Nurses, stop eating your young: a call for change
I sat on a cylindrical stool, eyes bleary from the early hour. Navy scrubs freshly pressed, my nursing school patch tacked to my left shoulder. Would anyone notice I used hot glue and whipstitches?
I remember the sound my clipboard made as I attached a fresh piece of paper. The whoosh was faint and mimicked the flip-flap of wings attached to butterflies whirring around in my belly. I waited eagerly for …










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