I’m Even Signing My Checks This Way Now

Just call me Christina, RN.


I passed! The results appeared sometime late this afternoon, and I was surprised to see them so quickly. (But you can bet I checked three times this morning, and six times during the afternoon.) I can officially call myself a registered nurse, and add “RN” after my name, anytime, anywhere.

And no, I can’t tell you what that strange rash on your hand is. Or if I can, I’m probably just looking it up on WebMD.

This also means when I work tomorrow, I can wear the lovely necklace that my incredibly sweet and way-too-thoughtful friend Karen sent me:


Yay!



Wishing For A Cheat Sheet

Early this morning I took what was perhaps the hardest and most frightening test of my life. At 8:00am, I arrived at a plain-looking office building on the other side of Columbus to take the NCLEX, also known as the licensing exam that is the final step to adding those little “RN” initials after my name.

I read through the introductory materials the receptionist handed me, then had my ID checked, was fingerprinted and photographed, stored my purse, contents of my pockets (yes, I had to turn out my pockets) and watch (no watch allowed) in a locker, and stood at the door waiting to take my test. I was then fingerprinted again at the door, had my ID checked again, and was then seated at my computer workstation, where video cameras tracked my every move and microphones recorded every sound. If I wasn’t nervous before, I certainly was after all of that.

Truthfully, I was nervous. Despite studying for it here and there, I felt completely unprepared for this exam. It’s an incredible amount of material to know all at once, and while I had planned out a study schedule over several weeks, life got in the way and very little scheduled studying happened. My hands trembled as I clicked through the tutorial.

For those who aren’t nurses, here’s how the test works: it’s a computerized adaptive test, meaning it changes based on how you answer each question. The first question is a mid-level question in difficulty. If you answer it correctly, it gives you a harder question next; if you miss it, you’ll get an easier or equal difficulty question. It continues to track the level of competency you’re at with each question, until it reaches a point where it is certain, with 95% accuracy, that you are either at a minimum level of competency to be a nurse, or will not reach that level by the end of the test.

There are 265 questions maximum, but the test can shut off anywhere after the minimum of 75 questions. In other words, the test keeps going until it knows for sure if you’re passing or failing. (A few unlucky ones get randomly selected to take the entire test, even if they’ve achieved competency early on, for control purposes.)

From the very beginning, I felt I was in over my head. The questions seemed to pick apart my knowledge and focus on all of my weak points. Medications I didn’t know appeared before me, with no hints as to what the med was for. I was asked several questions where I had to choose the patient I would assign highest priority to, when each answer seemed just as high a priority as the next.

And I had several of the “alternate style questions” – essentially questions that aren’t your typical multiple choice, choose one answer type – and several of those were the “choose all that apply” questions. I hate those questions. If you miss one of the correct answers, you miss the entire question.

Where are the medication math questions? I wondered. I’m really good at math! As the question numbers gradually creeped up, I started to panic, realizing I was answering without being sure on more questions than I felt comfortable with. I got closer to the magic #75, and I silently tried to will the computer to keep giving me more questions so I had a better chance to show my competency. I know I can prove I’m a good nurse, just let me keep answering questions and get to the ones I really know!

Then it happened. I answered question #75, and the screen blinked and turned blue. After a few seconds of wondering if I somehow summoned the Blue Screen of Death, the grey background appeared again, with the words, “Congratulations! You’ve finished the NCLEX!”

NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

I sat there unsure of what to do next. There’s no way I did well enough to warrant the shut-off at 75 questions. But I also couldn’t face the possibility that I bombed the test so badly that it determined me a complete failure at only 75 questions. The trembling in my hands appeared again as I answered the demographic exit survey questions and meekly raised my hand to call the testing assistant into the room to let me leave. I felt sick as I gathered up my belonging and walked to my car.

Just to add to the suspense, I won’t know my results for a day or two. So instead I sit here and replay the test in my head, wondering if I will keep my job if I failed. If I do fail, I can retake the test in 45 days, but they might not want to wait that long for me.

I’m normally a fairly laid-back person. But I’m a nervous wreck right now. The Board of Nursing should run ads on their license check web page – they’d be making a fortune from my refresh rate right now.



Haiku Friday: Miss Independent

Next week, a big change
for Mira regarding her
summer camp schedule

Two days a week was
her old schedule, but she wants
more time at her school

Mira is our Little Miss
Independent, wanting more
time away from home

So next week, she will
attend five days a week, just
like her big sister

Mira is nothing if not independent. While Cordy struggles every day with going to summer camp, Mira dives right in. She’s happy to be there, throwing her backpack at me by the time she hits the doorway to her classroom. If I stay and talk to the teachers too long, she will come back to me, look up at me, place her hand on my belly and say “bye bye” as she gently pushes me out the door.

But being there only two days a week is not enough for her. On the days when Cordy goes to camp on her own, Mira often throws a fit because she can’t go with her. So after a lot of number crunching and a little help and prodding from family, we extended her summer camp schedule to five days a week for the last three weeks of camp. I think based on her results so far, she’ll love it.

This kid will be trying to move out on her own before she’s six.

To play along for Haiku Friday, follow these steps:

1. Write your own haiku on your blog. You can do one or many, all following a theme or just random. What’s a haiku, you ask? Click here.

2. Sign the Mister Linky below with your name and the link to your haiku post (the specific post URL, not your main blog URL). DON’T sign unless you have a haiku this week. If you need help with this, please let me know.

3. Pick up a Haiku Friday button to display on the post or in your sidebar by clicking the button at the top.

REMEMBER: Do not post your link unless you have a haiku this week! I will delete any links without haiku!



Sick Babies, or Tiny Possibilities?

In the midst of all this tooth drama, I forgot to mention that yesterday morning I got to observe in a NICU for five hours. I was supposed to do this observation while I was in school, but it didn’t get set up until now, and despite Cordy’s tooth, I couldn’t turn down the offer to observe. (Besides, the emergency clinic was open in the afternoon, so there was no conflict of my time, other than no time for me to eat lunch.)

Some people don’t like the NICU. (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, for those not initiated to hospital-speak.) I can understand that – the area is filled with crib after crib of small and sick babies, many facing life-threatening illnesses and prematurity. Not all of the babies who come into the NICU get the chance to see outside of the NICU again. Some babies are so small that you wonder how it is even possible for them to survive at that size.

I watched a team of doctors and nurses rush to save a baby who had stopped breathing. Her skin faded to white, the monitor flashed red alarms signaling she wasn’t getting the air she needed, and her heart rate began to slow to the 40’s. As I stood back and watched, I’ll admit I was scared for that baby I had never met. In my head, I repeated, “C’mon kid, hang in there. You can do it. Hang in there…” I heard nurses saying that she was usually a stable baby. No one expected her to take this sudden downhill plunge.

But at the same time, miracles can be found in the NICU every day. That group of skilled doctors and nurses worked together as a team – chaotic but with unified purpose – and within minutes they had that baby breathing again. Twenty minutes later, she was stable once again, back on track to heal and grow and someday go home with her parents to live out her destiny.

In my five hours of observation, that wasn’t the only baby who called a large group of medical professionals to her side. When I got a tour of the entire NICU area, the nurse I was shadowing showed me babies of all types: micro-preemies, those with genetic abnormalities, babies withdrawing from drug addiction. I even got to see the infant who was found by a mailman, wrapped in plastic on an abandoned porch last weekend.

Honestly, I loved my time there. Some may see the NICU as too sad, but I see it as full of hope and possibility. Look at how far we’ve come. Thirty years ago, many of the babies in this NICU would have no chance of survival. Twenty years. Ten years, even. Nearly thirty-four years ago, my mother gave birth to a baby at 32 weeks gestation. Today, she would have an excellent chance at survival. Back then, she was simply too young, too sick.

The research and medical advances made in neonatology have made it possible for younger, sicker infants to have better outcomes today. (With lots of help from charities like March of Dimes, of course.) As I rocked a baby going through drug withdrawal, I marveled at how we now have the ability to keep her comfortable and help ease her through the withdrawal. And I realized how much I would enjoy working in a NICU, helping little people get through a rough start in life to experience the possibilities life has to offer and being on the front lines in new medical breakthroughs to save even more babies.

Just think of how many medical advances we’ll see in the next ten, twenty, thirty years. It’s pretty amazing to consider.



Last Day of School

Today was Cordy’s last day of preschool.

After typing that last sentence, it took me 15 minutes to continue this post. I just kept staring at that sentence and thinking about all it means.

Cordy began preschool right after she turned three years old. After traumatizing evaluations, she was determined to be “special-needs” and placed in a special needs preschool class right away. I remember first meeting her teacher and thinking she seemed very nice, but I worried that there was no way she could control my wild Amazon. Her teacher took one look at her and said, “Oh, she’ll love me. I guarantee it.”

And school did not start well. Cordy hated going. Each day I would take her to her classroom, and they would have to pull her off of me so I could leave. Her screams echoed down the hall as I left, and I tried not to cry, reminding myself this was what was best for her. At that time, she didn’t engage her classmates, she paid no attention to what was going on in the room, and she refused to let anyone touch her. Asking her to do something she was afraid of resulted in a meltdown. She was still in diapers, too.

Her first school photo was a success only after her teacher spent an hour trying to coax her into the room, and even then she looked scared to death. But ever so slowly, changes appeared. She didn’t cry and scream when I dropped her off in the morning. She had better progress reports from school (even if the physical therapist still wasn’t happy with her) and her teacher told me that she was starting to fingerpaint! Like, with real paint on her fingers! And without collapsing into a puddle of tantrum on the floor!

Near the end of the first year, Cordy came home one day with her hair in a ponytail. Aaron and I were stunned. Cordy never let anyone touch her hair, yet now she was sporting a ponytail. I didn’t see any blood under her nails, so I assumed she let her teacher play with her hair.

Summer break was difficult. Cordy missed her teacher and she didn’t like the summer school program for special needs children. Much of the progress of the school year faded away during the summer. But she was going back to her same teacher and classroom in the fall, so I had something to look forward to.

This school year has been amazing. On her first day, she was excited to go back to school, unlike her first day a year before. After a few months, she started talking about her friends at school – friends!! My heart nearly burst at the thought of her finally interacting with other kids! Her teacher reported that she was starting to go with her classmates to the bathroom now, although she still wouldn’t use the potty. That wouldn’t happen until February.

We noticed that she came home many days with ponytails. Sometimes pigtails. By spring break she occasionally came home with her hair french braided. Her school photo? While it still took some coaxing, she looked more relaxed this year.

In two years of preschool, Cordy has become a new person. She’s spun that cocoon and broken out to reveal the beautiful butterfly that she is meant to be. That confused, angry, sensitive child that started in 2007 has been taught how to deal with the crushing sensory experiences life throws at her. She’s learned that she doesn’t need to always react to new situations with fear. Other children are in her line of sight now, all possible new friends to her.

Don’t get me wrong – she still has a long way to go, too. Cordy has little ability to focus on a task for more than a minute. Even with learning to cope, the world is still scary to her and her senses are easily overwhelmed. She may see other kids now, but she has a lot of trouble trying to hold a conversation.

And like her teacher predicted in 2007, Cordy adores her. When we dropped some gifts off for her teacher today, Cordy gave her a big hug and told her, “I love you, Miss W!” Tears were shed over the end of the year, and phone numbers were exchanged so we could be in touch this summer.

Because with the end of this school year, a big change is looming ahead of us. She’s too old to return to preschool and her beloved teacher. She’s eligible for kindergarten, but Aaron and I, along with Cordy’s teacher and therapists, all agree that she’s not ready for kindergarten yet. At this point she’d be eaten alive by the other kids, and after she was bullied at the mall earlier this year, I don’t think I can endure that yet.

Instead, her teacher pulled some strings to get her placed at one of the best special needs Pre-K programs in the school district next year. It’s an all-day program, unlike her preschool class, and the teacher is one that Cordy’s current teacher highly respects and recommends. There will be a strong emphasis on academics as well as the social skills she’ll need to survive kindergarten.

But we’ll miss her teacher. Miss W is a part of Cordy’s success, and I wish we could take her with us.

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