Once I set a goal, I pour myself into it, and the search for the right nursing school was no different. Meeting with guidance counselors, financial counselors, academic advisors, looking for a workable schedule, and convincing my family that this was the best option for me, as well as for our family became my new passion. Two year associates degree, 4 year bachelors degree, public or private college, scholarships, grants, loans, I left no rock unturned. I finally settled on Indiana University Southeast after much soul searching. The decision left me anxious. This program required two years of prerequisite classes, followed by an application into the nursing program where they accepted 40 students yearly. The top 40 GPA applicants were admitted, with 3.0 being the lowest that had been admitted for several years. Three point zero, with 3 children, and a job. Could I do this? What if I failed?

Years prior as a sophomore in high school I was a terrible student. I skipped classes, barely paid attention when I attended classes, and was happy to achieve a C average. I was also more interested in my social life, partying, and in general being an irresponsible teen. An achievement test of some sort was required for all sophomores and I went into that test tired from a long night of partying with friends and gave a lackluster effort to complete it. Weeks later after the results came back, my home room teacher, Mr. Hardin, called me up to his desk. He laid the results in from of me, pointed to the score, and said, “Why are you making a C in my math class when you scored in the top 2% of the nation on this test?” I just shrugged my shoulders I’m sure, gave some lame excuse. “You should be making straight A’s young lady. You can do anything you want in this life; you just need to apply yourself.” Me? I can be anything I want? I am good enough to do anything I want? What do I want to do? I enrolled in the first computer programming class at Jeffersonville High School and signed up to attend Prosser Vocational School’s computer programming program the next year. They say that a good teacher can change a student’s life forever. I can attest to that, because that one moment, and those words of encouragement from that one teacher changed mine.

So IUS it was! We were a poor family. My husband worked hard, but our income was barely enough to get by. We lived in a home that my in-laws owned. My grandparents owned a grocery store. Family members helped with childcare. I hated being reliant on others for basic living. I applied for grants, loans, and work study. I arranged for childcare and transportation. Books and supplies were purchased. My first semester I had 12 credit hours and Anatomy was the first step. On the first day of class the instructor asked how many students were going into the nursing program. A number of us raised our hands. I’ll never forget her words. “Half of you will be divorced by the time you finish. The nursing program is the hardest program offered here. The number of tests, papers and clinical hours exceeds the requirements for any other program here.” My heart sank. That was not my goal, that was not me. I would not destroy my family to become a nurse.

Anatomy class was not my greatest accomplishment. Studying was difficult with 3 children at home. Memorization of bones, muscles, blood vessels, organs and their function, identification of the parts on a cadaver cat, was grueling. I earned a C in that class. A 5 credit class. That was my introduction the GPA calculation. You cannot achieve a 3.0 GPA with 2.0 in a 5 credit class. I had to do better! The next semester I scheduled my classes with several hours between classes so I could study at school. This would require more cost for childcare, so a partime job was needed. That job came in the form of a local greenhouse. I could go in early , water plants, repot plants, and then go to school. After classes I could go back to the greenhouse to water again, then go home. This schedule required long hours away from my family, but the income was necessary.

Summer couldn’t come fast enough. The greenhouse kept me busy at work, but I had time to spend with my family. Camping was a family event each summer, and we spent several days in the forestry, enjoying each other. Maybe we enjoyed each other a little too much. By the middle of the summer, I realized that I had missed my period. The diaphragm hadn’t quite made it into the camper, and a miscalculation on my part, or irregular cycle due to stress possibly, may have serious consequences on my plans. I called Barb and went to see her. She confirmed my suspicions. I was pregnant with number 4. My mind was spinning! This was all so hard already, how could I continue now while pregnant. My first two pregnancies gave me hyperemesis gravidarum, severe fatigue, and made it difficult just to function each day for weeks. There is no way I could terminate a pregnancy, but I must confess for a few brief moments the thought crossed my mind. The announcement to my husband also left me reeling. “Great! That’s just what we need, another kid!” My family would not be supportive either, they felt that my family was big enough and would shame me for allowing another baby into my life. I confided in my maternal grandmother at lunch one day. Not one for shows of affection, she patted my shoulder, “you will figure out what is right.” A week later she died, in her sleep. The only person besides my husband and Barb that knew I was pregnant. After her funeral we gathered at her apartment to determine what needed to be done. As we went through her belongings, my cousin offered me a beer. “Oh I don’t drink when I’m pregnant.” The room went silent, everyone stopped and just stared at me. “Oops, cats out of the bag I guess.” It turns out that when everyone is preoccupied by a tragic event, a pregnancy isn’t such a big deal.

Barb was now working at a birth center that had opened in Louisville. My insurance would not cover the birth center, so she talked to me about a home birth. It seemed plausible to me. When I presented the idea to my husband, he responded with a profound “No”. He went on to tell me how he was still traumatized from the hemorrhage I had with my 2nd birth, and his fear that I would die at home and leave him with 4 children to raise. I made an appointment with my family practice doctor, and started prenatal care.

Gods hears the pleas of his children. My prayers for the relief of hyperemesis were answered. Though I fought fatigue and some nausea, no vomiting occurred. This baby was surely a boy. Attending classes while pregnant was a challenge, but I could not quit. I had taken student loans each semester, which would require repayment if I quit, and we could not afford that. My grades continued to suffer, but I was passing the classes. When registration for spring classes opened, I met with my academic counselor and laid out my situation. I had 15 credit hours to complete to apply into the nursing program for the next fall semester, but I would have a baby in February. After much deliberation, tears, and soul searching, the decision to drop to half time, and take another year before applying into nursing became clear.

Kayla’s birth came on a Sunday in February, the day of the Daytona 500. My husband was a big Nascar fan, and he had planned a small party with some friends at our house. I awoke that morning and started preparing some appetizers for the party, but as the morning went on I began to realize that I had to make other plans for this day. I called my sister-in-law to alert her that I might be needing her to watch the girls today, because I felt like today might be baby day. I called my sister because she wanted to be there to see the birth, and I thought maybe having a 15 y/o watch a birth might be a good pay off in her future. My husband wasn’t happy. Early afternoon we headed to the hospital, just as they announced, “Gentlemen, start your engines.”

The nurse at the hospital was not impressed with my birth plan. She was even less impressed with my 3cm dilation. “Honey, you just go on back home. You aren’t in labor yet.” After assuring her that I was, I proceeded to walk up and down the halls of the hospital, while my husband caught glimpses of the race on the television we passed, and finally sitting in the waiting room as the race became more interesting. As the labor progressed, I had difficulty walking, and Andrea ran to get a nurse and a wheelchair. The exam confirmed my initial claim to be in labor, 9cm! As the nurses scampered to set up the birth room, the urge to push was strong. “Don’t push, the doctor isn’t here yet,” they insisted. “I’m not pushing, but my body is,” I implored. As I looked down from the birthing chair to see my bag of water bulging out, I instructed my husband to catch the baby if my water broke, since no one else was really paying attention. Just as it broke, Dr. Embry came through the door and caught the baby barehanded! Another girl.