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34

Calista

Crying at an empty bus stop was not how I imagined my day at practicum to end. Did I think the intensive care unit was going to be a walk in the park? Absolutely not. But I had no idea that it would knock me down on my ass so quickly.

It was dark and a heavy autumn breeze had picked up, making itself known as it rattled the glass wall behind me. I sat in the bus shelter, frozen to a metal bench. The trickling of tears slowed, leaving thick wet trails in their wake. I didn't know how long I sat there, but the bus I was meant to take back to campus came and went. The time flashed across my phone screen along with a text message. It was Divya asking where I was. It was unlike me to miss class for any reason. Hangover, illness, you name it. Especially labs where attendance counted towards participation grades. For the first time in my academic career I had skipped a class. Any other time I would be horrified. But on this particular night, I couldn't bring myself to care. The last thing I wanted at that moment was to be around other people right now. I allowed another sniffle to wrack through my body, wiping at my nose with the back of my coat sleeve.

What the hell was I doing?

I was in my senior year of nursing—a mere semester from graduating. I should be happy. I should be excited. I should have been sure in what I was working towards. But here I was, second guessing my life choices.

I pressed the back of my head against the glass behind me. The chill seeped through my dishevelled ponytail. I needed to pull myself together. I knew going into nursing that I was going to have harder days than others. Nothing about this profession was easy. You had to be physically, mentally and emotionally capable to help others through some of the darkest periods in their lives. I knew that. And that's what I wanted to do; help others.

So why was I second guessing myself now?

It wasn't the stress that got to me. I worked well under pressure. Some of my best assignments came from all nighters when I procrastinated and left things to the last minute. It wasn't the people I worked with either. I enjoyed working with people and got along with almost everyone—even people as difficult as Lincoln. And I always strived to do my best. I had heart—and that was the problem.

When I was younger my dad would always say that I felt hard, that my heart was two sizes bigger than anyone else's. It was the same reason why I chose not to eat meat or decided not to get into veterinary medicine after my cousin's dog passed away when I was five. I took putting myself in other people's shoes to a whole new meaning.

Being empathic is usually considered a good thing—a great thing even. The ability to feel and understand what someone else is going through is an important trait in a care-based profession like healthcare. But sometimes I cared too much.

I thought it would be something I grew out of or became accustomed to. That is what everyone said anyways. My professors, my mom, the nurses that I shadowed, they all said the same thing, "Oh, you'll get used to it."

At this point, I didn't think I would.

A sinking feeling settled in my stomach. Even if I wasn't cut out for nursing, it was too late to change my mind. I had already dedicated too much time and money to this program. I couldn't even imagine the disappointment my mom would feel. She practically organized a parade down our street the day I got accepted into Fenton's nursing program. There was no way I could turn back now. I would have to learn to live with it. Eventually I would get over it, just like everyone said I would.

As I was searching for the next available bus back to campus, a banner dropped down on my phone. It was an incoming call from my mother. I gave myself the grace of one last sniffle before I cleared my throat and pressed accept.