Wednesday, February 8, 2017

-January 30th-

Tonight marks the last module exam of EMT Class. We'll never take one again.
The next test we see in class will have 100 questions over 39 chapters, and will decide whether or not we can pursue National certification.

Tonight, we also ran through skills stations. One, for the first time, with a preceptor. First couple stations were combined, with my instructor as the preceptor/patient/assistant. Easy, right?
My hands didn't shake, I breathed slowly, and admitted when I didn't remember something. Yet I questioned every step I took, fretted about the ones I did take, and bumbled through like I'd never before seen the equipment. I could sense his frustration, despite his patient demeanor. I reminded myself that I was capable, smart, and also wired just a bit differently then everyone else.
Somehow, I couldn't assemble the information in my brain into a coherent reply. As I half- heartedly muttered an answer, wanted to shake him, and make him understand just how much I fought to find the right words, and how it felt when I simply couldn't.
I know the skills. I can recite them in my head, and I have no problem performing them. But I was scared to death that I didn't say it right, wouldn't say it right, and so ruined the entire session.
I forced myself to keep a positive attitude as we started over for the third time.
Moving onto CPR, my confidence rose.
I had this down. It was the simple things that got me. Things I didn't verbalize, or forgot to ask.
Didn't check for id. Didn't apply the AED pads efficiently. Bagged my patient too quickly. When I left, he said to write down what I'd missed and review it. With my head down, I told him it'd be a long sheet of paper, and hurried out.
I trotted back to the classroom, wishing I could just out run the anxiety. Why can't I speak right?

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