Rummage through Rubbish

When I was about 7 years old, I told my mother I wanted to be a garbage collector. When she asked me why, I told her it was because I wanted to be the first person who got to see all the cool stuff people threw out.

She makes fun of me for it to this day.

I wanted to be a lot of things as I grew up; I was totally not one of those kids who knew their dream career by the time they were expelled from their mother's womb. I know plenty of those, and I always felt like there was something wrong with me because for the longest time I just had no freaking clue what I wanted to do or be. Nothing ever felt right.

I wanted to be a math teacher, an English teacher, a history teacher, a garbage collector, a massage therapist, a stay-at-home mother, the President, a Spanish teacher, a writer, a Giordano's dancer, and, of course, a nurse.

I'm not sure I've ever admitted this to anyone, but it was Dr. Jon Dorian and the staff of Sacred Heart Hospital that made me want to go into medicine.

That's right. Scrubs.

I got into the classes - high school A&P, biology, organic chemistry, A&P in college...I love it. I adore it. Every second of it. I can't explain the draw, but I can't avoid it. There is nothing in the world more fascinating to me than A&P and medicine.

Fast forward through my CNA classes, my nineteenth birthday (finding out I was pregnant with Logan), working from 3 - 6 months pregnant, giving birth during a blizzard, then going back to work and back to school.

And there it is. Even writing about it, it's the exact same feeling. It's a sickening anxiety that starts just below my ribs and tightens every muscle as it creeps upward and finally just sits like lead right above my collarbone and makes it hard to breathe.

I am not a fan of leaving my son for long days of school and work. Just thinking about it is terrifying to me. I hate it. And I go back to working, at least two and up to four, eight-hour days per week on August 10.

For the last 5 years, I knew I wanted to be a nurse. Eventually I wanted to get my Doctorate of Nurse Practice. There would be no stopping me.

About a month ago, I wrote about how I wanted A Thing.

I still want A Thing. Because all of a sudden, I have no idea what my Thing is anymore.

I feel like I should still want the BSN and the DNP and the six-figure salary that comes with having a jillion letters behind my name...but what does that mean for Logan? Where does that put him between now and when he starts going to school? And even then, who is he going to come home to?

Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

If I plow through school I'll be leaving my son with babysitters and relatives and (oh my gosh I can't even imagine this one right now) day care providers. Sure, I'll be successful and I'll have a career and a degree and nice high earning potential and blah blah blah, but...who's raising my child then?

But...if school goes slower or I have another child in the next couple years (which, as many know, may not even be medically possible for us) or choose something, anything besides nursing, I know there are plenty of people out there who will think I'm taking the "easy" way out. And, of course, I'll wonder, What if?


What the heck is my Thing now? What am I supposed to do?

I guess if all else fails, I can just be a garbage collector.