So, it’s 8:10am on Wednesday morning, and I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be at my CNA clinicals. I’d been taking my CNA class last month, got the flu, and had to bow out three days from finishing the class. No worries, I told myself. I’ll finish in the next available class.
     I’ve spent the last month in a near-constant state of background dread, loathing the idea of going back to those clinicals. It’s not the work, I proved that to myself on the first day of clinicals. I can wipe someone’s butt, take them off to the shower, clean up their privates, not a problem. Not particularly fun, but I can do it. It’s not the hours. Granted, eight in the morning is an ungodly hour that no one was ever meant to bear, but even I, avowed night owl, can drag myself forth from bed and guzzle enough coffee to be somewhere in a mostly-coherent state first thing in the morning.
     It’s that woman. I just cannot drag myself out to deal with that woman. I’m talking about the instructor, Barb Reale, who may, in fact, be made of pure evil. If she were just your garden-variety twat, I could deal with her. Fuck knows I’ve dealt with enough of those in my time. It’s the glee she seems to take in humiliating her students in front of an audience that I just can’t face. I can’t stand there, already confused about how to do something, and have to turn to see her smug, holier-than-thou expression, have to ask her a question, and hear that sing-song voice ask, “Are you sure you’re doing that right?” It’s the fact that she’s in a position of semi-authority over me, the fact that I have to trust her to lead me through a difficult experience, and she’s proven, hands down and without a doubt, to be utterly untrustworthy. It’s the way she acts as though it’s an imposition if she has to show me how to do something, or as though she has something better she could be doing when she’s supposed to be teaching me. I just can’t deal with her.
     I’ve been sitting here all morning, pep-talking myself. All my friends gave me pep talks. Jim woke up special, to call and give me a pep talk. My Dad called. Everyone was wonderful and supportive and told me, “You can do it!” Well, yes, I know I can do the work and pass the class, but go in there and be lost and confused and under the thumb of a piss-poor excuse for a teacher who disappears and leaves us stranded, only to turn up long enough to make us feel like asses while everyone else is watching?
     Nope. Can’t do it. Just can’t. I’d rather juggle rabid jungle cats.
     The last day I took the class, we did four hours in the nursing home. By the time I got there, I was already feeling tired and under the weather. I knew I had something coming on, and was vaguely hoping it was the nasty-assed cold that was going around, and not the nasty-assed flu that was going around. We walked into the nursing home, and Barb gave us index cards to write down the skills we accomplished, as we accomplished them, so she’d know if we’d done all of them.
     But, I thought she had to watch us do them all? I thought, and one of the other girls asked the same question. Barb’s answer: “Well, I can’t watch everyone. So just write down what you do, and I’ll sign your skill sheets off for them.”
     Wait, what? So, we’re on the honor system? Well, all right, I suppose. I mean, I’m honest, and there are seven of us, and only one of her, and surely other people will be watching, right?
     ”Okay, people. Get out there and answer call lights!” Barb says, and opens the door of the conference room to release us upon the unwitting population of a nursing home.
     Wait . . . get out there and answer call lights? What, by ourselves? Shouldn’t someone be, I don’t know, keeping an eye on us? I’d assumed we’d get paired up with actual CNAs or something sensible like that. That’s how it gets done in other classes, or so I’ve heard from several people.
     So, we wandered out into the hall, and milled around a bit, confused. “What are you waiting for?” Barb asked. “Go answer lights.”
     ”By ourselves?” I said.
     ”You took the class, didn’t you?”
     I stood there, dumbfounded. Yeah, I took a six-day course, wherein each skill was briefly explained and practiced for a few minutes. I am surely not qualified to just aimlessly inflict myself on poor, confused residents, am I? I mean . . . is it just me here, or isn’t that a little, I don’t know, irresponsible of these people? What followed was four hours of us bumbling around, wandering into rooms, trying to figure out what to do. I was queasy and frustrated and tired, and my classmates were frustrated and upset as well. We kept bumping into another clutch of equally lost and terrified students from a local college, who’d also been abandoned into the home to answer lights. Occasionally, one would come up and ask us a question, and we’d have to reply, “Sorry, we don’t know either.”
     For added fun, Barb had disappeared. We went looking for her to answer questions or help us on several occasions, and couldn’t find her. At one point, I asked a floor nurse if she’d seen my teacher. “Who is she?” The lady asked.
     ”Barb Reale?” I said.
     The nurse snorted, rolling her eyes. “Good luck.” She said.
     So, today’s plan is to head up to the office administering this pathetic excuse for a class, turn in a piss-poor review of Barb, and get at least a partial refund. I’m disappointed with myself for not toughing out the last three days, but I just couldn’t face three days of bumbling around tired and confused and hoping I didn’t hurt anyone by accident while waiting my turn to be humiliated by a bad teacher. At the same time, I am vastly relieved to not be at that class. I’m bordering on light-headed, I’m so relieved. (Actually, that might be the cold medicine I took about an hour ago. I’ve got a spring sinus infection.)
     Instead, I think I’ll try the college class — not the local college that had turned its students loose with us at the nursing home, but another one. I’ve already checked to make sure that one isn’t being administered by this company, and that Barb isn’t the teacher there. (It would be just my luck.) In the mean time, I’m off to see about a refund.

     (Photo credit: IconArchive.com.)