Chapter 11 - My Mother Asked The Question I Didn’t Want
My mother came to my apartment the night before the review.
No lasagna.
That worried me.
She sat on my couch and said:
“If they give you your job back, are you going?”
“Probably.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a nurse.”
“You can nurse somewhere else.”
“I have three years there.”
“You're twenty-seven.”
“I like my floor.”
“You complain about your floor.”
“That means I like it.”
She nodded.
Reasonable.
Then:
“Do you want to be charge nurse?”
I looked at her.
“Why is everybody asking me that?”
“Because you keep saying you do.”
“I did.”
“Not the same thing.”
I stood.
She remained seated.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“I can't make every career decision based on one administrator humiliating me.”
“Good.”
“Then stop acting like I should quit.”
“I didn't.”
“You implied—”
She smiled.
“What?”
I stopped.
She waited.
I laughed despite myself.
“Oh, that's awful.”
“You finish people's sentences too.”
“Apparently.”
She nodded toward the chair.
“Sit down.”
I did.
She asked:
“Why did you want charge?”
Easy.
More responsibility.
Better schedule.
Money.
Growth.
Then she said:
“Try again.”
I hated when she did that.
Finally:
“Because people ask charge nurses what to do.”
My mother nodded.
“And you like knowing.”
“Yes.”
“Do you like being asked?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like saying you don't know?”
I stared.
She smiled.
“There it is.”
Margaret's face.
David's face.
Dr. Whitmore's.
Everybody deciding.
Sometimes because they were arrogant.
Sometimes because everyone else wanted them to decide.
I said:
“I’m good in emergencies.”
“You are.”
“I don't panic.”
“No.”
“I'll call physicians other nurses are afraid to call.”
“I know.”
“I stand up for patients.”
“Usually.”
I looked at her.
She shrugged.
“You wanted honesty.”
Then she said:
“You also think being the brave one means you get to skip asking.”
That hurt.
“Margaret.”
“Who?”
“Nothing.”
My mother continued.
“If a woman says she wants five minutes with somebody important, maybe help her ask.”
“I did.”
“You tried to take her upstairs.”
“Yes.”
“Different.”
I stared at her.
“You would have done worse.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
She smiled.
“That's why I served pudding for twenty years instead of running a hospital.”
I laughed.
Then cried.
Unexpectedly.
My mother didn't say anything.
She sat beside me.
After a while:
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“What if they fire me?”
“You'll cry.”
“Helpful.”
“Then you'll get another job.”
“What if they don't?”
“Then you decide whether you trust them enough to go back.”
I wiped my face.
“That sounds suspiciously mature.”
“Don't tell anybody.”
The next morning, I entered Whitmore Medical Center as a visitor.
No badge.
No scrubs.
At reception, Carol looked at me.
“Employee review.”
She checked the schedule.
Then said:
“You're on it.”
No special elevator.
No Margaret.
No director waiting.
I sat.
Twenty-seven minutes.
I noticed every minute.
Then Rebecca came downstairs herself.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Good.”
We went upstairs.
The panel included Human Resources, nursing leadership and a manager from another service line.
They reviewed the lobby incident.
Then Brennan.
Then something I hadn't expected.
A note from David's advancement review.
His concern about my judgment.
I braced.
The HR director said:
“Mr. Mercer was not alone in that concern.”
That hurt more.
Rebecca looked at me.
“Emily, we think you're talented.”
I waited.
“We also think you sometimes turn advocacy into authority you do not have.”
There it was.
May you like
The sentence I had spent a week hoping nobody would say.
Because it was true.
