Note from the author: If you’re unfamiliar with the Pokey Green Monster series, please scroll to the beginning of my blog and read his introduction and other stories to better understand this fictional personification of Anxiety and Depression. My goal is to give labels and words to this pain myself and many others experience so as to take back the power it took from me. I know writing them has helped my own path, I only hope it helps others to read it.

My work is too fast paced for the Pokey Green Monster. He can’t keep up on his short legs. Usually. To my surprise, he followed me from my car, through the parking lot, up all the stairs, and into the ICU today. His scrawny legs pushing and sprinting up the stairs to keep up with me. I walked faster. He matched my speed. His eraser-worn pencil now gone, probably in his belly pouch, is replaced by a bobbing bucket. He swings it as he walks, whistling an annoyingly happy tune. It’s empty.

He sits on a filing cabinet while I take report on my patients, kicking his feet with the bucket between them, still whistling. I ask the night nurse to repeat what she just said as the bucket repeatedly lightly taps the filing cabinet. Why did he follow me here? I thought the Rules of Engagement were pretty well laid out prior to this. I go to work to focus on my patients, not myself, not my pain, but rather on their pain. That focus on others always blocked this Pokey Green Monster’s entry to the hospital. How dare he break those rules. How dare he step onto sacred, safe ground.

As I plan my day with the patients, when to give meds, imaging studies timing, lab draws, and contemplate this betrayal by my enemy, I realize he’s gone. He’s plodded off the unit with his bucket and his incessant whistling. Thank goodness. He finally got the clue of his own indecency.

As I walk through the sliding door of my first patient’s room, I realize he’s walking next to me, the bucket no longer empty, but sloshingly overfull with water. He emptied the bucket of its contents in the patient’s room, and promptly walked out. My feet step in the water and my sock soaks through.

Well, at least it’s luke-warm water.

I assess my patient, readjust them in the bed so they don’t form pressure ulcers, clean their mouth around the ventilator, listen to their lungs, heart, and abdomen, administer medications, adjust drips, do all the things. The entire time, my feet walking in water.

The Monster is back. His bucket swishing again, and again, he empties it on the floor. He repeats this over and over, the entire time I’m in my patient’s room. By the time I leave, the water is up to my calf and I am slowed in my walking through the liquid.

As I walk out of the room, the hallway is lit, there is no water here, and I move freely. I quickly walk to the med room and pick up what my next patient needs. My mind cleared. The Monster plodding off with the empty bucket down the hall.

This is all repeated in my next patient’s room. Again, water up to my calf, slowing all my movements.

I sit at the computer to chart my assessments, my Is&Os, my vitals, everything anyone could ever want to know about either of my patients at this given moment. I focus on the computer and it takes about half way through the first patient’s chart to realize there is water sloshing up against my feet. The Monster has begun his filling of the hallway while I chart.

My coworkers come by, asking if I need any help with anything that morning. They are walking freely, oblivious to the two feet of water covering the floor. No, I’m good. Just need to chart before the scheduled MRI.

When transport comes to help me take my patient downstairs, I can barely move my legs, the water up to my waist. I help with the ventilator and IV pole while my coworker pushes the bed. Once we come out of the ICU, I am able to move more quickly, leaving the now pond of a unit behind us. The motorized bed moving too quickly for the monster to keep up.

When we return to the unit, the water is higher, he continued his work while I was gone. The water now up to my chest makes it difficult to breath. The doctors rounded while I was gone and there is a list of tasks to complete now. I wade through the water, I will accomplish them if it kills me.

By evening, my chin is touching the top of the water and I can barely function. My body is tired from pushing against the water. My mind is tired of seeing others walk freely through it like nothing is there. Everything is slowed. Everything is muted. The water pushing and pressing on me from every direction. As I give report to the new night nurse, I am completely submerged, speaking slowly, my mind also submerged and slow alongside my body.

As I walk off the unit, out of the hospital, the water rushes out of the doors as I open them. My mind clears, my body, still soaking wet, moves faster, out into the crisp dark air. I am cold. The Monster plods behind me to my car. He hands me a towel when we get home. I dry myself. I fall asleep in my bed, and do it all again tomorrow.