs on her patients, because no other nurse on the ward can.  All the while, I was trying to squeeze in my normal evening duties, amid my homeless patient (who thought he’d just landed himself in a 5-star hotel with me being his answer to room service) vying for my attention to complain about the hospital food, demanding I find him salt, pepper, sugar and a cup of tea.  Aghh!!! 

Separately, each event was nothing.  But when all of these nothings came crashing down at once, I barely had time to breathe, let alone think.  (And finding the time to relieve my bladder was totally out of the question!)  So, while this job isn’t really stressful, it can be very busy.  Sometimes, it’s too busy, leaving me spinning and wondering how I got myself so far behind.  Sometimes I leave work, shaking my head, simply trying to figure out what happened.

Oops!

I should have known better.  I woke with an uneasy feeling this morning, but shrugged it off.  Still, my subconscious wouldn’t let it go.  Are you sure you aren’t working an early shift today?  Exhausted, I checked the clock again and reminded myself that I had double-checked my planner last night.  I was definitely scheduled to work the late shift, which meant I wasn’t due at the hospital until 1pm.  Content with that thought, I rolled over and snoozed a little longer.  Besides, I reasoned, my body clock always gets out of whack when I switch up my shifts.  I had worked an early the day before, so I wasn’t surprised my mind was playing tricks on me.  I chalked it up to shift-worker’s paranoia. 

It wasn’t long before the phone rang.  It was Mouse calling for our daily chat.  (My 6am is his 1pm.)  After that, I was up, ready to make my coffee and start the day.  It was a lazy beginning to my morning, which I thoroughly appreciate.  I relish the luxury of having this time to myself, of being able to enjoy a cup of coffee (albeit instant) before my run.  This is why I appreciate my evening shifts.  I don’t mind getting home a little late if it means I can start my day as I please. 

Unfortunately, as it turns out, this wasn’t meant to be one of those days.  It wasn’t long before my calm was interrupted again. This time, it wasn’t Mouse.  Instead, the person on the other end was female.  More specifically, my charge nurse was calling.  I knew straight away.  Crap!  I could have kicked myself.  I wrote down the wrong time in my planner.  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes” was all I could blurt out.  My face was flushed and I broke into cold sweats.  I don’t deal well with guilt.  My day had just gone from idyllic leisure to panicked craze.  Ugh!  But, I supposed, that’s what I get for ignoring my intuition.

Feeling Like a Fraud

It never ceases to amuse me when I turn up to work and find I’ve either been assigned the team leader role, or am paired with a student.  (Today I was blessed with a double-whammy.)  I can’t help but chuckle.  (Quietly, on the inside, of course.)  Because, let’s face it, I just don’t see myself as qualified to fulfill either role.  I don’t see myself as a leader or a mentor.  I don’t feel old enough to have anyone answer to me.  I feel like a fraud.  I certainly don’t feel like any sort of authority.  It wasn’t that long ago when I was the student.  A few years’ experience hardly makes me an expert.  Couple that with the fact that I’m still trying to gain a firm grasp on Aussie nursing, and the situation almost becomes laughable.  What are my superiors thinking?!?  I can only hope I sound somewhat knowledgeable and avoid making a complete fool of myself!

Just Close Your Eyes and Count to Ten...

I like my job.  I really do.  I like my coworkers.  I like my ward.  I even like the hospital; it’s a great organization to work for.  My current employer definitely has many redeeming qualities.  Unfortunately, their medication administration system is not one of them.  I HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT with a passion. There isn’t a day that goes by that I do not curse the entire system.  It’s a source of constant frustration; just thinking about it makes my blood boil.  It’s incredibly outdated and unsafe - a handwritten sheet filled with scribbles, cross-outs, and barely legible writing.  No pharmacy pre-checks or official computer printouts.  Nope – any doctor is free to come along and prescribe or discontinue any medication he or she sees fit, with little more than a slash here or a sloppy notation there.  The result is a nursing nightmare and a medication error waiting to happen.  I wish I could take a picture, as the image would make anyone cringe.  Trust me, any sane nurse would be appalled.  Medications get written in twice, simply because the team physicians don’t communicate and are too lazy to review the med chart.  Other times, the docs can’t be bothered to write in correct dosages, leaving us to interpret the order for ourselves.  The list goes on and on.  Like I said, it’s a nightmare.  And when I complain, my coworkers stare at me blankly, as if I’m whining like a spoiled brat.  I can tell they are not actually listening to me.  My words are falling upon deaf ears.  They don’t seem to see the inherent danger in such an unregulated system.  To them, this is just the way things are done.  What’s a girl to do?  I can’t change the entire system and I certainly don’t want to be seen as an angry, negative person.  So, I try to keep my frustrations to myself, only allowing them bubble over when something is particularly appalling or unsafe.  Otherwise, I just have to remind myself that this is all a part of the foreign nursing experience.

(Oh - and don’t even get me started on how we go about procuring the patients’ medications.  That deserves it’s own, individual rant.)

Gone, Baby, Gone

And just like that, he’s gone.  The past eight weeks flew by.  One minute, we were having the time of our lives exploring the northeastern Australian coastline.  The next, he’s boarding a plane.  I knew our time together had to come to an end.  I knew he had to go back home at some point.  I just didn’t think it would happen so quickly.  Our holidays are over and it’s time for him to get back to work, to concentrate on building his business.  It’s time for me to focus on work again, too.  After all, that’s what responsible people do.  It’s just that, unlike the majority of couples, our respective responsibilities take us to opposite ends of the world.  Why does something I’ve dreamt of for years and worked so hard to achieve mean that we have to be apart?  It doesn’t seem fair.  I don’t regret my decision to stay, not completely.  I’m proud of my accomplishments and enjoy my work.  I just wish we could be together.  I wish he could stay.  I guess it’s the age-old predicament of wanting it all.  I’m not a fool; I know that isn’t possible.  So, for now, the best we can do is compromise.  For now, we’re left to make our own rules and navigate uncharted relationship territory.  For now, we have to rely upon phone calls and scheduled visits.  It won’t be easy, but it won’t be forever, either.  And when this is all over, when we’re living in the same house once again, we can look back on this adventure and laugh.

Here We Go Again

He’s packing his bags today.  His flight back to the states leaves bright and early tomorrow morning.  I knew this time would come.  I knew he’d eventually have to go back.  Knowing doesn’t make it any easier, though.  My heart is already sinking.  The loneliness is waiting behind the scenes, just waiting to creep in.  This shouldn't be so hard.  I should be used to it by now.  We’ve done it all before.  He was just gone for an extended stint.  But I’ve become accustomed to his presence.  We quickly fell back into a comfortable routine.  Life was more fun with him around.  He gave me something to look forward to on a daily basis.  My Australia will not be the same without him.  I’m going to miss him.