Nomadic Nurse Diaries

Dear Patron Saint of Nurses on Their Last Nerve,

I am at my wit’s end, and the straw that broke the camel’s back has a name. His name is Mr. Night Shift Replacement, a man so bafflingly inadequate that I am convinced he might actually be some sort of social experiment to see how long it takes before I lose my mind.

Let me paint a picture here. This man—a licensed nurse, allegedly—couldn’t take my vital signs using our very basic machine. Just let that sink in for a moment. It’s one button, my friends. One. Button. You’d think he was disarming a nuclear bomb, the way he hesitated and stared at the machine, utterly defeated. And it gets worse. I showed him our EKG machine, and the poor guy looked at it like it was alien technology. I’m fairly certain he thought it was an espresso maker.

But wait—there’s more. I have explained the concept of “maximum security” to this man no fewer than five times, and he still looks at me like I’m explaining quantum physics. Maximum. Security. You know, the place where the truly dangerous inmates are housed. But to him? It’s apparently just another building. And speaking of buildings, I took him on a grand tour of our very clearly separate maximum security treatment room and the infirmary. Two buildings, two completely different purposes. Yet every time, he asks, “Wait, which one’s which again?” It’s like I’m living in Groundhog Day.

Now, let’s talk about basic medical knowledge. If you’re unfamiliar with the COWS assessment (Clinical Opiate Withdrawal Scale), fine. But if you’re in corrections nursing, maybe, just maybe, that should be on your radar. Does he know what it is? Of course not. Does he follow instructions? No, not a chance. Does he know the safety protocols around maintaining a safe physical distance from inmates? I wish. Honestly, at this point, I could probably tape a “how-to” guide to his forehead, and he’d still miss it.

And let’s not overlook his keen listening skills. He’s tuned in just enough to keep his gaze somewhere south of my face, but north of my waistline. Charming, right? Honestly, even the inmates have better focus than this guy. So yes, we hate him. I hate him. And let’s be real—he’s a walking liability, both to patient safety and to my dwindling patience.

Let me tell you how tonight’s final straw went down. I told him to meet me outside our office at a very specific time for a wellness check. You know, normal nursing stuff. The time comes and goes, and he’s nowhere to be found. I give him a call, thinking maybe he’s lost or staring confusedly at the EKG machine again. He picks up, nods, agrees, and says he’ll be right out. Thirty minutes later—thirty—I finally spot him on the security footage, wandering to the door, looking down the empty hallway like he’s expecting a parade, and then…he goes right back to his office.

At this point, I’m convinced he’s actively avoiding competence. So I call him again, this time with a little extra “suggestion” in my tone, and he finally gets it together and comes out—thirty minutes late. You honestly can’t make this stuff up. It’s like the man is allergic to punctuality and basic instructions.

So here we are. The final update on my night shift replacement: he’s a lost cause, a risk to every breathing human in his radius, and the reason I now contemplate screaming into the void nightly. But hey, at least he’s consistent.

And here’s the kicker: somehow, he still thinks he’s doing a great job. Every time I give him feedback—which is usually me on the verge of either laughing hysterically or breaking into a monologue about patient safety—he just grins, nods, and mutters something vague like, “Yeah, for sure.” For sure?! Buddy, the only thing that’s “for sure” here is that you’re about as qualified for this job as a goldfish with a stethoscope. I’m starting to think his greatest skill might just be his unshakable confidence in his own inadequacy.

Tonight, after his little disappearing act, I tried one last desperate attempt at getting through to him. I looked him dead in the eye and said, “So, just to be clear, if I tell you to do something, it’s because it’s important. Like, life-and-death important.” And he just stared at me, grinning like a puppy who’s been told he’s a good boy for chewing up the sofa. “Totally!” he says, looking completely unfazed. Totally?! Oh, sweet summer child.

And of course, the cherry on top of this disaster sundae is that he’s got no clue how computer systems work. Now, I’m not expecting him to be a tech wizard, but we’re talking about basic computer skills. The man has the technological awareness of a potato. I swear, I showed him how to log in at least a dozen times, and every time, he somehow managed to mess it up in a new and creative way. By the end of it, I half-expected him to ask if he could submit his patient notes via carrier pigeon.

Honestly, I’m over it. At this point, I’ve given up on him. He’s a patient safety risk, a liability, and a constant reminder that sometimes the universe just has a dark sense of humor. And the sad part? He’s supposed to be my replacement. The person entrusted with continuing my work, my little night shift legacy. I’d laugh if it weren’t so terrifying.

So, here’s to another night of managing chaos and hoping this man-child doesn’t end up locking himself in a closet or mistaking the EKG machine for a coffee maker. I swear, if I make it through this, I deserve some sort of medal. Or at the very least, a nice long nap somewhere far, far away from anyone who’s ever uttered the words, “Totally, for sure.”

Sincerely questioning reality,

The Exhausted Nomadic Nurse