So many times perhaps it seems like I complain.
I am so tired.
My feet hurt.
This dang computer is driving me crazy.
In the midst of my seemingly perfunctory care, I may appear hurried, harried, or aggravated.
I’m sorry.
As I unintentionally heard you behind the curtain whispering to your mother, it dawned on me the weight of what I do, and although I know this, it’s always nice to remind myself. To remind myself that I am privileged in this position I hold.
When I explain the grave prognosis of your family member, and you nod with tears in your eyes. When you hug me afterwards, and I feel your tears soak into my cotton scrubs. I am privileged. I am privileged that you allow me into your moment of grief.
I sit and I listen. I listen as you tell stories of your loved one, painting a lovely portrait of the person they were before they became the silent, still patient hooked to a thousand lines and tubes. I am privileged you choose to share these memories with me.
I answer your frantic questions, and sometimes explain the same thing over again. I watch you nod, processing it all despite your shell-shocked response to the situation in which you find yourself. I am privileged you trust my knowledge so completely.
I go about my work as you speak private words with your dying spouse. I almost feel like I’m invading on your personal moment, yet you know that I am there. I’m privileged you feel comfortable enough to have me serve as a witness to such extraordinary love.
I support you when you want to fight a futile battle for your dad, and I pray with you when you decide it’s time to let him go. I hold your hand when it starts to shake uncontrollably, and I give you an abundance of tissue for your cascade of tears and dripping nose. I’m privileged to be included on such an emotionally frail, vulnerable, volatile, and uncertain situation in which you have fallen. Thank you for allowing me to try and comfort you in the middle of it all.
I hear you cry uncontrollably, trembling with grief when your mother’s heart stops beating. I see your eyes search mine for the final word that she is gone. I watch as you leave her in my hands to prepare her body, even though her spirit has gone, for one last visit here on this earth. I am privileged that you open yourself to me, that you seek my counsel and comfort, that you trust me with the one you hold so dear.
My job as a nurse is a challenging one. It’s stressful and emotionally draining. It’s physically exhausting and mentally challenging. But at the end of the day, even if it’s been an extra long one, I am privileged. I am privileged to be called your nurse.