To the Family of My Patient Who Died,
I know you see the nursing staff, albeit blurry through your veil of fresh tears. I know you automatically hold out your hand to take the box of tissues we offer while a torrent of racking sobs attacks your body. I’m sorry tissues are all I can offer at that time.
You see, we wish to console you, and even as we stand there rather helplessly, we are trying to think of the words to say to somewhat soothe your frayed emotions. Even as we know there is nothing we can say or do.
Do you know that when I back up to allow you time to grieve that I’m also turning my back trying to choke away my own tears? Do you know that when I hear your painful sobs it pains me too? I care for you in your grief, I empathize with your loss, and I feel pain right along with you.
I’m not supposed to do that. I mean, I am to an extent. I am to carry compassion for my families, but I’m also expected to be strong enough to comfort you in your torment. I skate along a fine line of feeling your pain yet separating myself from it so that I can be who I need to be for you when you are weak.
That’s why I turn away. That’s why I walk away. I don’t leave your side to abandon you in your grieve; sometimes I just collect myself so I can try. Try to help. When I hand you a simple box of tissues know my gesture means more than that tear-soaked paper. When I pat your back or hold your hand, please know my soul is reaching for your soul to carry some of the burden. And when I hold you in my arms as your tears soak my hair understand that I am no stronger than you. I’m just trying.
Did you know that when they said it was the last cycle of CPR we would try that I cried out to God for your family? I knew you weren’t ready, and I prayed fervently, “please God, let the pulse come back.”
Sometimes your prayers are my prayers too; I just wanted you to know. When God’s will is not our own I am crushed also. But if it’s any consolation please realize that your loved one left this earth on the lips of my continuous prayers for them. And now I pray for you.
My pain is not your pain. I would never be so daft to assume that was so, but when I hear you cry my heart breaks. When I see you grieve my throat burns with emotion, and in that moment my strongest desire is to take your pain away.
When you cry, “momma,” I think of my own mother in Heaven. When you throw yourself on your husband’s body I am reminded of how fleeting life can be. When you break down and fall apart at the loss of your child I see my own babies’ faces. Every. Single. Time.
Although I am strong for you, I am not without emotion. And even if you never see my tears, they are there. Sometimes all I can do is say I am sorry for your loss, so very sorry. Know that in your grief my heart is there with you.
Sincerely,
Your Nurse
Barbara Allen says
So precious, Brie! God bless you & yours!
Traci Cummins says
That is so very true. The build up of lives lost in our midst, the hearts broken, the grief, and loss of many often leads to a leathered heart. Not to feelings, just to the emotions you have to surprise in the sight of family, friends, and staff. The leathered look that appears when you have to speak to families, in sadness, grief, and lack of words. Till it burst out on that one patient you have had for years that finally gave up the fight. The tears flow, silently, while you comfort and do your normal routine. It’s not the same, you have the feelings behind the emotions.
Love your writings Brie!!♡
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you!
Dorothy says
Brie, although my pain is not your pain either, I did feel the pain of the ICU nurse in your position & I was privileged to see the tears a few days ago. My husband was on a vent & when I made the decision to turn it off, I was alone. 2 lovely angel nurses & 1 amazing tech (who held me close while he prayed with me) helped me to continue to focus on staying strong (which was my choice) so that I could continue to be my husband’s loving partner & not impede his passing. I was with him until his last breath left him & I was able to maintain my smile & my encouragement for him to go on to know the greatest adventure of his life-the one he was born to have. You may not have been there yourself but people like you all helped me be brave & because of that help I was able to be composed enough to pray without anger & without fear. I “lost it” later but for my husband, I was ok when it mattered. And I made it through to the end. Thank you, to all you nurses who read this column & to all those others who care for the seriously ill in other ways. You all take our pain on your own hearts every day. I did see your tears this week & I will be forever grateful to you.
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you so much for sharing. God bless you.