end of the evenings

It's almost eleven at night and I just finished working my last evening shift. Ever. Starting tomorrow, I'm going to be taking on a new position as one of two Assistant Ward Supervisors. It's a fancy title that means I get to go to more meetings, take call every third week and work Monday through Friday as the day charge nurse. And yes, you heard that last part correctly. Monday through Friday. Days. As in, the same schedule as my husband. I've been so looking forward to it, so it seems only fitting that my final evening shift was, well, a shift to remember.

It all seemed to be going well. I had assigned patients to beds yesterday, so I assumed that all the admissions would come in at their usual time, hop into their beds and be ready for surgery. Unfortunately, several had other ideas. One decided to fall down in the waiting area, something his family calls a seizure, we call fainting and the patient calls evil spirits knocking him over. He got into his bed a little early, and proceeded to lie there, wrapped head to toe in his blanket, for almost my entire shift. I don't think he likes us much.

Things were rolling along fairly smoothly from there, and I was looking forward to the return of our other assistant supervisor (who's been on holiday for a few weeks) when I got the news that said supervisor had booked a cheap flight which had unfortunately gotten delayed and resulted in her being stranded in Libya for an as-yet-to-be-determined amount of time. Even more unfortunately, she was supposed to be working tomorrow morning. A little scrambling and the schedule was sorted, at which point the lab results started coming in.

By the time I got finished handing out results and talking to patients about the meaning of those results, I had knocked one patient off our ENT surgeon's list (HIV) and one off Dr. Gary's (a newly pregnant lady). Dr. Gary still had one patient left, but I took care of that for him a little later by running a malaria test that turned up positive. It's never easy to sit and tell a patient that she can't have surgery, even if it's for a joyous reason like having a baby. I held her hand while she cried, and then I gave her a card to come see us in Togo and told her I was looking forward to meeting her little one. She smiled sadly, and pointed to my belly. The translator relayed her words. She says it should be you. She should be having the surgery and it is you who should have the baby instead. We hugged, I walked her down the gangway and she was gone. I hope I'll get to hold her little one when the ship is docked in Lome next year. The little boy with malaris felt too sick to care, and the man with HIV snuck out of the ship while my back was turned, not even waiting for an appointment card or a referral to the local clinic.

What with one thing and another, physicians rounding late, more kids spiking fevers and a new crew member showing up at reception with a cough (first time I've ever screened someone for swine flu!), it was after ten before I even left the ward, my stomach rumbling since I had completely forgotten to eat dinner. I stopped by A Ward one last time, got hugs and kisses and shrieks of Gangi, gangi! Konu! (It's good, it's good. Smile!) from all the little plastics kiddos there, and headed upstairs for some food. I sat in the quiet dining room, ate the best grilled cheese sandwich in the history of grilled cheese sandwiches, and felt the tiredness seep into my bones.

Apart from the six AM alarm setting, I think I'm really going to like this day shift thing.