Samantha Hammond ~
As I struggled my way through nursing school, I never expected my first job as a nurse to feel like this; I was too busy dreaming of the day when I could hold the title of Registered Nurse.
I never expected to come home crying. I never expected that, at times, I'd mumble the words "I hate my job." I never expected many of the challenges I face daily--but here I am, six weeks into my first hospital job, fighting to make it. Here I am, figuring out what it means to be a nurse, learning what to expect.
It is early afternoon, and I have just finished administering my last midday medication. I emerge from the patient's room to find that five call bells are buzzing; there is no other nurse or aide in sight. I begin to wonder if everyone is purposely disappearing in order to test the new kid.
Roberta Turner ~
I'm a primary-care doctor in Washington state. I was recently confronted with a ticklish and painful situation.
Here are the facts and the sequence of events:
On a recent Wednesday morning, I saw a forty-five-year-old woman in my office for an earache. She told me that a member of her church had been diagnosed with coronavirus, and that many schools in the area were being closed because of possible exposure. Later that day I started to receive emails and phone calls from families in my practice, giving more information about this situation.
Barbara Packer ~
My husband Joel, age seventy-six, has tested positive for the virus--the new big C.
Joel developed a low-grade fever on March 1. We were in San Francisco, visiting our ten-month-old grandson and his parents. They'd all had bad colds, and our grandson was still coughing and producing large amounts of sticky nasal stuff, so I wasn't surprised when Joel got sick. (I figured that I eventually would, too.)
We went to a local urgent-care clinic. A competent physician assistant examined Joel, then assured us that he didn't have the coronavirus: His vital signs were all good, and except for a 100.5° fever, he had no symptoms.