Labeled

Somehow, INTENSIVE CARE NURSE, got plastered across my chart. My allergies read “Reglan and lasix” instead of “phergan and latex” but everybody knows I’m an ICU nurse. I’ve been labeled.
Nobody will tell me exactly what this means. I’d like some kind of definition.
I certainly feel like an idiot when I talk to a lot of my caretakers. Sometimes, I don’t even know if I make sense.
Apparently someone, somehow, caught on to my occupation. There was a moment of silence, with almost every specialist I’ve ever seen, where they stopped, mid-explanation, and asked what I did for a living. Then, when I answered, nothing, no real explanation, Just “oh.”
Can someone let me in on this?
This makes people nervous. It’s like they’ve plastered “smarty-pants” over the file. I don’t like it.
I haven’t been a nurse for years. I don’t even have a license. I forfeited it because I have been unable to work. I’m a professional patient. But I’m expected to be smart. I don’t want to be smart right now. All my decisions are based upon gut instincts, except for the velcade.
That drug goes against my gut, but I was told my doctor’s smarter than me so I’m taking it. That is why he is the hot shot and I am not. So he can make the tough calls.
Boston, in general, is hot right now. It has NKOTB coming back all grown up (I know you love it). It has John Lester and the Sox on a streak. They have Brady and Giselle as their famous couple. It has me and my rock star team of professionals. I think the political candidates need to come to Boston. It’s where our country all started.
We’ll throw a tea party.