There it was, big and red, at the top of my quiz: F.
I’ve never failed anything before, I thought as I got my things together for nursing school. My first three semesters I’d gotten good grades. But now, in my last semester, I was doubting myself. The day before I’d gagged when I emptied a bedpan. How would I perform under pressure if I made mistakes like that in school?
I tucked the quiz in my bag and went out to my car. “God,” I said as I started it up, “I thought you wanted me to be a nurse. Now I just don’t know.” Maybe I should drop out before I do real damage.
Traffic slowed to a crawl. A man lay in the road, a few feet from his overturned motorcycle. No one stopped to help. They probably didn’t know how. But I did.
I pulled off the road and rushed to his side. His vital signs were strong, but he was bleeding from a deep skull laceration. I pulled compresses and alcohol wipes from my pockets. “A good nurse keeps her pockets stuffed with things she might need in a crisis,” my teacher had said.
“Did you get his vitals?” someone asked. A uniformed paramedic was at my side. I updated him on the man’s condition. More paramedics arrived. I forgot my worries and thought only about the patient. Once he was stabilized and in the gurney, the first paramedic turned to me. “Are you a doctor or a nurse?”
“I’ll be a nurse soon,” I said proudly. No doubt about it.
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