Tonight, I am tired

I haven't written in awhile. I have been traveling again, because that is what happens when I only work 3 days a week. I have decided that something has to change. I feel that I could travel the rest of my life, and never be satisfied with how many wonders of the world I have seen. I need to put my roots down, and let them grow. I am lacking stability, and everyday-ness. I keep looking for the zebras, to spot the next big thing, to experience the next big thrill. It leaves me empty. I want to garden, I want to cook, I want to hike and climb, even if I have to do it alone. I also want to give. I have lived too much of my life taking from other people, and I now need to share what I have been given. It's not mine, I didn't earn it, and it's far too much for me to keep for just myself. I will now step foot into reality. Into the world around me. Into the friendships in front of me. Courage, do not fail me now.

I am tired tonight. Nightshift takes such a toll on my body. How much longer can I keep it up?

I have been thinking a lot about the challenges that we nurses face, especially when confronted with death and suffering. I have noticed that I seem to have become more desensitized over the past 2 years as a nurse. Seeing people in pain no longer hurts me. Often times I find myself saying in my head, "Oh, I wish they would just suck it up." Stories no longer shock me, even when involving gruesome details, and I cannot recall the last time I shed a tear over a patient of mine, or a story involving someone else. As nurses, we are bombarded with so many shocking things, over and over, that these things tend to lose their shock-value. Our emotional triggers become rusty. Our cells no longer respond to the insulin that our body produces. Some have said that this is a good thing, because otherwise we nurses would be unable to even step foot in a hospital, after all of the suffering, pain, hopelessness, and evil that we have seen.

My challenge has now become one of a balancing act. How to grow skin thick enough to cope with the suffering I see, while maintaining an empathy for my patients that allows us to share our lives with each other. Believe me, if I knew the answer, or the chemical equation, I would most likely not be writing about this. For me, this is one of life's unanswered questions. One that I will most likely always ponder, and never quite understand the answer.