Invasion of My Personal Space

So I've already fallen off the whole plan of blogging every day for 31 days of October. The difficult thing with blogging and actually writing something worth sharing for that many days in a row is the tendency to talk out of your ass, and it just gets boring. And sometimes, I really talk out of my ass. For those who know my brother, it's something that happens often with a Dizon who goes off on rants and bullshits you just to see how long you're willing to listen to the crap we say. Next thing you know, I'm talking about what I ate for breakfast, or how I accidentally put the wrong shoe on the wrong foot. I have no intention in getting to that point.



Continuing on. The work I do on my unit is all about invading someone's personal space. About 1/4 of the job is passing out the right medication at the right time. The rest of my time goes to examining broken va-j-j's, humiliating a woman who's just delivered a baby by pushing on her stomach that looks like she's still 7 months pregnant, and grabbing titties to help her breastfeed. I do all this with a smile on my face. One of the things you'll learn as an OB nurse is to bullshit. You seriously become the biggest bullshitter. You walk in with a smile, high pitched voice, and you're more than enthusiastic to help your patient, and I'd like to say most times I am. The minute you close the door behind you, you're cursing out to the high heavens because you're so sick of putting on that bright and shiney fascade. At times it's understandable because postpartum women, especially the pretentious ones you end up caring for in a high-end hospital like Northwestern, just piss the crap out of you. Other times, it's just because you're a worn out nurse who gets flack for working on a floor that's not considered a high-risk unit. It's the happy floor, where the sun never stops flippin' shining. Sometimes it'd be nice if every once in a while the sun would just set.



Anyways, all shame goes out the window on this type of unit. There's no such thing as modesty. The real point I was trying to make before I started venting is the fact that no one likes it when their personal space is invaded. I have a box that surrounds me that no one is allowed in. I like my space. So when I come home, solitude is much appreciated. Me Time is healthy. Or if I'm in a bar with a friend, engaged or not in conversation, sometimes it'd be nice if the greasy guy down on the next bar stool kept to himself or at least kept a safe distance away from my face. I like liquor, but I could do without the smell of it on dude's breath. Fine, it's an ego boost sometimes, especially if the guy is half decent, but nonetheless, acknowledge the box that surrounds me please.

Interrogation is another form of personal invasion of space. There's nothing wrong with asking questions. But I hold the right to share only what is relevant and what I want to share. Know this. Now, I don't really consider myself a person who is all that shy about sharing. Obviously, some things I share too much of. However, I do keep things private that are meant to be private. Once again, acknowledge the box.

On the other hand, I think invasion of that box that surrounds many of us is necessary. Maybe not the interrogating or the display of broken women parts. But sometimes, a certain amount of personal invasion is important. Hah, I say this after I rant on for 3 paragraphs.

At one point in time in our lives, things become so routine. We get tunnel vision and we do what we do. We don't stop and we keep on walking. Nothing wrong with that, except that I really have no desire to become a robot. Even as a nurse, an occupation labeled with compassion and care, you become a robot. You have to be personal enough to establish that rapport, but not too emotionally attached because it will cloud your nursing judgment. Balancing act.

But I'm human. Invasion is imperative. As irritated and out of my comfort zone as I am when someone invades my personal space, my controlled and maintained emotions, I'm greatful. Sometimes my friends overstep the boundaries, but at least it stops me dead in my tracks. I get to take a break and actually reflect on what I'm doing and why I'm doing it. All of a sudden I'm not so numb, the lidocaine wears off, and you feel every good and bad feeling. And that's when I know that I'm actually living and not just existing. As painful as that can be or as joyful as that can be, I'd rather feel that than be numb. There's nothing more frightening than that.