But then the aforementioned power sees something shiny and gets distracted and shit changes.
Then you're left wondering. Wondering if it was supposed to happen like that, or if there was a glitch in the system and if you hadn't gotten a wild hair and let yourself freeflow wherever, if things would have turned out differently.
I never wanted to be a nurse actually. I wanted to be a veterinarian. But I'm too much of a softy and knew I couldn't handle it. I actually don't even remember when I decided to go to nursing school; somehow it just happened. I had a pre-med focus at ASU and at some point I just changed it. Everyone else has these "meant to be" stories about how they've wanted to be a nurse since they were a child, and wanted to take care of people and be there for them in their time of need. Then there's me, and apparently I just pulled a nursing degree out of my ass and here I am.
It's not that I don't want to help people, or that I don't care. I do. I just have moral issues with a lot of goings on in hospitals, and I lose passion for it daily. Don't get me wrong, there are tons of patients that I have that I will never ever forget, and that totally make my job worth it most of the time. But that's getting rarer and rarer.
But if I hadn't have gone to nursing school, I wouldn't have made certain friends or had certain relationships. I wouldn't have stayed in Phoenix and I wouldn't have my son. But what did I miss out on? What would I be doing if I decided to do something else? I don't know.
But this is it. This is all I have and all I will ever be given. Am I making the most of it? I'd like to think that I am, but I know that I probably am not. I guess it's like that with everything though…we all have a tendency to take for granted what we have when we are busy wondering about the what ifs. I love my life. And I'm fortunate to be where I am. I'll continue to moan and groan when I get up in the morning, knowing I'm headed toward the weird smelling place full of fluorescent lights, pain, addicts checking in hoping for their next fix, death, psych patients screaming at me for ruining their purple furniture (wtf?), rotting flesh, the smell of shit wafting through the air, laughter, reassurance, love. Life. And try to remember that I see a side of life nobody else does. Something pure and raw and real. I see more things in 12 hours that some people will ever see in a lifetime, both physically and emotionally. I am continually reminded on a daily basis that life is all we have and it can be done in an instant. Our bodies are freaking amazing, intricate, mind blowing. But they will just stop. And then all that's left is your shell, laying alone in a room, waiting for me to come in with the white bag that smells like shower curtains and haul you off in a metal cart. A new patient will come to the room and you are just gone. Forever. I zip the bag closed over your face and know that's the last time your face will ever be seen.
And I guess I'll just have to keep telling myself that even though sometimes I look back and wonder how the hell I got here, life is a lot like placing a urinary catheter in a morbidly obese person. You hold your breath (because it stinks) and just keep stabbing in the dark. Eventually you'll get it in, and no matter how you got it there it'll work out ok, because there's only one way in and one way out.
In the end, we're all just searching for that hidden urethra.