Day one. 1988.

I remember the first day of clinical. It was in 1988. Squeakly clean white dress with white Nursemate shoes. Just what the Student Nurse Handbook said to wear. Hair off the collar. Nails neatly trimmed and free of polish. Just the way Mrs. Old Military Nurse Instructor said to trim them.

At the end of the hall in the very last room lies Poor Contracted Soul. I speak, knowing that the responses from her mouth will be totally unintelligible. She feebly reaches and groans in my direction. Temperature first. But she is mouth breathing. The tongue is caked thick with sticky mucous. Put the probe in the armpit. OK, that's done. Checking the blood pressure can be a little bit tricky, too, when elbows won't straighten.

Behind the carefully prepared student nurse exterior, uncertainty invades. I carry the pink plastic basin to the bathroom sink. But first, I wash my hands in the stream of tepid water. Rubbing the miniature hospital size soap between my palms, doubt begins to creep into my head. "Is this what being a nurse is really about?" I fill the basin with the water, dropping in the little bottle of Keri lotion to allow it to warm. Nice warm lotion for Poor Contracted Soul after her bedbath.

Old Military Nurse-Instructor arrives just as I am contemplating how I will manage the twisted arms and legs by myself. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize she was this bad" she says, "or I never would have assigned her to you on your first day."

That is good news. Instructor helps me with the bath. Maybe I can do this nurse thing.