Hey you…

I see you. Sitting on your dorm room bed, second day hair, blinking repeatedly because that drugstore waterproof mascara that they said wouldn’t flake is flaking in your eye. You keep hitting next on Pandora but your skips are out because who wants to pay for that, I mean really? Books are everywhere. Clothes are everywhere. There is a fast food bag from some time last week peeking at your disapprovingly from your garbage can.  This wasn’t in that sleek brochure they gave you at open house, senior year in high school. Your friend from a university two hours away is supposed to visit this week but you can’t make the numbers work as you stare at your perfectly organized agenda–color coded of course. The information on the pages you stare at is blending together. How could this instructor expect you to really learn all the bones and every lump/bump/groove and physis AND every muscle with its function and origin/insertion in just two weeks? Doesn’t he know you have math homework and paper for English? At least that Public Speaking thing is done…even if you did drop an F bomb when your PowerPoint crashed. It’s suffocating.  You should probably shower–not because you smell but because every minute you sit and become disheartened by the material, your self-esteem drops. You question why you’re doing this. The nurses at mom’s hospital looked so calm and collected; there is NO WAY they sat in crusty ankle socks (because of course the washers were all occupied during the ONLY free time you had to do laundry yesterday) with 16 missed notifications from a myrid of social media accounts (“COME OUT! We’re going for tacos!”), and a room mate who has been dropping snide remarks about living in an episode of Hoarders. But that nurse seemed to know what was going on and she was patient with mom. How will you ever make it for three more years of this?

I see you. At the fire house in the kitchen. Half eaten Subway sandwich left neglected, cooling. A meatball attempting to elope from the wrapper lest it disappear down your gullet. There are empty bottles of Mountain Dew all over. The guys are in the lounge laughing as they play whatever new FPS is trending; you can hear them ribbing each other and a few expletives flying around, maybe a loud thump. Who knows what that was. You had to head to soccer right after school let out but you had planned to study for your NREMT exam at the fire house because your brothers and sisters keep bothering you. So now you sit, trying to focus. “A-B-C…. Scene Safe… Nitroglycerin, Aspirin, Oxygen, Transport…” but your heart drags you back into the lounge where the guys are relaxing. They worked all day and came down to hang out. You were hoping to bang this out before they got here. You got another question wrong in your prep book. You went over this material two weeks ago–why can’t you remember it?! The township is volunteer based in the middle of the state. Numbers are down. Your dad is a Captain at the company and wanted you to follow in his footsteps. Surrounding companies are shuttering their doors all over, there just are not enough people willing to volunteer anymore. But you wanted to help. You saw a need and wanted to step up for a little while. Mom has been getting your case about padding your application with some clubs to go to college. College didn’t really interest you but there was a trade school an hour away that offers welding. Right now though, you just need to survive this test. Then finish that physics project. Your pager goes off: vehicle accident with fluids on the roadway. You sigh as you stand up. You know the older guys will need help on the scene and the junior firefighters usually help. The studying will have to wait. How can you hope to pass this test?

I see you. You were harassed again in the grocery store for using food assistance by a woman behind you. She criticized the fact you had a new phone. The phone was a gift from your dad because you needed to coordinate your children’s lives. He was generous. You know the youngest won’t like dinner tonight but it is quick to throw together before the sitter comes over. You’re going out. The community college has night classes every Tuesday and Thursday for Respiratory Therapy. It took you two years to work up the courage to enroll. How can a 42-year old mother of two hope to go through a drastic career change? You remember when the big kid was a baby. Born premature with immature lungs. That Respiratory Therapist explained everything to you. You didn’t know much about health or babies or lungs. He was kind. And your warehouse job was in jeopardy. Potentially closing that facility.  It has changed hands twice and the news is dismal. You knew it was hard work two years ago but three months ago when you enrolled, you knew you did not have much choice. You loud your groceries in the car and get in. You wince as it makes THAT noise again. But finances aren’t there for this. You can’t do this right now. The big kid wanted to try the cello–the rental fees seemed asinine but the school helped a little. It still hurt. You didn’t want to deny the opportunities. Do they know the sacrifices are meant to secure their future?  It’s that woman again. She’s sitting next to you at the red light in her two year old Honda. She’s talking on her phone. No doubt telling her friend or family member about that woman using the system. You rest your head on the steering wheel, hold back a sob. A honk blares from behind you–the light is green. Can you survive this?

I see you. There is a smile on your face. A paper in your hand. Your name is bold printed as if to scream “YOU DID IT!” It doesn’t feel real. The journey almost defeated you. It took so much from you that you almost lost sight of what it could give. You interviewed recently. There was an offer made quickly contingent on this piece of paper. You smooth out a wrinkle in the corner from the shipping envelope. This is it. The worries. The stress. The self-doubt. That little wrinkle. Smoothed away. It was so small in the grand scheme–the whole rest of the paper is immaculate and grand. But the wrinkle is still barely visible, as if a badge of honor to show you survived. Most won’t ever notice its there, but you do. You know it exists. But over time, eventually it fade into the larger image and your eyes won’t pull towards it quite as much. I see you–you made it. You.

Whatever your reason for seeking a profession in healthcare, just know it won’t be easy. However, the things that are worth it will never be easy and the things that are easy will never be worth it. People are drawn to healthcare because of exposure to providers who have cared for their loved ones, what they see on TV, to fulfill family legacies, to service a higher purpose, or because a healthcare worker made a difference in their lives. They often see the end result of long periods of hard work. They don’t see the blood, sweat, and tears as well as the sacrifices (friends, time with family, social events, personal grooming!, giving up jobs to go to school) that those healthcare workers went through to get to where they are. It breaks a lot of people and they drop out of their respectful programs. But what I want you to know, friends, is that you can and will survive. This too shall pass. There is an end and that end is a glorious thing. Our careers aren’t always rainbows and sunshine, there is still hardships that arise. However, our work matters. You matter. We want you here. And when you’re finished, all the hard work and sacrifices will shape you into a stronger person. Like that piece of paper they may stay with you, but they are smaller in comparison to the greater thing you have achieved.

So to you who are sad, who are mad, who are hopeless/helpless, and about to give up. Keep pushing. Ask for help if you need to. Take care of your well being as well. Learn to say no to obligations if it means your mental health is protected. At the end of the day, you are your most important entity. All things you do spiral outwards from yourself.

You CAN do this and you WILL do this.

And we can’t wait for you to join our team.

-Clear skies and tail winds.