People say that the transition period from ship life to my once familiar life on land may be difficult. They say I should prepare myself for a time that is inhabited by overwhelming change. I should be ready to face the shifts in support systems, adapt to new daily routines, and stand guard for the emotional turmoil that can erupt at any given moment. Sounds like quite the picnic if I do say so myself…
I mean people do it all the time, right? It’s a natural progression in life to
experience one stage and move on to the next.
It’s normal to have a sense of reluctance to start something new and
uncomfortable. After all, I did just that
when I came to Africa eight months ago. But
what about having anxiety about leaving something that was once so
uncomfortable and foreign and returning to the only life you’ve known for the
previous 26 years? I’d love to say that
I’m full of relief, that in less than 30 days I will have the freedom to eat
whatever I want, whenever I want it. I
can hop in my car, turn the radio on
and cruise with the windows down inhaling fresh
clean air. I can call my family and
friends without counting my fingers to figure out the time difference, heck I
can go see my family and
friends. So why then do I catch myself
becoming frustrated at the fact that I’m actually a little scared about going home?
Is it the work?
I have the privilege of saying that I am a nurse and I love
my job. Prior to coming on the ship I
had been enjoying the perks of travel nursing.
I’d like to believe/I’m psyching myself up and telling myself that
traveling is still an option once I get my feet back on the ground and catch my
breath. And catching my breath is
exactly what I am expecting to have to do.
I’ve been volunteering as a nurse onboard a hospital ship that is
nothing like I’ve ever known. It’s a
place where patients stumble in hiding behind a scarf or a dim smile and waltz
out with a new found confidence and sense of hope in their eyes. It’s a place where selfless volunteers come
together to serve others because they believe that is the right thing to
do. And it’s a place where love is given
out freely without the expectation of anything in return. So although I’m petrified of reentry into the
PICU world after 9+ months, I still am excited and grateful to be involved in a
profession that has needs to be filled.
I’m hoping that excitement will serve as the enabling factor that is
necessary to lead me back into the intensive care setting.
Is it the living situation?
As of right now, my plans are to move back in with my long
term roommates (AKA my parents) until I figure out where I’m headed next. Thankfully my parents and I have an amazing
relationship, so I’m not too uptight about the new living situation. In fact, I’m actually looking forward to it
and my Dad recently assured me that they haven’t rented out my room yet so I
should be good for a little while. But
again, it’s another hefty transition.
It’s similar to moving back home after college, only multiplied by 1000. What is it going to feel like opening a
refrigerator with only my food in it,
none of which is labeled with a name and date?
As irritating as I think the dining room hours are, will I find myself
eating meals at the assigned times onboard?
Am I going to dance around the house barefoot, sleep on my couch, or go
for a midnight swim just because I can? But
where do I go when I have a sudden urge to check in on a patient to see how
their day went? Living and working in
the same environment and seeing the same people on an hourly, never mind daily,
basis can become somewhat suffocating.
But what about when I walk down the hall and my ship family is nowhere
to be found?
Is it the How was
Africa?
As I evaluate and somewhat obsessively think about the next
couple of months, I always hit a wall when I think about this question. It’s a legitimate question; after all I have
been living here for over eight months.
Of course my friends and family would be interested in my unexpectedly
extended time away from home. But how
interested? How much do you really want
to know? Will you be expecting me to be
an African expert? Because quite
frankly, most days I feel like I’m living on an American ship that is docked
next door to Congo. It’s a very unusual
phenomenon. Will the conversation be
limited to the weather in Africa? Will you want to hear my stories from the fun visits we had to the orphanage? Are you going to be interested in how the children became orphans, or what Mama Pasculine taught me? Or will you simply be satisfied with pictures of children laughing and playing games? Is
ship life something of interest? Will
you want to know what it’s like to live and work with the same individuals, if
so will you really understand what a challenge it actually is? Can I adequately describe what it’s like to
work on the ward? Will you want to know
about the lack of resources and the short cuts that have to be taken because
there simply isn’t another way? Should I
discuss some of the difficult cases – the no’s that had to be handed out to the
hopeful hearts? Is it fair to let you in
on the heart wrenching situations that didn’t go as we had wished? Or do I tell you about Andredi, Grace,
Chantal, Ghislain, Paul, Ruffin, Junior, Mahamadou, Emmanuel, Hosanna, Habiba,
Epiphane, Natacha, Florence, Bozi, Rovel, Alice, Siara, Theresa, Nadine,
Angelique, Mervielle…
I am scared. I’m
afraid of sharing so much that you lose interest and become distracted. I’m nervous that my feeble descriptions of my
experiences won’t suffice. I’m slightly
troubled by the realization that I may become frustrated simply because there
will be instances in which you just will not understand. But most of all, I’m afraid of falling back
into my routine that was so comfortable before I left. This experience wasn’t just a time-filler, it
wasn’t just something I did in between travel assignments. I don’t want to ever feel like I’m describing
it as such.
So as I prepare for life on land I have a few requests:Tell me about what has happened in your life over the last nine months – I’m genuinely interested and nothing is insignificant.
Be patient as I try to steady myself.
Give me grace. Give me time to find my words.
I’m not the same – I’m not even sure what that means…but ready
or not, it’s almost time for that picnic.
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