"The Seated Nurse" Shares Why the Healthcare Industry Needs More People Like Her
Andrea Dalzell
I was 5 years old when I was diagnosed with transverse myelitis. The rare neurological condition causes inflammation on both sides of a section of the spinal cord, damaging nerve cell fibers and interrupting messages sent from the spinal cord nerves to the rest of the body as a result. For me, that translates to pain, weakness, paralysis, and sensory problems, among other issues.
The diagnosis was life-altering, but I was a determined little kid who wanted to feel as "normal" as possible. Even though I was in pain and walking was difficult, I tried to be as mobile as I could using a walker and crutches. However, by the time I turned 12, my hips had become very weak and painful. Even after a few surgeries, doctors weren't able to restore my ability to walk.
As I headed into my teenage years, I started using a wheelchair. I was at an age where I was figuring out who I was, and the last thing I wanted was to be labeled "disabled." Back in the early 2000s, that term had so many negative connotations that, even as a 13-year-old, I was well aware of them. Being "disabled" implied you were incapable, and that's how I felt people saw me.
I was lucky to have parents who were first-generation immigrants who'd seen enough hardship that they knew fighting was the only way forward. They didn't allow me to feel sorry for myself. They wanted me to act as if they weren't going to be there to help me. As much as I hated them for it at the time, it gave me a strong sense of independence.
From a very young age, I didn't need anyone to help me with my wheelchair. I didn't need anyone to carry my bags or help me in the bathroom. I figured it out on my own. When I was a sophomore in high school, I started using the subway by myself so that I could get to school and back and socialize without relying on my parents. I even became a rebel, skipping class sometimes and getting into trouble to fit in and distract everyone from the fact that I used a wheelchair."
Teachers and school counselors told me that I'm someone with "three strikes" against them, meaning that since I'm Black, a woman, and have a disability, I would never find a place in the world.
—Andrea Dalzell, R.N.
Even though I was self-sufficient, I felt like others still saw me as somehow less-than. I rolled through high school with students telling me I wouldn't amount to anything. Teachers and school counselors told me that I'm someone with "three strikes" against them, meaning that since I'm Black, a woman, and have a disability, I would never find a place in the world. (Related: What It's Like Being a Black, Gay Woman In America)
Despite being knocked down, I had a vision for myself. I knew I was worthy and capable of doing anything I set my mind to—I just couldn't give up.
My Path to Nursing School
I started college in 2008, and it was an uphill battle. I felt like I had to prove myself all over again. Everyone had already made their mind up about me because they didn't see me—they saw the wheelchair. I just wanted to be like everyone else, so I started doing everything I could to fit in. That meant going to parties, drinking, socializing, staying up late, and doing everything other freshmen were doing so that I could be part of the whole college experience. The fact that my health began to suffer didn't matter.
I was so focused on trying to be "normal" that I also tried to forget that I had a chronic illness altogether. First I ditched my medication, then I stopped going to doctor's appointments. My body became stiff, tight, and my muscles were continuously spasming, but I didn't want to acknowledge that anything was wrong. I ended up neglecting my health to such a degree that I landed in the hospital with a full-body infection that nearly took my life.
I was so sick that I had to pull out of school and undergo more than 20 procedures to fix the damage that had been done. My last procedure was in 2011, but it took me another two years to finally feel healthy again.
I had never seen a nurse in a wheelchair—and that's how I knew it was my calling.
—Andrea Dalzell, R.N.
In 2013, I re-enrolled in college. I began as a biology and neuroscience major, with the goal of becoming a doctor. But two years into my degree, I realized that doctors treat the disease and not the patient. I was much more interested in working hands-on and caring for people, just like my nurses did throughout my life. Nurses changed my life when I was sick. They took my mom's place when she couldn't be there, and they knew how to make me smile even when I felt like I was at rock bottom. But I had never seen a nurse in a wheelchair—and that's how I knew it was my calling. (Related: Fitness Saved My Life: From Amputee to CrossFit Athlete)
So two years into my bachelor's degree, I applied for nursing school and got in.
The experience was much harder than I expected. Not only were the courses extremely challenging, but I struggled to feel like I belonged. I was one of six minorities in a cohort of 90 students and the only one with a disability. I dealt with microaggressions every day. Professors were skeptical of my capabilities when I went through Clinicals (the "in-the-field" portion of nursing school), and I was monitored more than any other student. During lectures, professors addressed disabilities and race in a way that I found to be offensive, but I felt like I couldn't say anything out of fear that they wouldn't let me pass the course.
Despite these adversities, I graduated (and also went back to finish my bachelor's degree), and became a practicing RN at the beginning of 2018.
Getting a Job As a Nurse
My goal after graduating from nursing school was to get into acute care, which provides short-term treatment to patients with severe or life-threatening injuries, illnesses, and routine health problems. But to get there, I needed experience.
I started my career as a camp health director before going into case management, which I absolutely hated. As a case manager, my job was to evaluate patients' needs and use the facility's resources to help meet them in the best way possible. However, the job often involved essentially telling people with disabilities and other specific medical needs that they couldn't get the care and services that they wanted or needed. It was emotionally exhausting to let people down day in and day out—especially given the fact that I could relate to them better than most other healthcare professionals.
So, I started vigorously applying to nursing jobs at hospitals around the country where I could do more caregiving. Over the course of a year, I did 76 interviews with nurse managers—all of which ended in rejections. I was almost out of hope until coronavirus (COVID-19) hit.
Overwhelmed by the local surge in COVID-19 cases, New York hospitals put out a call for nurses. I responded to see if there was any way I could help, and I got a call back from one within a few hours. After asking some preliminary questions, they hired me as a contract nurse and asked me to come and pick up my credentials the following day. I felt like I'd officially made it.
The next day, I went through an orientation before being assigned to a unit that I'd be working with overnight. Things were smooth sailing until I showed up for my first shift. Within seconds of introducing myself, the nurse director of the unit pulled me aside and told me that she didn't think I could handle what needed to be done. Thankfully, I came prepared and asked her if she was discriminating against me because of my chair. I told her it made no sense that I was able to get through HR, yet she felt like I didn't deserve to be there. I also reminded her of the Equal Employment Opportunity (EEO) policy of the hospital that clearly stated she couldn't deny me work privileges because of my disability.
After I stood my ground, her tone changed. I told her to trust my abilities as a nurse and to respect me as a person—and it worked.
Working On the Frontlines
During my first week on the job in April, I was assigned as a contract nurse in a clean unit. I worked on non-COVID-19 patients and those who were being ruled out for having COVID-19. That week, cases in New York exploded and our facility became overwhelmed. Respiratory specialists were struggling to care for both non-COVID patients on ventilators and the number of people who had breathing problems because of the virus. (Related: What an ER Doc Wants You to Know About Going to a Hospital for Coronavirus)
It was an all-hands-on-deck situation. Since I, like several nurses, had experience with ventilators and credentials in advanced cardiac life support (ACLS), I began helping uninfected ICU patients. Everyone with these skills was a necessity.
I also helped some nurses understand the settings on ventilators and what the different alarms meant, as well as how to generally care for patients on ventilators.
As the coronavirus situation escalated, more people with ventilator experience were needed. So, I was floated to the COVID-19 unit where my sole job was to monitor patients' health and vitals.
Some people recovered. Most did not. Dealing with the sheer number of deaths was one thing, but watching people die alone, without their loved ones to hold them, was a whole other beast. As a nurse, I felt like that responsibility fell on me. My fellow nurses and I had to become the sole caregivers to our patients and offer them the emotional support they needed. That meant FaceTiming their family members when they were too weak to do it themselves or urging them to stay positive when the outcome looked grim—and sometimes, holding their hand as they took their final breaths. (Related: Why This Nurse-Turned-Model Joined the Frontline of the COVID-19 Pandemic)
The job was tough, but I couldn't have been more proud to be a nurse. As cases started to dwindle in New York, the nurse director, who'd once doubted me, told me I should consider joining the team full-time. Even though I'd love nothing more, that may be easier said than done given the discrimination I've faced—and may continue to face—throughout my career.
What I Hope to See Moving Forward
Now that hospitals in New York have the coronavirus situation under control, many are letting go of all of their extra hires. My contract ends in July, and even though I've inquired about a full-time position, I've been getting the runaround.
While it's unfortunate that it took a global health crisis for me to get this opportunity, it proved that I have what it takes to work in an acute care setting. The healthcare industry just might not be ready to accept it.
I'm far from the only person who's experienced this type of discrimination in the healthcare industry. Since I started sharing my experience on Instagram, I've heard countless stories of nurses with disabilities who made it through school but couldn't get a placement. Many have been told to find another career. It's not known exactly how many working nurses have physical disabilities, but what is clear is the need for change in both the perception and treatment of nurses with disabilities.
This discrimination results in a huge loss to the healthcare industry. It's not just about representation; it's also about patient care. Healthcare needs to be about more than just treating the disease. It also needs to be about providing patients with the highest quality of life.
I understand that changing the healthcare system to be more accepting is a mighty task. But we have to start talking about these issues. We have to talk about them until we're blue in the face.
—Andrea Dalzell, R.N.
As someone who has lived with a disability before getting into clinical practice, I've worked with organizations that have helped our community. I know about the resources that a person with a disability might need in order to best function in everyday life. I've made connections throughout my life that allow me to stay up-to-date about the latest equipment and technology out there for wheelchair users and people struggling with severe chronic illnesses. Most doctors, nurses, and clinical professionals just don't know about these resources because they're not trained to. Having more healthcare workers with disabilities would help bridge this gap; they just need the opportunity to occupy this space. (Related: How to Create an Inclusive Environment In the Wellness Space)
I understand that changing the healthcare system to be more accepting is a mighty task. But we have to start talking about these issues. We have to talk about them until we're blue in the face. It's how we're going to change the status quo. We also need more people to fight for their dreams and not let naysayers stop them from choosing the careers that they want. We can do anything able-bodied people can do—just from a seated position.
