It has been almost two years since I last worked in a hospital.  Two years since I donned a pair of scrubs and draped a stethoscope around my neck.   Two years since a decent paycheck was direct deposited into my account.   And although the past two years have been priceless while watching my daughter grow, I am still often reminded of the world of medicine.

Throughout most of my nursing career I was not a parent.  So it was common for me to get doubtful stares and odd glances from the parents of my tiny, preemie patients.   Often times I’d see their smiles fall as I replied, “Oh, I don’t have any children of my own.”  I’m sure thoughts of “she’s not even a mother, how could she understand?” swirled through their emotionally frayed, postpartum minds.  And now as a mother, in retrospect, I can understand their point of view to some degree.  However, back then, I was a tad insulted.

Visiting hours. Patient load.  Emergency scenarios. They all impacted my time to interact with patients and their families.  Sure I offered the tangible, hands-on care, and an occasional shoulder to cry upon; but in the end, I was always- just a nurse, a stranger, a part of the hospital that never reached beyond the unit doors.

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