Transference

I've been thinking about this game lately. Its a game we're all familiar with. The name of it just came to mind. I'll call it: Transference of Knowledge.

This game is played all over. In classrooms and on college campuses, in kitchens and on couches. In the early hours of the morning with a cup of tea and the open Word, and in the late hours of the evening with a desk lamp and a textbook.

For me, the game is played next to hospital beds, in clinics, and between early mornings and long care plans.

The object of the game is threefold: receive, retain, and relay.

In the classroom I receive.
With my flashcards I retain.
And in the hospital I relay.

But there seems to be a gap. No, more like a chasm... between receiving and relaying.

Tell me, at what moment does knowledge transfer from hearing, reading, and learning...  to doing, living, and teaching.

For nurses, it doesn't happen the moment you get your diploma. It doesn't happen when you take your boards, or even when you find out you passed. It's not there when you finally pick up the pen and write the magical letters "RN" behind your name. And it's no where to be found when you first step on the floor after completing orientation.

This transfer from head to heart, textbook to practice, is mysteriously fluid. Almost invisible. Always a process.



I stood next to a patient's bed last week with one goal in mind: complete this assignment.
My goals were completely one-sided, completely me-centered. All I needed to do was to teach her three things about caring for her newborn baby. Three things. How hard could that be? Hard.

It was hard because the transfer hadn't occurred. Sure, I had read plenty about newborn care. I had even made a list of things to say and ways to say it. But when the moment came and I was supposed to relay the knowledge from my head to my words, something was missing. I hadn't lived what I was learning.

It's a game. So i'll keep playing.