My manager is clever and manipulative. Manipulative in that she knows how to push buttons before you even realize they’re being pushed.
Case in point: about a week ago, she tells me that she’s sure I’m going to be a good charge nurse, one reason, she says, because I “get along well with the floors.”
C’mon. Seriously. This is me you’re talking about. The nurse whose been written up, like, twenty-five times for making the charge nurse on 5 South cry.
I laugh about it afterwards.
So I’m in charge for the other day, and I’m having a little issue with 5 South, in that they’ve sat on two beds all day, and now they’re giving me the runaround about how they can’t take the assigned patients because it’s an hour before shift change and the primary nurse is at dinner, and so on. And I’m getting a little peeved and I’m about to launch into my patented TorontoEmerg Tirade™ when suddenly a balloon pops into existence over my head and I see my manager explaining to me how I’m going to be a good charge nurse because I relate well to the floors.
Shit. She has my number.
No more behaving badly. No yelling, screaming, bullying, browbeating, no launching of rhetorical firebombs, no threats to write certain nurses up, no ruckus, ado, or trouble.
I have to be nice.
I have to use my charm and powers of persuasion when dealing with recalcitrant colleagues.
I am so screwed.
In the end, I get 5 South to take one patient immediately and one after shift change.
When I mention this to my manager the next day — call her on it, actually — she smiles like the Cheshire Cat.
“Oh, the price of leadership,” is all she says, laughing.