While I was busy hitting the books with all the enthusiasm of a corpse, somehow I managed to pass the Philippine nursing board exams. Honestly, standing in line at the PRC for ten hours with thousands of other students to file my test application was harder than the exam itself and should be celebrated as my real success. Ed, on the other hand, took on a couple of jobs that would make any overachiever weep with jealousy. He taught freshmen nursing students at Far Eastern University and worked as a clinical nurse, bestowing his vast reservoir of wisdom upon the next generation of Filipino nurses. Then he snagged a job offer from a prestigious hospital in Baltimore. With a cocktail of excitement and sheer terror, he leapt across the ocean, leaving me to ponder the existential dread of long-distance relationships. Who knew love could feel like a geography exam?

After what felt like an eternity—four months of agonizing separation and incessant daydreams about our future together, to be exact—I finally ditched everything familiar and flew thousands of miles to follow him. There I was, cramming four years of nursing knowledge into a mere three weeks, surrounded by textbooks, audiobooks, and a mountain of self-doubt. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d pass, but somehow, against all odds and the laws of probability, I did. Surprise, surprise!

Suddenly, I was a nurse, and it felt random. It felt like I had won a TV show—if the jackpot was a badge and a pair of scrubs instead of cash.

Since then, I’ve been practicing, and I’d like to say I’m “alright”—though some days, “alright” feels like an overly optimistic assessment. There are times when I wish “stupidity” were a legitimate clinical diagnosis, just to help me cope with some of my patients. I’ve been tempted to suggest that particularly exasperating individuals consider leaving against medical advice. “Oh, you Googled your symptoms? Congratulations! You’ve officially graduated to self-appointed medical expert!” And dealing with family members? That’s a whole different circus. If only darting overly anxious relatives with Lorazepam were legal, I’d be the proud owner of a mini crossbow, ready to take aim at the next neurotic visitor.

You encounter patients who think a mere 24 hours of constipation qualifies as a critical emergency. Really? It takes a respectful amount of restraint not to smack their faces in annoyance. And on those days when everything that could possibly go wrong does—as if the universe has conspired against me—you might find me yearning to peel my own face off in frustration.

But it’s true: you can learn to love something if you try hard enough. In fact, I like to think I’m quite good at what I do—at least better than most nurses I know. Maybe not a superstar, but definitely above average. I’m not lazy, first and foremost. I genuinely care for my patients, and my skills have developed to the point that you’d hardly believe I was once considered a subpar student. They say if you teach a hesitant man to fish, he might just become a better fisherman than you. Okay, I might’ve just made that up, but you catch my drift.

You don’t have to love what you do to excel at it. Much like a certain profession involving a lot of bending over and very little love for the job, I find myself thriving in nursing, perhaps more than I’d care to admit. There, I said it.

There’s a lot about my work that I find fulfilling. I adore interacting with people and uncovering their stories. Each patient is a unique puzzle, a living novel filled with chapters of triumph, tragedy, and occasional plot twists. They’re sick and in need of care, and I can’t say I resent being the one to provide it. This job can be profoundly rewarding, even if it sometimes makes you want to hang yourself with an IV line. It’s a delicate balancing act, requiring you to navigate current technology while employing a healthy dose of intuition. You must remain calm and quick-thinking in emergencies; there’s no time for indecision when someone’s survival is at stake. And let’s not forget the hours of standing and walking, which is basically a marathon in scrubs. It’s an exhilarating, tumultuous, and occasionally tragic vocation, and it’s hard not to become invested in it.

Nursing may wear many hats, but boring is certainly not one of them. Oh, and did I mention the pay isn’t too shabby either? It’s almost enough to make me forget about the 2 AM bloodbaths and the delightful aroma of antiseptic that clings to me long after my shift ends.

Here’s what I know for certain: just as I recognized back then that Ed and I were destined for a long haul together, I also understand that nursing will become a part of me for the rest of my life. Adaptation is a curious beast. While I’m comfortable in my current life, I know there’s more out there waiting for me. The average person may not evolve into the ideal they envisioned in their youth, but all I want is to live out my life. It’s daunting to consider that this is my life, but it is—mine to shape, to build, and yes, even to dismantle. I just hope I’m clever enough to figure it all out before I find myself chasing the fleeting years of my existence.

But for now, I am a nurse, and that’s what I do—an unlikely savior in scrubs, armed with a stethoscope and a penchant for dark humor. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.