On the road again

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Deciding to pursue a nursing career in Missouri was a tough decision to make, as it could be a costly move and offered no guarantee of success. More importantly, I knew I would not be able to work while attending such an intense program. 

Fortunately, toward the end of 2005 home prices were on the rise and we had earned a small amount of equity on our first-ever home. I applied for a home equity loan and the bank allowed me to borrow some money, which I hoped would cover my out-of-state tuition and all of my expenses, allowing me to focus fully on studying. Leaving Melissa behind one more time, I packed up a couple of suitcases, hopped in my black Chevy Silverado with my Pat Tillman stickers on the rear window, and got on the road to head to Columbia, Missouri, to start a new endeavor in November.

Ken drove down at the same time. We were both really excited to be going somewhere we had never been before. We arrived in Columbia, a city of about 100,000 people, late in the evening and spent the first night at a small motel. The next day, we found a brand-new, affordable, two-story, four-bedroom condo not too far from campus. We bought some beds and desks at Office Depot and got dishes at Walmart for our new place.

Melissa decided not to go with us at first; she wanted to continue working in Fresno and said that if she changed her mind, she could always join us later in Columbia.

     Ken and I loved the university, with its beautiful campus and historic buildings. The school put as much importance on its athletics as it did on education. Ken and I both were heavily into lifting weights. Those days I could do bicep curls weighing 120 lbs. The gym and the indoor basketball courts were amazing. They also had great outdoor soccer fields with artificial turf, which was a dream come true for us.

     I had from January until May 2006 to finish the prerequisite classes required to be accepted into the nursing program. I attempted to enroll in all of my required classes at Columbia College, but the school had a limit on the maximum number of courses that I could sign up for in one semester. I then realized that if I could arrange the classes in a way where they wouldn't overlap, I could take some of them at Mizzou. I decided to take chemistry, microbiology, and pathophysiology at Columbia College and anatomy and nutrition at Mizzou.

     I was still over the limit of courses I could take at Columbia College, however, but my advisor suggested I should write a letter to the dean and meet with her to explain my situation. I assured the dean of Columbia College, who seemed to have many years of experience in the educational system combined with an understanding and caring personality, that I was a responsible and highly motivated person, who had moved all the way to Columbia, Missouri, from California in order to attend a nursing school. 

     She understood my drive and made an exception, agreeing to allow me to take three science classes in one semester. I later enrolled in anatomy and nutrition classes at Mizzou as well. I felt a lot of pressure building, though, because I was aware that placing all this responsibility on my shoulders meant that failing could not be an option.

     I met a guy named DJ in my pathophysiology class who was looking for a place to live and he moved into one of the rooms upstairs. A Missouri native and a lover of the wild outdoors, DJ was a few years younger than me. He was a very smart guy and would ace his classes without much effort.

By this time my cousin Sercan had been living in Northern California for a few years and wanted to start a new life and go to school as well. I told him that as long as he worked on his degree, he could stay with us for free. Soon after our phone conversation, he packed up his car and arrived in Columbia. It was great to reunite because it had been a while since we had seen each other. Now we had a good group at the house, all easygoing guys who got along well.

With many different types of trees lining the streets, the fall weather in Columbia was beautiful. I had bought all my books and even did a little bit of reading before my classes started, all based on the syllabus. I planned on staying as organized as possible the whole time, certain that rigorous discipline would be the key to success. I couldn't afford to fail any of my classes because the nursing program was due to start in May 2006.

I pressed on and passed all of my prerequisite classes. With so many rules and exceptions to the rules, chemistry gave me the biggest challenge. I had to make the most of everything I had ever learned, including math, to pass this science class that was full of order and chaos.

I wasn’t officially accepted into the Sinclair School of Nursing yet. I still had to pass the interview phase, where three of the program’s instructors sat down and asked me some challenging questions. I answered all of them to the best of my ability and felt fairly good about the interview. When I received my acceptance letter into Mizzou’s nursing program a few days later, I was very happy and excited that I had successfully completed all the steps to begin this intense and challenging program. 

     Finally the first day of class arrived and I started the nursing program in May 2006. Our class consisted of forty students, and everyone had a prior degree in another field. The students ranged in age from their twenties to their fifties, but soon enough we all bonded and became friends. Our course load included Med/Surg I and II, Obstetrics/Gynecology, Pediatrics, Mental Health, Geriatrics, and more, spread across four semesters.

     I found the math tests we had to take over the course of the program to be particularly unforgiving, as we weren’t allowed to miss a single question. We also had what were called clinicals. These were patient assignments, with an RN guiding us through bedside care protocols at various hospitals in many different settings.

     Many of us were nervous around patients, especially when we were required to draw blood or insert IV lines for the first time. It was heartbreaking to see some of the patients fighting for their lives, especially the young ones. We all might have visited our own friends and loved ones during their hospital stays, but being in the position of a caregiver was different, since we as nursing students felt we carried a large responsibility on our shoulders. We all got a real insight into the health challenges these people were dealing with, what it was like to be around them, and how to care for them.

     I enjoyed getting to know my patients and hearing their stories. Their troubles reminded me how fragile we human beings are and how much the small things matter.

     It must have been our second semester and I had a nineteen-year-old male patient who had taken a bullet in his cervical spine at a party, leaving him a quadriplegic. He couldn’t move any of his body parts below the neck. I met his mother; she was devastated. How do you comfort someone in that situation? All you can do is be there for them for anything they need, whether it’s giving them a listening ear or a glass of water. That case always bothered me a lot.

     When I was in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU), I was particularly touched by the premature babies and the complications they faced. A nurse had to start an IV on one baby boy, and the scalp provided the area that presented the least risk of the wriggling infant dislodging the catheter. As the nurse pierced the skin of his scalp, the tiny baby opened his mouth to cry, but no sound came out. I tried to imagine how painful, and how shocking, it must have been for him. Meanwhile, most families were enjoying bonding with their new babies in the labor and delivery areas, without having to deal with such complications.

     These two very different units, filled with different emotions, inspired many questions in my mind. It didn’t seem fair. What was supposed to be a time of celebration was interrupted by complications for some families. Of course, the parents of healthy babies could be confronted with their own set of unique problems in life. But things were definitely less fair to one set of parents than the other.

     Another patient, a middle-aged man who was a paraplegic, required a wheelchair to get around. We had only spent a few hours around each other but nevertheless formed a bond. One day, he was getting ready to go to Radiology for a test, and we put him on a gurney. I’ll never forget hearing him ask the staff around him, “Is Ozzie coming with me, too?”

     Hearing that made me realize just how lonely some people were — especially in a hospital setting, where they might be facing multiple serious health problems — and how eager they could be to build relationships with others. I had been there before a few times myself. Hospital beds can be very cruel places, especially when a patient’s stay grows longer and longer and the isolation begins to weigh on them. And yes, I did accompany my friend to Radiology that day.

     My nickname had been Ozzie since I was a little boy, and it was easy for many patients to remember, since many of them were familiar with the 1950s sitcom The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet. I was not familiar with the show at first but became aware of it after so many of my older patients told me they had watched it when they were younger. It reminded me of Leave It to Beaver in many ways, a show I was a bit more familiar with and enjoyed watching.

     I always welcomed the older patients’ stories. Many of them had lost their spouses of many years, and I often wondered how a person could withstand the sadness of losing someone they were so used to being around. It was especially affecting to see pictures of them when they were young. Their eyes stayed the same, except for the wrinkles that surrounded them. Some of my best memories consist of engaging in conversations with older people, because I know that many of them are walking libraries full of hardship, lessons, life experience, and wisdom. Sometimes I pour myself a drink and watch Neil Young play one of my favorite songs, “Old Man,” in a video from 1971 on YouTube. Singing such an amazing song at the age of twenty-six must have meant so much to him. I can only imagine the emotions he might have felt when he sang it again in his seventies.

     Most people need care, attention, love, and compassion. These are the things that matter the most, and working as a nurse brought the lessons I had been taught as a child back to my mind with great impact. I say “most people” because as I met more and more people in my life, I realized not everybody was a people person and some despised being around other people. Although I am still a friendly person, as I got older, I understood some of these people better and how realizing the ugly capabilities of some humans may have caused them to develop strong desires to stay away from others. Being exposed to ugliness definitely helped me grow in life. As painful and frustrating as these experiences might have been, I am a stronger and a better person because of them. They have given me direction in my life and helped me decide where to go, who to surround myself with, and who to stay away from.

     In the 1970s and 1980s in Izmir, we learned to love children and respect the elderly. Bullying wasn’t allowed and was cut short collectively and fiercely whether out on the streets or at schools. We protected the weak, the unfortunate, the weird, and the different. On buses, we always offered our seats to older people, women, the disabled, and small children. That was the norm in those days in Karsiyaka as well as many parts of Turkey.

     We valued our enlisted soldiers; we called them “Mehmetcik,” the Turkish equivalent to “Johnny boy.” Mehmetciks were young men who had left their families behind to join the military, where there was a high possibility of suffering verbal and physical abuse from higher-ranked soldiers — not to take anything away from many good-natured and fair higher-ranked soldiers and officers. Many of them came from the lower echelons of society — they were the children of farmers, mechanics, construction workers, butchers, and grocers. Many of them would lose their young lives in terror attacks.

     As an immigrant who moved to America from Turkey at an early age, part of me felt guilty at times for leaving my homeland. If the country gave its youth more opportunities and an honest promise of a better life, I most likely wouldn’t have left my homeland and my family at such a young age. I came to America in search of freedoms that I felt each and every person on Earth deserved to enjoy. I believed it was everyone’s right to pursue their own version of happiness in life.

     I came to this country to allow my individuality to flourish. But I have never forgotten my roots, and I have done my best to keep a good balance between the responsibilities of being a citizen of the world, both Turkish and American. I strive as a human being to leave the negatives of my culture behind and adopt any positives that other cultures and the world have to offer. While I was one of the biggest critics of my home country when I felt it behaved unjustly and unfairly, I also was one of its biggest defenders when it came to protecting it against violence, blind hate, and ignorance, especially systematically.

     Most Turkish people I know possess great hospitality and respect for diversity; we had so many athletes come to our country from all over the world when I was a child, playing for our various teams. Many of them, especially those who came from African and South American nations, would ultimately embrace Turkey as their new home and become Turkish citizens. I wish more people knew about this side of my homeland.