What a day...

I worked 12 hour shifts on Wednesday and Thursday. Wednesday was alright, even though it WAS Canada Day. Thursday was admittedly more difficult. When you've been out of the house for 13.5 hours only to drag yourself back out early the next day, your brain is going to falter a bit.

I was okay until about 3:30pm on Thursday. That's when I got back from my lunch. I work in the tech-dependent unit, which is a room with 3 patients and a nurse's desk in the corner. The kids there are mostly toddlers with tracheostomies and require constant supervision and oxygen monitoring. One baby was out on day pass with his parents and the other two toddlers were napping. So I was free to drift along in my Elvish sleep. The 3.5 hours passed without incident and my shift was over.

There's a mini bus schedule that I made on a cue-card that has all the important times (when my shifts start and end) for the bus that conveniently connects the hospital and my apartment along a road without much traffic. I love that bus.

Yesterday, however, I left the building and realized that the bus wouldn't come for another 15 minutes. No problem, the hospital is right next to a subway station. What I didn't account for was the half-zombified state of my brain.

I went to Atwater métro station, paid my fare and went down to the platform. I remember looking across the tracks to the opposite platform and noting that it was heading towards Honoré-Beaugrand (which is kind of like Kennedy station on the Bloor-Danforth line). What I didn't note was that THAT was the direction I was supposed to be heading in. Believe me when I tell you that I am well acquainted with this particular station. Last fall, I did my clinical placement at this same hospital. I go down there to shop at the Korean market which is nearby. I know Atwater station damn well, is my point. Now why, on this particular day, I decided to go down the staircase on the left instead of the right is a mystery. Maybe my brain was angry with me for subjecting it to the smell of chlorhexidine all day, I don't know. But there I was, placidly looking up at the TV screen and wondering what the weather would be like in the evening for 5 minutes straight without even thinking about whether I was on the right platform or not.

The train arrived and I got on. Now, my station, Place des Arts, is 5 stops east from Atwater. So one doesn't want to zonk out completely during the subway ride. Zonking out partially is okay, though. While I was in this haze, I heard the announcement, "Attention. Attention. Charlevoix station is closed. Buses are available from..." I thought to myself, "That's strange. They don't do that announcement unless you're going west on the green line." Then came the announcement, "Next station, Lionel-Groulx." It took 2 seconds to sink in. That's right. I was heading west. Thankfully, it was only one station in the wrong direction, so I got off.

Lionel-Groulx is like Bloor, where you can transfer between the green and orange lines. But unlike Bloor where you change floors to change lines, here you change floor to change your direction. Nonsense, you cry! I tell you, it's true. My brain apparently wasn't done screwing with me, so I mindlessly walked across the platform and got on the train, thinking that my misadventures were at an end.

I wouldn't be posting this if that was the end. Oh no. Being squishy of brain, I had changed to the orange line. When they announced, "Next station, Place St. Henri", I actually said aloud, "Bloody hell!" By this time, I would have been better off just sitting on the bench in front of the hospital and waiting for the damn bus. With a supreme burst of effort, I forced myself to stay alert and made it back to Place des Arts without making any more blunders.

All that was left was to take a bus for a short distance to my apartment. Imagine what I discovered when I exited the station! It's Internation Jazz Festival time here in Montreal and all the streets in the area were closed off for the concerts. This was the last straw. I was hungry, I was tired, it was bloody hot and sticky. If I were a child of less principles, I would have thrown a screaming tantrum right then and there. (Fact: My parents swear that I have never thrown tantrums, just death glares which is infinitely more endurable.)

Grumbling, I walked to my apartment. It was only a 10 minute walk, but I let myself wear the cranky pants that had been collecting dust in the closet of mind. Once I was home though, a shower and some food fixed EVERYTHING. Ahhhh~ Then I passed out on the bed and slept the night away. ^_^

Later in the month, I have to work three 12-hour NIGHT shifts in a row. I'll be happy if I don't somehow end up in Ottawa after that.