Nomadic Nurse Diaries

Dear Saintly Patience Gods (Wherever the Hell You Are),

Today, I officially ran out of patience, tolerance, and any remaining shreds of compassion for a certain inmate who makes every single shift feel like I’m starring in a poorly scripted sitcom. There’s this one inmate—let’s call him “Mr. Annoying” for the sake of keeping it classy—who has somehow achieved the rare feat of being universally despised by both staff and fellow inmates alike. This guy has turned “annoying” into an art form, and not the fun kind. We’re talking world-class, give-me-strength-level irritation.

Imagine a guy who spends all day picking fights, stirring up drama, and then tries to play everyone against each other in a half-baked attempt to make friends. Here’s a sample of his greatest hits: He pops his meds into his mouth, spits them right back out into a cup, and swears he didn’t get the full dose. When we asked him to open his mouth to prove it, he clamped it shut and stared me down like I was the idiot. Nice try, buddy. Your act stinks, and nobody’s buying it. Not the staff, not his neighbors—not even the walls want to listen to this guy’s whining.

But here’s where things really went south: Today, he used a derrogatory slur against one of the pill nurses, a woman who’s the closest thing to a literal angel on earth. I’d already been tested all shift by training the world’s most clueless trainee, so my patience was not exsistent to brush off this guy’s latest act. Yet there he was, pouring his venom on someone who, by all rights, deserves a saintly halo. That was the final straw. I thought, “Why not just tell him what I really think?”

Cue my epic moment of zen. I didn’t yell, didn’t swear, and kept a stone-cold, professional expression. But oh, did I let him have it. And here’s the kicker: my “fuck you” voice is apparently so Canadian it could earn someone honorary citizenship back home. I was chirping him in my thickest, proudest Canadian accent—getting thicker with each sentence. Think of the most withering “nice try, eh” you’ve ever heard, with every “out” and “about” sharp enough to cut glass.

Right off the bat, I laid it out: “Look, bud, these pill nurses are here to do their job. They’re required to offer you every medication prescribed to you. After that, it’s your right to refuse any one of ‘em, alright? But you’re also fully capable of refusing in a respectful manner, without bein’ disrespectful.”

I didn’t stop there. “And I’m tired of hearing the games you play every morning with these pill nurses. You’re wasting everyone’s time, making the same scene over and over. They don’t deserve the grief, and it’s not impressing anyone. Just take what’s offered or don’t—but communicate it in a respectful manner.”

He opened his mouth with some smart remark about how I’m the one being “disrespectful.” So I leaned in and shot back: “No, I’m just tellin’ you how it is, and you don’t wanna hear it. I’m hurtin’ your feelings—there’s a difference.”

The look on his face? Priceless. His mouth fell open like I’d just slapped him with a dictionary, and I turned and walked off, leaving him blinking in stunned silence. As I passed his neighbors, I caught sight of two guys who, mind you, aren’t exactly known for handing out respect lightly. One has literally ripped out another man’s heart with his bare hands, and the other is a very important member of a gang. And what do they do?

Well, they’re standing there at their cell fronts, cups in hand, waiting for their meds, eyes wide. Their expressions were a mix of surprise and something that almost looked like respect, like they couldn’t believe they’d just witnessed me of all people finally lose it a little. Their eyes seemed to say, “Did that really just happen?” but also, “Alright.” And then, in perfect sync, they gave me the nod. That quiet, silent nod of acknowledgment that says, “We see you.”

Let me tell you, I floated out of that cellblock. I could’ve sworn I heard a heavenly choir singing as I strutted off, but still fuming like a lunatic. Later, when I mentioned the whole saga to a few people, they chuckled, loving every second of it. They agreed, he was indeed a piece of shit, and they wish they could’ve heard it themselves.

The best part of all? Realizing I could keep my cool and deliver the truth in a way that truly stung. For someone with a stutter, there’s always that fear of tripping over your words, especially when you’re angry. But today? Not one slip. I was smooth, I was precise, and I finally got to say what everyone else was thinking. And I learned something, too: maybe I’m liked around here more than I thought. That little nod of approval from his typically quiet indifferent neighbors was the cherry on top, confirming that, just maybe, my “nice nurse” status has its limits, and that’s a good thing.

With zero fucks left to give,
— Your refreshed, saint-patience-depleted, fully Canadian Nomadic Nurse