Being a nurse is very rewarding. I mean it’s great to have the answers when patients ask, and to be able to educate family when they’re in need. There’s a pride in being a part of something so noble, and despite the many difficulties of the job, the feeling when you help someone feel better is wonderful.
It’s a boost to your morale when you hit that difficult vein, and when a patient compliments your care, well, nothing really compares to that. Seeing someone smile because of something you did, thank you notes, and grateful hugs all make you well up with fulfillment. Nursing has so many moments where you know you chose well in picking your career, and while on the hard days you may question your vocational decision, overall your certainty of your calling is cemented by seeing something great like that really critical patient wake up and make a full recovery.
But then there’s the other side of the coin. There’s those moments that don’t make you feel warm and fuzzy. They just break your heart.
They say the only thing certain in life is death and taxes, and nurses see a lot of both. Sometimes death is easier than others, and while losing a loved one is never what I would term enjoyable, there are moments where it’s expected and prepared for. These instances seem to bring a small measure of peace or relief when you can say, “at least they’re no longer in pain.” But saying that about a cancer-ridden 98 year old seems more comfortable than saying it about someone’s child.
After many years of seeing death and dying I try to separate myself to some degree, and I’m able to do that for the most part to maintain my own sanity, still provide efficient care, and not fizzle out from the field completely. I’ve worked hospice nursing and honestly found a lot of joy in helping people cope with death and loss. It’s a fine balance to emotionally support and empathize adequately while keeping it professional, so to speak, and it gets even harder when life does not seem fair.
When children die it doesn’t make sense, and caring for an infant that you know will pass away soon takes a certain kind of thinking. After all it’s hard to smile at chubby cheeks and large eyes that so similarly appear like those of your own baby at home. It’s difficult not to break into racking tears every time you speak with this mom nonchalantly about the weather and reality tv even as you both know her world could rip apart at any moment. It reminds you that though your baby doesn’t carry a fatal health diagnosis, that your rug could just as easily be ripped out from under your own two feet.
When young lives are snuffed out in silly, unexpected accidents it shakes the ground of so many, and when you stand at the bedside with the weary mom in denial of her now brain dead son, you search yourself for the right words to say. “Your boy isn’t there,” just won’t come out right, and the dull spark of determination in her moist eyes makes you think of your own reaction if the roles were reversed. It would probably be the same.
When you watch a dad with his hand on the chest of his son as his breaths get longer and longer in between, each loving pat representing both “I love you” and “please don’t leave me,” you want to cry out, “it’s not supposed to be this way!” But instead you just place your own hand on dad’s shoulder, or hand him a box of tissue, because sometimes that’s all you know to do.
When children left behind weep for a young mommy who will never rock them again, or a daddy whose strong hands of comfort have become still, your soul cries out. It mourns with the mourning, and it grieves shakily with the grieving. And sometimes those tears that you always hold inside, well, they get out. You hear the shocked, racking sob of a formerly strong son who just lost his daddy, and unexpected cries escape your own heart. They run out right down your face.
It seems that nursing is reality. It’s a profession where you’re not allowed to bury your head in the sand against hardship or pretend that the good don’t die young. Your confronted with it daily, and you’re reminded of the frailty of life. You’re often accosted by the fact that it just doesn’t seem fair.
So you hand out your tissues. You bring in extra chairs to the bedside. You hold another mother as she falls apart in your arms, and you soak up the tears from a hurting widow’s face. You say things afterwards like, “I’ll take care of it; don’t you worry,” and bite off pointless sentiments like, “hang in there.” Instead you just let your eyes meet their eyes, allowing your heart to speak I care, and hoping that your actions displayed that very fact.
Sometimes you never really know. But then sometimes family comes back. You receive a note, a card, a token, or a visit, and when you hear words like “thank you for all you did,” you kinda glimpse the impact you had. You realize the privilege of being present in someone’s life during such a detrimental event, and though you may not have changed the circumstances, perhaps just maybe you made them a bit more bearable. And even if you didn’t, you know you tried.
Then you remember that nursing is rewarding. It’s rewarding despite it all. Even when life doesn’t seem fair.
Anne says
Masterfully written Brie. But how long can we do this without becoming inured to the pain and suffering. In the end I found myself very detached from life and death in my own world. My grown children brought it to my attention, I was a little too okay with death of friends and family, I felt it was release, I had started missing out the grieving part, I had started to just feel numb to the pain, and felt that inevitability made death rational. It’s taken a long time for me to be able start feeling again, and it’s very difficult to feel the pain. Of course, it’s the better way, but I couldn’t be back at the bedside and do what I did now that I have lost the protective callus. I don’t think society really understands the price nurses pay for the work that we do. It’s very rewarding, but the pain is immense, we carry the grief work of society.
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you for commenting and sharing.