The screaming had stopped, at least that was one thing. We could all take a second to catch our breath. On my right, my arm clung to my patient who sat rocking backward and forward on the chair. On the other side, my colleague - mirroring my position, my posture, my heavy breathing. The only difference; the fogged up glasses on her face. There had been crying, there had been grabbing, there had been attempts to harm themselves. We had prevented it. We had stopped it. We had helped. Hadn't we? The pandemic was in full swing. We had at least 50% of patients on our ward with a positive test result. Most of them were self-isolating in their bedrooms, with the others barely daring to come out. The ones that did tended to be acutely unwell and simply did not or could not understand the current situation regarding COVID-19. Our ward was locked down, nobody in, nobody out. PPE on, changed after every patient interaction, all safety measures put in place.. until they weren't. What do you do when a paranoid patient thinks you are a robot hiding your face with a mask? You cannot remove it. For both your sake and theirs. They become upset, distressed. They scream, they shout. They retaliate, they lash out. They are medicated, sedated. They wake up, and go again. What do you do when a patient feels so hopeless that they will use any means necessary in an attempt to end their life. They try to swallow toilet paper, so we have to remain in possession of it. They try to snap pens, so we hide them. They try to use clothing to stop them from breathing, so we limit access. But what do we do when we have to go in wearing masks, gloves and aprons? An abundance of opportunities for the patient to obtain and misuse. How do you tell their loved ones that you literally provided them with the means to devastatingly hurt themselves? If you figure it out, please let us know. What do you do when a patient is so thought disordered, they cannot even remember to eat and drink. They spend most of their time rolling round their bedroom floor, eyes darting round the room, too engrossed in what they can see and nobody else can. They will not even take medications for you, to get themselves better. They see you in your mask, your visor, your gloves, reaching toward them, touching them. They are scared. They are dismissive. They are unwell. 12 hour shifts, 4 days a week. Masks on constantly, chafing at the ear. Hands dry, cracked and swollen from the prolific hand-washing going on. Dehydrated, both our palms and our bodies. Changing in and out of uniform before and after shift. Washing uniforms on abhorrently high temperatures, just to be safe. Persistent home-tests to ensure we are still virus-free. The extra time it takes to shower both before and after your 12 hour shift, losing out on sleep. But we are here. We are helping. We are the NHS. Inpatient mental health facilities are challenging places to work at the best of times, never mind in the midst of a global pandemic. Patients do not suddenly stop being psychotic or depressed, just because the world is in lockdown. They are not able to socially distance. Some of them rely on proximity and closeness in order to stop themselves from hurting - both physically and mentally. Some of them have no sense of personal space. We cannot administer medications in a socially distanced manner, we cannot monitor and record physical health observations 2m apart, we cannot stay home. So here we are, and here we will continue to be.

I have always loved Tuesdays; it's arguably my best day of the week (sorry, Friday). Some of the best things in my life have happened on a Tuesday. Maybe my love for this particular day of the week was born from the fact that I was born on a Tuesday, a tiny bundle of wrinkled pink flesh that had to fight for every breath she took. I know this because my mother is also a very good storyteller. This particular Tuesday I walked into the hospital where I worked in very high spirits. Because right along with telling stories, I was also passionate about patching up broken bodies and minds. The corona virus pandemic had kept us busy, overworked and under-rested, but considering the world statistics of morbidity and mortality, it was a good day to be alive and healthy! Our changing room was rife with laughter and bad jokes which were being steadily doled out by Claire as we shared a pack of juice and a packet of biscuits while getting ready to take over the shift. Claire was a fountain of jokes; she had the unique talent of drawing humour out of anything. We sometimes asked her why she didn't pursue a career in comedy, her answer was always the same, delivered with the best poker face I'd ever seen; “I have to learn how to resuscitate anyone who might choke on my horrible jokes first!” This delivery was our favourite, and it always had us in stitches. Claire's husband had been injured in a construction accident a couple years ago, so she had to take care of him and their two kids without help while pulling twelve to fifteen hour shifts. Claire never came to work without her brightest smile and her best worst jokes. These people, the men and women I had been privileged to fight this viral war with, they were the best. And as I looked around at them, I recognized the tightness in my chest for what it was; it was gratitude. “Mimi, why do you look like you just ate a sour grape?” that was Vivian, perceptive, sensitive Vivian who made the best snacks and the best impressions of anyone. “Maybe it's your weak attempt at doing Claire's bad jokes; it leaves a funny taste in my mouth.” The responding laughter was immediate and boisterous. Vivian massaged the dark circles beneath her eyes as the laughter died down, her mother had Alzheimer's, and some nights were worse than others. Last night seemed to have been one of those. We could always tell from the tired lines around her eyes and the eye bags. Those bags- she claimed- added character to her laugh lines. The silence that followed was an acknowledgement; it was time to go in. Our little slice of calm was over, and the storm was ripe for placating. The ER was my favourite place to work, everyday brought hundreds of unique, beautiful stories of flawed and vulnerable people, at a pace that was startlingly fast and forced me to keep up. This Tuesday, I was assigned to the ER. With my protective equipments in place, I headed to the triage station. I could feel the adrenaline rush, the sweet staccato beats of my heart and the blood roaring through my ears. This Tuesday would be as good as they came. The morning went by in a blur. A couple of teenagers in a domestic accident, an elderly lady in hypoglycaemic shock, a toddler with severe dehydration and a middle aged man who lived alone and had suffered a heart attack. Every case, every story was a brush stroke of gray in varying shades imprinted on my thoughts. This was why I could explain jaded in a million different stories. By mid morning, my Hazmat suit was getting itchy and constricting. This wasn't unusual in itself; it was the fair price we had to pay for being the first line of defense against potential Corona virus cases. What wasn't usual though, was my vision. It was dancing, and there were hazy edges to it. I floated over to my desk, feeling like a giant cotton ball but I don't remember sitting down. The next time my eyes opened, some colleagues were peering down at me. Wait, why were they peering down? Right, I was in a bed with an intravenous line in my arm. “Lay back down nurse, you don't want to topple over.” It was Dr. Ahmed, the resident ER doctor. He had been standing off to the side making notes and peering down at me. “I feel fine already, let me up.” I reached for the IV line in my arm and was met with a slap and protest from my colleagues. “Don't let me restrain you!” Claire threatened, her brows drawing up in a way I had only ever seen it do when she did the rounds in the ER. My response was a chuckle. There was a dizzying amount of talking going on around me, and instructions being thrown around. But I did get one thing from the head nurse and Dr. Ahmed; I was not getting out of that bed today, and I was taking the whole week off for strict supervision and bed rest. It's a good thing I lived alone so there was no one to worry about my week long absence. I guess this Tuesday was one of my not so popular ones.

He said to me, “I don't know why anyone wouldn't love you”. It wasn't a question. The old man wasn't asking about past loves. He simply stated it. Out of the blue. As I wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his forearm because his upper arm was too fat. It caught me off guard. And he noticed the tilt in my head and squint in my eyes as the words passed through my ears. How does one respond to that. Especially here, at work, in the hospital. Was he being inappropriate or just trying to be nice? Whichever he was, it left me with a pit in my stomach. “I don't know why anyone wouldn't love you”. We hadn't spoke of my love life. Maybe he noticed there was no ring on my finger. How could he know of a love I loved but did not love me back? He didn't. He didn't know there was someone he was speaking about when he said those words to me. A few moments passed, and as I took off the blood pressure cuff I had a response. “I guess I haven't met the right person yet”. It was a better response than “I don't know”. And I thought it would be satisfying to the old man. Just enough thought to entertain him, but not enough to continue this conversation. An art I have mastered. But to my dismay, he continued on. “So you are picky?” Now I was beginning to think this was dancing on the lines of inappropriate. So I told myself I would give him one more answer then this conversation would be over and I would leave. I have never let a man know me enough to truly love me, though he may have thought he did. He was in love with the mask I so carefully crafted. Until time wore down its corners and it began peeling away. He realized that in fact it was not me he was in love with at all. These thoughts never left. But as I left the old man's room, I fluffed his pillow one more time, turned down the lights, looked him in the eyes gave him a smile and said, “I'll be back to check on you in an hour.” Then pulled the curtain and shut the door behind me.

Four hundred and fifty thousand babies in the United States are born too soon. Additionally, fifteen million babies are born preterm around the world. On average, more than 80 percent of preterm births are unanticipated. I was one of those children. I was born one pound and ten ounces. When I was born I had many life threatening complications and the doctors were afraid that I would not make it through the night. I can vividly remember being twelve years old and finding a scrapbook that my parents used to document my childhood laying on the mantel. On the front page my mom revealed how I was born prematurely. During that moment, when I read all complications I had, I was taken aback. From that moment, I knew that my life had meaning. It was in that moment that I understood I was meant to do something extraordinary. I realized, that day, that ordinary just wouldn't do. Due to the impeccable doctors and nurses that worked, tirelessly, to save my life, I vowed to live a life serving others. From my vast experience serving on the usher board at Christians for Change church to managing the football team at North Springs High School, I understand the importance of giving back. I've always had a zest for serving my community. It's been imperative for me to serve as a pillar in my community. Throughout my high school tenure, I've been able to accumulate more than one hundred and fifty community service hours. That day I saw my childhood scrapbook left a huge impact on me. I would truly be lying if I said there were times where I didn't ask “why me?” However, I used that questions to fuel my future aspirations. I want to work with babies that were born like me or in similar situations. By doing so, I could leave a lasting impact on the lives of others. After researching premature births and seeing the devastating statistics on babies born under those circumstances, all I've want to do was help. After a lot of research, I learned that nurses that specifically help premature babies are Neonatal Nurses. Without the help of a neonatal nurse, I would not be here today. I want to study nursing. It is my life's mission to foster improvement in the statistics of children born prematurely. Becoming a nurse means that I'll possess power to help babies who were just like me. Studying nursing at your University will help my life come full circle. Further, it'll help bring my wildest dreams into fruition. Life is about giving rather than receiving. I'm hoping that I can embody this philosophy at your University.

She came in early one morning, comatose, silently pale, her breath rising and falling together with the ventilator, hooked to a hundred machines, monitors blinking, real time data, IV pumps lining the pole like birds on a wire. Day before yesterday she was trimming hedges, climbing ladders, raking the yard, making plans for Thanksgiving. Day before yesterday she was whole, complete, functional, capable, making memories, living life, combing her hair, telling stories with friends. Then, without warning, some weak spot gave way in her brain, some vessel decided enough was enough and blood began to spread through the white matter of memories, of conscious thought and decision, an evil red flood obliterating hopes and dreams. The diagnosis is grim, cerebral hemorrhage, prognosis uncertain. The surgeons place a drain, straight down into the ventricles, leaving an aerial-like appendage sticking out of her skull, pointing straight up, a fiber-optic wire and a tube emanating from within, a human technological hybrid. The wire is hooked to a monitor that gives continuous readings of pressures inside the skull; the tube drains fluid once it reaches a certain level. Our goal is to keep pressure down, save the brain, conserve whatever is left inside, preserve life, return the trimmer to the hedge, the climber to the ladder, the raker to the yard. Her family comes in, some in shock, some realistic, eyes red, weeping, sharing memories. They can't believe they're here, can't believe she's here, can't believe she's on life support, overwhelmed by the blinking lights, the soft glow of machines and monitors. I try to explain, gently, the methods to our madness, the small pole sticking out of mother's skull, the appendages here and there, the lines and tubes. They ask me what I think, will she make it, will she ever be back to normal? I shrug slowly, turn my face, tell them the truth, we're doing everything we can, but chances are slim she'll come out of this. Eyes meet, eyes fill, they turn away, sit down heavily, not believing. Then another figure steps inside. Another daughter. This is the special one they whisper to me, the one the patient worried about, prayed and lived for, the black sheep of the family, history of depression, anxiety, no money, empty dreams. She sits beside her mother, lays her head on the bedrail and begins to cry, great sobs from deep inside, a million memories pouring over her heart like white-water over rugged stone. That's when I notice the monitor, the one measuring the pressure in the brain. The numbers start to rise, as the daughter hangs on to mother, as daughter pours out her soul, her tears falling on the sheet. The number keeps rising until the alarm goes off. The daughter looks up, leans back, and takes a deep breath. The numbers on the monitor begin to fall, to go back to normal. The daughter leans forward again, cries softly, whispering, reliving old times, sharing memories, saying please don't go, I love you, I need you, I can't do it without you. And the pressures begin to rise again, again the alarm sounds. I stand in a trance, spellbound, unbelieving, in awe. Something deep inside this coma-stricken mother is responding to the mournful sound of her beloved, her grief stricken daughter, flesh of her flesh. Doctors and surgeons, nurses and therapists, we all try our art, apply the treatment, order the interventions, but nothing reaches, no response, nary a nod. But somewhere in here we missed the soul and the soul connected, somehow; connected beyond me, connected beyond all of us, connected with the soul of her daughter. Hours later as the black sheep continues to whisper and to weep, the mother passes from this life into the next. As the monitors cease to flash and blink, I walk from the darkened room, pensive, sober, thoughtful. I like to think that for a moment the soul in the body of the sick and dying mother met with the soul of her daughter and that they talked, shared a sweet communion, and had the chance to say goodbye.

Hello Readers! My name is Macie Stanford, I am 17 years old, and I currently live in Montgomery, Alabama. I will be starting my first year of college this fall at Auburn University in Montgomery, where I will be studying to become a nurse. The more I think about the experiences this career will give me the more excited I become, but I have not always wanted to be a nurse. At the age of five, I wanted to be a mermaid. I wanted to swim with the sea turtles and grow a huge tail. To this day I still have a love for swimming and would never turn down a trip to the beach. At the age of seven, I was told mermaids were not real by my annoying brother and my dreams were crushed for the first time. Between the ages of ten and thirteen, I had developed a love for music and the art of performance. I had been a part of the band in middle school and learned to play my first instrument; the Alto Saxophone. I then went on to get accepted into a performing arts magnet high school where I was apart of the Choral Music Department. It was at this age I dreamed of attending Julliard and becoming a musician. At the age of fourteen, my mother died of a heart attack due to an overdose of anti-depression pills. My sisters were nine. My mother took care of us and my father always worked late so not only did I lose my mom, I became one. I, of course, love my sisters more than life but I did have to give up certain high school experiences to make sure they were taken care of. I also was unable to get a part-time job. This took away my chances of going to Julliard or anywhere out of Alabama. From 15 to now, I have developed a passion for helping others heal. My mother's overdose could have easily been avoided had a nurse or doctor paid closer attention so I have dedicated my career to being an overachieving nurse and do my best to prevent what happened to my mom from happening to anyone else. I look forward to pursuing this career and experiencing everything life has to offer.