Circulator

I was once told by a wise shop teacher, that if you want someone to talk to you, ask them about their job. They will chew your ear off. I have found this to be more true than I could have imagined in my youth.

I am sometimes the exception. For the simple reason that my work environment is so inaccessible that I run out of breath giving context before I can actually 'splain myself. Oh, I try. I wrote about it in my Nanowrimo effort, last year.

I perform such dance of multitudes, of tiny jobs strung together like beadwork or lace, a puzzle of movement and position, of checking and re-checking.

I banter and deflect and pull metaphorical teeth. I chart and fill in forms and run around. I think ahead, often on poor data, so I am often wrong, and have to page and ask and adjust.

I get the right bed and positioning equipment in the room, based on surgeon preference. I talk with patients who may be confused, or deeply stressed, or resigned and joking, or not speaking English. I can manage a bit of Spanish, enough for what I need to know. I know how to get Interpreter Services.

I take care of scrub techs who may or may not like or respect my efforts, but I have to keep them properly supplied without regard to my own feelings. I must endure everyone else's musical tastes. I make sure everyone is observing sterile technique.

I handle specimens and send off blood, and open expensive implants and tools. I make sure the electro-cautery is working, and suction, irrigation, and power for the drills is attached and turned on. I tie up the backs of sterile gowns and answer pages for surgeons and residents, and try to get their names spelled properly in the chart. I call for sales reps and x-ray and cell-saver and pathology and if equipment alarms - clinical engineering.

I am at the patient's side during induction, to lend a hand and help, usually not needed, to the anesthesiologist. I put in the foley catheters (over 1500 at a conservative estimate over the last decade.) I open sterile supplies and prep solutions. I know where the code cart is. I have done CPR, I have witnessed deaths, I have washed the dead.

I have slipped and fallen on those hard floors. Bruised myself all over from hard corners. Cracked a knuckle in a supply area from an open drawer sticking out. Been stuck by solid suture needles twice, by a surgeon and an intern, one each. One laceration near my clavicle from a steel pass-though door corner, leaving a scar I should have had stitched, but it was a 12 hour Friday, too busy during the day, and I just wanted to get home after. I bandaged myself and kept going. A profusely bleeding eyebrow from a misplaced computer ledge brought the overwhelming care and concern of fellow nurses, and some tiny beige steri-strips. We do take care of each other when injured or ill. A migraine aura prompted an anesthesiologist to give me IV drugs with not a flutter of fuss. I fell off a wheeled stool once, snaking both my feet unwisely into the circular rung, and began to slide. The surgeon was dealing with some patient bleeding, so didn't look around when I made a nice thud. They asked if I fainted, as a young nurse had done the previous week, who I'd caught, and slid gently to the floor. I said, calmly and quietly,

"I'm fine. I just fell off my stool."

I hold hands in those last anxious moments before the drugs win. (The drugs always win.). I talk into ears, and I say,
"We are going to take really good care of you."

I make sure every body part is well padded, and in as neutral a position as possible.

And later,
"You did just great, the surgery is all done, you are fine."

Then, I get warm blankets, and make sure bodies are as covered as they can be, gowns replaced and edges tucked in, a recovery slot called for, or an ICU notified. Turnover cleaning team called, and everything gathered for the next case. On a trauma day, I may not know what it is until I call the front desk.

There is more. That is enough.