The Hospital & the Haunted House
The Hospital and the Haunted House
As a young adult, it never occurred to me that being a mortician was a real career path. I naively assumed mortuary science was some kind of generationally gated profession. Don’t laugh—nobody teaches kids in rural America about this stuff. So, I did what I thought was the next best thing: medical school.
The problem was, I was poor. My family was poor. And even though I graduated with a 3.9 GPA, landed in the top 5% of my class, and won several academic awards, it still wasn’t enough to get into a solid four-year university with meaningful scholarships. So I came up with a plan: I’d pay for med school by getting a nursing degree first.
I knew nothing about medicine or nursing, except that nurses made decent money and the work was biology-adjacent. I was obsessed with biology and microbiology—diagnostics or research was the dream. So I began my medical journey at the very bottom: practical nursing.
Unfortunately, my addiction had other plans. By the time I reached my first or second semester of pre-med, I was juggling a 12.5 credit-hour schedule, full-time work, and a growing opioid habit I couldn’t hide or manage. I crashed and burned before midterms and dropped out.
Since then, I’ve “just” been a nurse. Still am, actually. Not because I don’t want to go back—but because I still can’t afford it. Ironic, huh? I used to joke that I should’ve been a rockstar instead. But honestly, I don’t believe anything happens without a reason. Maybe I was supposed to become a nurse. Someday, that might make more sense. For now, I do the best I can.
I don’t dislike the job. I work with addicts and mental health clients, and that gives me a profound sense of purpose. But I am, undeniably, a fish out of water. Not because I’m bad at my job—I’m not—but because I’m different. I don’t look like the other nurses, I don’t talk like them, and I definitely don’t treat patients like them. It creates a weird atmosphere at work.
People have “anonymously” complained about my outfits (Corp-Goth if the dress code is business casual, black scrubs otherwise). I’ve overheard colleagues say I’m “too nice” or “overly friendly” because I talk to clients like human beings instead of inmates—or worse. (And no, I don’t work in corrections. But even if I did, basic decency shouldn’t be optional.)
Nursing has a culture problem. Too many professionals walk around with this air of superiority like they’re starring in some low-budget soap opera: “I’m better than you… because I have delusions of grandeur.” The field is steeped in stigma, cliques, and constant judgment—even toward their own. I don’t just fail to connect with that culture on a cellular level—I actively reject it. Which, of course, means I’ve had a target on my back since day one.
Still, I show up with confidence and consistency. I don’t let their words dictate my emotional state—and that drives them nuts. It’s like middle school all over again, and I hate it. Nursing is full of brilliant people acting like mean girls on Facebook.
After my addiction spiraled, I voluntarily gave up my license while I handled the legal fallout. I was out of the field for nearly a decade. When I returned—shockingly—the landscape had shifted. Now, LPNs in my area have far more opportunities: doctor’s offices, hospice, dialysis, wound care, even some hospitals. It’s a relief to see. Ohio’s Board of Nursing even offers addiction treatment pathways before revoking a license—something that wasn’t even on the radar back when I was in school. I wasn’t sure they’d reinstate mine at all. Back then, they scared us half to death: “Get a felony and your career is over.” Not anymore.
Even with those positive changes, the work culture still feels the same. Clique-y. Judgy. Exhausting. I kind of hate it. You’ll never meet so many small-minded, willfully ignorant smart people as you will in a cluster of nurses. But despite the weirdness (not the fun kind), the negativity, and the bigotry—I stay. Because someone out there needs help. And sometimes, I can actually help them.
Yes, I’d love to go back to school, advance my career, maybe move up the food chain. But the longer I stay in this field, the less time I want to spend in it. I just don’t belong here. I probably should’ve been a mortician, but that ship might’ve already sailed—or will have by the time I can afford to try again.
So for now, I do what I can. I look for minimal-contact, third-shift jobs in 12-hour blocks, so I can spend four days a week at home—away from all that. I focus on what I actually love: my art and my website. Whatever’s meant for me will find me. Eventually.