Crashing into Reality

At church this morning, one of my good friends commented on how, even with my busy schedule and frenetic pace, I always "have it together". I was, honestly, floored. I can count on one hand the number of days in the past year I have felt "together". Either I underestimate my ability, or I am really good at faking it. Probably both. 

This week at work, I found out the facility I work for had finalized a contract with THE thoracic surgeon in town, which means our program will be exploding (in a good way) and I get a front row seat in the peanut gallery. My opinion has been sought out on a number of levels. Even when on the spot and not expecting it, I can usually manage something resembling intelligent conversation. At least anytime after 8 am. Before then, it's a crap shoot.

When I ran into a fellow RN a few weeks ago who was having trouble getting a catheter in a patient, I offered my assistance (I am the Foley QUEEN). After nearly four years of not practicing, I still threw the line in on the first try. 

So, when my li'l Miss Gracie hurt her arm tonight and I was pretty sure she had fractured it, I marched right in to urgent care with confidence that I was in the right place. I am a nurse, after all. 

Just when I thought I could add another day to my "together" list. HA!

She was honest-to-God crying and holding her arm after falling. She wouldn't let me touch it and didn't seem like she could bend her elbow, rotate her wrist or hold anything without pain. 

We checked in and sat amidst all the infected masses for nearly an hour (I swear my next suggestion to our urgent care clinics is to please have a 'sick' waiting area and a 'hurt' waiting area). She was content--I wasn't messing with her and she was watching Sponge Bob. ("Bunge-Spob" as she calls it. Sorry, Justin Bieber. You got nothin' in comparison.) 

We went back to triage and she let the tech check her vitals without so much as an "I am the most pathetic thing ever" frown. As we sat back down, I reached around her and felt an ever-so-slight click in her arm. She fussed a minute and settled down again. 

Then Dr. Campbell came in. She looked at him, held out her arm and showed him where it was hurting. He started to mess with her arm. No flinching, no fussing, no frowning--nothing. I was starting to feel awkward and like a dufus helicopter parent. 

She looked him dead in the face and said, "Mommy fix it. You not fix it, Mommy fix it all better. I poopy wet. You poopy?" Then singing, operatic style standing on the chair conducting with both arms, "Poopy-poopy poopy-poopy wet wet poooooooo-pyyyyyy wet!" 

Uhhhhhnnnggg. 

There is nothing like a small child to bring one's pride crashing right back down to a more manageable level. Thank you Gracie. Sorry, Dr. Campbell.