If mommy dearest only knew. There I was, sitting in the banquet room — a room full of retired nurses celebrating with upper management. They were praising us for our retirement and praising us for our blood, sweat and tears and massive overtime hours with little to no potty breaks. They were praising us for our missed time with our families, like Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving. It was nice. With their white gloves, waiters served us tea and coffee and a fine meal with adorable desserts on the side — crystal chandeliers were hanging above each table. There was a long-term chaplain to pray over our food and a senior vice president cheering us on. It was nice. But maybe I am, as Prince used to sing: “Maybe I’m just like my mother She’s never satisfied.” Mommy dearest used to call the people at this country club: the blue bloods. Dad moved up the corporate ladder. We had a big house, a lake house with a boat and went to private school. What we didn’t have was the acknowledgment of alcoholism, as daddy eventually became a non-functioning alcoholic. Mother would have done anything to be a member of this elite country club. As this upper echelon group praised us, they interjected how we could volunteer to help the nurses in the hospital. They suggested giving out dinner trays to the patients, assisting in feeding some of the patients, assisting in turning and repositioning patients and loads of other “opportunities” to volunteer for the corporation. The list was endless. It was nice. As they each gave their speech, my mind drifted off. I thought about how I was so tainted by several hospital systems and how I dedicated 46 years of my life to nursing. Emergency department nursing, surgical/PACU nursing, surgical trauma ICU, CCU, behavioral health nursing. Nurses’ Week would come and go every year. And we were honored by a cookie, shoestrings, a rock, half-eaten pizza and Lifesavers. I reflected on all of my trauma and triumphs during this career. Management attempting to write me up for calling out sick while my husband was dying, because I had to call out sick frequently before a leave of absence was initiated for me. Mandatory overtime. During COVID, there was nurse desperation. While travel nurses were paid over $100 an hour, we were offered an extra $5 an hour. My list is long. There was sadness in my heart for the little old lady in ICU who lived on borrowed time but wanted to teach me how to knit. And so she did. I remember holding the hand of a near-catatonic mother as she stared at her dead daughter in ICU, who had just plumaged five stories to her death. I remember the mother that called me relentlessly about her son, who was paralyzed from the neck down because of drugs and no seat belt. I remember the little 6-year-old girl brought into the ER. She had long blonde hair with eyes black as coal. She was catatonic after being molested by her momma’s boyfriend while momma was out playing bingo — my heart shattered, and I still tremble inside. And I remember the time a daddy had a near-fatal heart attack but survived from a CABG and ECMO and cardiac rehabilitation. He survived in time to walk his pride and joy, his daughter, down the aisle on her wedding day. My list is long. I have survived every tragedy that comes with nursing: the good nurses, the bad nurses, the bullies, the good and the bad management. I am a survivor. I am resilient. But I am human. Thank you for this fine meal. The memories will always be ingrained in my head. I was escorted out to my car by an attendant. I had a beautiful bouquet of flowers in my hand. And I had a lifetime of memories. Tears. And yes, I will “volunteer” for your corporation — for $50 an hour, not including differential. Mommy dearest would have been jealous that my final destination in nursing was … the country club! It was nice. Source
