The Silent Military of Nursing

We fight the unseen. We laugh through the madness. And sometimes, we drink at 8 a.m.

By Prudence Vector

I’ve always felt nursing is a kind of silent military.

We train. We serve. We sacrifice.

The difference is, our war is against the unseen illnesses of the world—against one another—and mostly, against ourselves.

In school, we’re taught perfection. In quiet moments between classes, I think most of us wondered how such a standard could possibly be achieved, knowing we’re fallible humans. But in nursing, sin is to be stained. Error is judged harshly. Problems are taboo.

Shhh. We don’t have problems.

We smile. We nod. We receive.

We compress. We deliver. We save.

We eat our young.

We do not frown (or is it smile?), complain, cry, experience emotion, sit down, use the bathroom, eat, take breaks, or sleep soundly.

To this day, I mostly eat while standing.

For fear of shame.

At least, that’s how it turns out for many of us…

My favorite part of this career has been the dark, dry sense of humor it’s given me. It’s the moments you walk into a patient’s room—the one with nonstop diarrhea—just to fart. The times you want to scream with the screaming patient, just to get the crazy out. The times you hold an entire conversation with your fellow nurse or CNA using nothing but eye contact—and then laugh until you cry.

But for the moments where there’s no outlet, you find one.

There’s a liquor store on the way home, even if it’s 8 a.m.

There’s that black sheep friend who always has something to take the edge off.

And if nothing else, the med cart or Pyxis is fully stocked.

All it takes is an innocent little lie.

But it isn’t innocent at all, is it?

And how you got here—well, the intent wasn’t innocent on their part either, was it?

In a generation that drifts further from community—and certainly from a moral compass—so do we. What’s the difference between their pain and mine?

It all hurts.

We. All. Hurt.

When are we going to wake up and teach the next generation of nurses that perfection is a myth? When will we let them embrace that truth?

The stains are there.

We can lie and say they can’t be seen, but I believe that every day a nurse is forced to neglect their own needs, stuff them down, and eventually numb their pain—whether with alcohol, drugs, or quiet despair—the glare grows brighter.

So, for right now, we teach Maslow, but we don’t live it.

Wake up, nurses.

Wake. Up.