Nursing students are extremely social creatures.
Sure, we work hard.
But nobody unwinds quite the way we do.
This is what we do before class…
While waiting for the class to start we do this…
During class we do some of this…
Between classes we do this…
And of course, throughout it all, there is very little silence.
We like to talk.
We talk about our classes.
We talk about our teachers.
We talk about our classmates.
But most often, we talk about the human body.
Suddenly, when you know exactly how everything works, you either:
a) suddenly think you have the disease recently discussed in class
b) assess each other to make sure you don’t have the disease recently discussed in class
For instance, during our break, when a group of us were in the computer lab
showing each other pics of our old boyfriends on Facebook working on an assignment, a discussion ensued related to various foods and how they can affect bowel function.
My friend says, “Soon after I ate that green curry dish at lunch, I had to poo.”
I say, “You did? I ate the green curry dish and it did nothing for me.”
“Are you constipated?”
“Do you know that you can actually feel the stool in your intestine when you’ve been constipated for awhile?” she says.
“Really?” So I start palpating my stomach. “I don’t feel anything.”
“Sure you do,” she says. “Here, let me show you.” So she leans over and starts pushing down on my stomach. “See. Right here! There’s a big piece of poo in there.”
She’s a little gleeful.
“How can you tell?” I ask.
“Because it’s hard.”
“I thought my stomach was hard because I have great abs,” I say.
So there we are, groping my intestines from outside my body to be sure she is in fact feeling poo I bet the old boyfriends we were looking at on Facebook would find us so sexy right now when our classmate calls out to me by my last name, “Hey Charron, it’s time to go.”
As we are gathering our books, my classmate starts saying my last name repeatedly, in a French accent.
She says, “You should change your name to Pierre. That would be really French.”
I reply, “I am French. I don’t have to change my name to Pierre.”
“Well you should grow a mustache then. A cheesy French mustache!”
image from here
I didn’t really say too much more about that to my classmate, but according to my kids, I am growing a mustache.
I’ll share that particular tidbit with my friends just as soon as we start on the chapter on menopause.