Yesterday morning started off innocently enough. Weight training with my friend. Rushing home to shower. Get ready for class. Go to class. Sit down in class. Open notes for class. Wait for class lecture.
But…lecture never comes. Well, it does come. But it comes in the form of a teacher who must have been PMSing or had a bowl of Corn Flakes soaked in urine for breakfast because, rather than teach the subject at hand, she interrogates us on what she claims we should know.
“This stuff is review,” she says.
And the teacher is standing there, arms crossed, staring us down silently, like her angry silence is going to somehow create an atmosphere of learning. She’s a nurse for fuck sakes. Where’s the compassion? Where’s the crooning that it’s all going to be ok? That we will learn this? It will eventually make sense.
“I want to hurry through the anatomy and physiology. It’s review. I want to get to the good stuff.”
Good stuff? Good stuff implies party supplies, baked goods, chocolate covered strawberries, fucken Blizzards at Dairy Queen.
Good stuff does not imply nursing implications of hypertension.
At this point though, I’m irritated. I’ve fought traffic to get here. Waited in a lineup for 25 minutes to find parking. Was expecting to learn something. Anything. But instead am sitting here listening to a teacher get defensive when she’s asked by a student to slow down…
Oh, OH OH, then THEN the smartest girl in the class asked the teacher a question, a very legitimate question, “What is the difference between systemic vascular resistance and peripheral vascular resistance?”
And the teacher looked at her, and said…and SAID, “Well, what do YOU think the answer is?”
I picked up my books, and left the class room.
Then I put on my sunglasses.
The ugly cry, as Oprah refers to it.
The one where your face contorts into this scary-looking mask of despair, and your mouth shapes like an “S” and your nostrils flare. And eventually snot drips down, and you don’t have Kleenex so you’re not even wiping it away. It’s just sitting there.