Miss Trust: Tales from the Bedpan

Shift #1: A Nursing Student's ‘Dunk’ into Long-Term Care

As I walked toward my first placement, my first shift, in a long-term care setting, I felt an uneasy excitement within me. Butterflies? No, not exactly. Jabbing pains in my sides? A bit. Maybe it was like hundreds of little butterflies with pointy sticks inside my stomach and chest. That’s closer.

I had no idea what I was walking into. I wondered what the next eight hours of my day would look like.  Magic Eight Ball, tell me, damn it! My mind raced with stories I had heard—whispers of long shifts, overworked nurses, and residents' frustrations. Then, the darker tales of a lot of poop and a lot of smells. “Oh, you won’t need coffee to wake you up, dear,” followed by cackles of laughter from the seasoned nurses.

Warnings of ‘don’t eat before a morning shift’ or ‘beware of enema/suppository day’!  The sibling advice stories from older nursing students painted a picture of struggle, of moments where ‘caring’ wavered under the weight of exhaustion… and possibly other things, so to speak. I felt a tight knot in my shoulders and a bead of cold sweat on my neck as I approached the building, wondering if I was truly ready for what lay ahead. “Do nurses eat their own? Is this fact or fiction?” No. I’m not going to listen. I’ve got this. I can do it.

The moment I stepped through the doors, something shifted inside of me. My anxiety began to fade and it was replaced by a sense of excitement on my first day in my chosen profession. My clinical instructor and fellow nursing students greeted me warmly, and in their faces, I saw a shared nervousness, but also a shared hope. The tension began to dissolve. I began to feel at ease. When I finally met my preceptor and the residents on my floor, with a blink, the endless expanse of things I didn't know looked less like a dangerous abyss and more like a grand adventure.

I had expected orientation and shadowing, a chance to learn without much responsibility, and thankfully, that’s exactly how it unfolded. We began with an overview of our objectives and a tour of the facility. The unfamiliar hallways gradually became less intimidating. As the day went on, I met the staff, shadowed my preceptor, and slowly immersed myself in the rhythm of the place. I assisted with personal care, helped during dinner, and even spent quiet moments with the residents during their movie time. Yet, beneath the surface of every task was an underlying feeling of uncertainty—would I be able to handle this when the real challenges came? Could I do this independently? What if something bad happened, would I be able to respond competently?

Still, as I helped residents settle in for the night, that initial fear hadn’t vanished, but had instead transformed into something quieter, something that reminded me of the importance of the work ahead. There was anticipation—–an eagerness to learn and to make a difference—but also the quiet understanding that this path wouldn’t always be easy.

During my shift, one of the residents had been put to bed for the night. However, about ten minutes later, she appeared in the hallway, gripping her walker, eyes wide with confusion. She couldn’t remember the way back to her room despite having just left it. My Personal Support Worker (PSW) responded by gently guiding her back to her room. Quiet. Then in another ten minutes, she emerged again, this time her voice trembling as she said, “I want to speak with the nurse. I want to go home. This is not my home.” The charge nurse was called and when they arrived, they quickly soothed her fears and helped her settle in once more.

With the other PSWs busy caring for the remaining residents, they suggested I take a break at the front desk. My few moments of quiet didn’t last long, though. The same resident wandered out again, her distress even more palpable. “I’m confused,” she said, her voice filled with a mixture of desperation and sadness. “I don’t know where I am, and I just want to go home.” I asked if she’d like to go for a walk, hoping the motion might ease her mind. She agreed, and I slowly led her back to her room.

As we entered her room, she looked at me with tear-filled eyes and whispered, “Everyone here lies to you. I should have never come here because they will never let me go home.” Her words pierced my heart, and a wave of sadness washed over me. I could feel the weight of her loneliness and confusion. Empathy can suck! I fetched her a box of tissues and had to fight my instinct to take the box for myself.

I tried to offer what little comfort I could, as she cried softly. I didn’t know what to say. What are you supposed to say? Where in the textbook did it tell you what to say!? I don’t know if it was right, but I said what came to my mind, “Maybe a good night’s sleep will bring you some peace, and tomorrow you can face the new day better.” Was that right? I don’t know.

It seemed to calm the woman down. She sighed and wiped away her tears. Did that calm her down? Did it not calm her down? As my internal debate raged, one of the PSWs arrived, and together, we sat with her … quietly, gently calming her down until she fell back to sleep.

In that quiet moment, I couldn’t help but feel the deep ache of her longing for something familiar, something safe. Will I get better at this?