Juxtapose

Alternately titled: "Me and My Mantoux"

Nursing school isn't all that and a jar of olives sometimes. In fact, it the weeks and months preceding it, it's often not all that, and, in my case, the olives are decidedly absent.

My story begins a week from last Friday. I had received a call to my house from one Irene who deals with the paperwork and medical records of all nursing students. Unfortunately, I was at work, so my mother was so kind as to call and inform me of the message: I needed to get my CPR certification verified by copying my healthcare provider card and bringing it in, and I also was in need of taking another PPD. That is, a TB test. That is, a test to check for tuberculosis.

This was all a piece of cake. By Monday, I had driven up to Riv, handed in a copy of my CPR certification, bought all my textbooks (650 clams and sixteen altogether), issued myself two parking stickers, and left with a promise to bring in my negative PPD when I got it checked on Thursday. TB tests are done on your arm, on the underside, and a bit of stuff is injected right under the skin so that it makes the skin bubble up. You come back between 48 and 72 hours later to have it checked, and by then the bubble should be near-absent and there should be minimal redness. I've had this done many times in preparation for two out of the three colleges I've taken classes at, and I figured this one to be just as routine. However, by Thursday, my test was looking suspiciously angry and red and had progressed to 15mm, rather than regressed as it was supposed to. I didn't think too much of it, really. Yet, when I stepped into the office to have it checked, the nurse told me to hold on and flagged down two more nurses who came and gawked for a few solid seconds before summoning the doctor. If this sounds sensationalist, it really wasn't. I was reassured at least thrice by the nurse that I wasn't to panic. She said I'd be fine, she just wanted to have the doctor re-check. I don't think she realized, in retrospect, that my concern had less to do with coughing up blood and phlegm and severe lung-scarring, and more to do with the fact that I've been waiting three years to study in a hospital and, besides that, that only two days earlier I blew 300+ times the amount I paid for my Toyota stawag on textbooks that are thicker in width than my upper arms.

The results came in and my eyes threatened to well up and they must have noticed because both doctor and nurse raised their eyebrows in concern and took on an open-mouthed, "Oh, honey!" expression. Yes, indeed, I am TB positive. I was written a prescription and told that I would have no problem with school. After being ushered over to the lab to get blood drawn by a woman who thought my veins were, "Nice and big and great!!!" I went across the parking lot to get x-rays done of my chest. I was told I would be called and told the status of my infected lungs and not to fret. I did as I was told, sitting in my car and trying to get myself organized before I called Mrs. A. to tell her I?d be late, but then I had a bright idea to call Irene and tell her all that had occurred just moments before and be reassured that I?d be able to make it to clinicals without a problem. But as I called and she put me on hold to talk to a supervisor, my confidence waned. She returned with dubious news: All would depend on the status of my actual lungs as told by the x-ray, and even then, if I was at all contagious, I?d have to be on the medication for long enough to be declared not contagious. I hung up the phone with a less-than-stable ?goodbye,? called Mrs. A to tell her I wasn?t going to be able to make it, lost every last ounce of resolve, and cried like a wreck the entire drive home. I had finally dried the wells, so to speak, by the time I got to the door of my house, and just in time for that, I dropped my papers and bag on the table and my mother turned around from the fridge, not expecting me home until after Mrs. A?s. She said hello and then, ?Whatsa matta?? and my face cracked and I wailed, ?I HAVE STINKING TEEBEE!? Commence Crying On Mom?s Shoulder Sequence. All I could picture was another year of my life flushed down the proverbial loo of gen eds and watching blondes (even gorgeous blondes!!) progress through clinicals while I, a geeky brunette, sat in the corner studying my ?Women in Art: A History? text. Another year of not doing missions. Another year that I wouldn?t be dating anyone or married. Another year that I wouldn?t have any money. Another year with my scrubs sitting in a box in the corner of my room. I thought God was stomping on my heart. I knew He has a good reason for everything ? even extra years of school ? but I still felt like I was being ground under His heel. Maybe I was, in a way. But still. I don?t think He really works that way, or at least I don?t think he wears heavy Doc Martens to use on His children. He has other means.

And so I waited all day for the call. I waited all night. Every time the phone rang I was on it after one ring, and every time it was someone who wanted to talk to me but who wasn?t my doctor. By the time Mark called at ten to ask if I had exploded yet, I was reasonably calm. Finally, I just went to sleep and didn?t sleep. It sounds like a short amount of time, but at the moment, it was, quite possibly, one of the more excruciatingly long and painful days of my life.

The next morning, I went to work, made every call possible and imaginable, and finally my mom got a call from my doctor that the x-rays were negative, I was declared not-yet-contagious, and I went down to the office to get a copy of the x-ray report and a note stating that I am, indeed, fit to be a student nurse. From then on, it was a lot funnier when my father came walking into whatever room I was in with his shirt collar pulled halfway up his face to cover his nose and his mouth and talked like he was in a NASA suit. It was a lot funnier when he would say, ?Don?t contaminate meeee.? Prior to that point, it was more of a, ?Haha, very funnythatthisreddotonmyarmwillbesuckinganentireyearoutofmylife.. haaaahar? kind of funny. After that, I definitely was able to take it in better stride.

In any case, I have survived a potentially threatening condition (kinda scary to think that people died and still die from such a thing), and the only scars I have to show for it are a slowly-fading red blotch on the underside of my right arm and nine months? worth of medication that I have to take every day. Oh, and I can?t eat chocolate, olives, pickles, fish, aged cheeses, wine, beer, bananas, carbonated beverages, yeasty items, coffee, or overripe fruits. For nine months. At least if I can?t get that fashionable ?heroin chic? look from heroin (hey, I?m a poor college student and that stuff isn?t cheap!), I can acquire a very gaunt, fragile, sucked-cheeks sort of look from the pill I will be popping once daily from now until the end of this school year that will prohibit me from eating all my favorites.

Oh olives. I will miss thee so.