Avalanche dream—heavy breakage of trees, boulders ripped from
their footings. Chunks of ice bouncing past as the swirling white
mass picks up speed. I’m running running running but can’t stay
ahead of it. Lungs burn, tears stream from the effort, the strain.
Glazed in sweat, I wake up to the blare of alarm clock, hurriedly dress
and drive to the hospital.
Time speeds into the day. It’s busy; we’re short-staffed again. One
patient has to go for a test, has pain, needs medicine, while another
has to be readied for early surgery. She’s scared, needs pain meds,
pre-op teaching, a guided-imagery CD to help her cope. Another,
detoxing and crying. Someone else can’t breathe, coughs blood,
the doctor must be notified. Next room, a patient returns from
inconclusive tests, she’s worried, needs medicine for her nerves.
They all want me to listen to their stories. Why the drinking started
after her firstborn left for college—now the last is about to go. How
long that man’s been waiting for new lungs, says he’s sorry
someone must die first. Check clock. Pass meds. Better hurry.
Discharge orders for another. I have to take the urinary catheter out first.
Will she be able to pee on her own? Will pills work for her fractured femur,
once I stop the morphine drip? Now another patient’s going home,
needs teaching. I haven’t started charting, rated the patients’ acuity
or reassessed pain. Call lights flash, everyone needs something—a bedpan,
a lunch tray. The discharge nurse, a family member, the lab tech all want
to talk to me right away. A doctor demands I attend bedside rounds right NOW.
I’m late. I’m running running running, hard as I can. The hallway is empty,
everyone’s busy, no one can help. I have to use the bathroom. My mouth is dry,
where’s my water? Any minute now, the break nurse will come to send me
on a break, but I’m not hungry. My palms are sweating. I feel sick.
Then disaster. I discover I’ve made a med error. Too late, I remember
the nightmare, the déjà vu of panic, the total whiteout of whirling snow
I couldn’t stay ahead of. The spinning and spinning through empty air.
7 thoughts on “Snow-Blind”
This sounds so familiar. I’m out of the critical care unit almost 20 years, but i can still identify that panicked feeling of too many competing priority tasks that need to be done NOW! and no time to pee or eat lunch. Your poem captures it beautifully.
This poem reminded me of my residency days more than 5 decades ago. Thank you Shawna.
Shawna, am also a retired nurse. Loved your poem. I could hear the “Flight of the Bumblebee” as you described the “seemingly chaotic and rapidly changing flying pattern. . .” I think the music from 1900 was really about a med/surg nurse.
Yes, flight of the bumblebee indeed…flying until her wings fell off!
And this is why nursing is such an emotionally and physically draining profession…
Only understood by fellow nurses, for unless you experience this, explaining it to another just isn’t the same.
Your poem is “ spot on “ , Shawna . Thank you
This reminds me of a dream I had while working on an Oncology unit on 3-11. I dreamed it was another hectic night (much like yours) and when the shift was finally over and I had given report, I sat down to chart. When I opened the charts, I saw that I not started any of my charting. I was so tired, that I decided I would just go home and I would chart when I came back the next day. The next night was just as hectic, and again, when I opened the charts, now I had two nights of charting to complete. Then I woke up. It was one of the few times I ever dreamed about work.
I’ve been retired four years now, and I rarely dream about work now. But if I do, I can’t find a place to put my purse, can’t log onto the computer, all the call lights are blazing, I’m wearing two different shoes, and no one will help me. The last dream…nightmare… I said to myself, Wait, I don’t have to be here! And I left mid-shift. 🙂