Dearest Friend,
I guess you noticed right away that I addressed you as “friend.” This may have taken you by surprise, after all we don’t really know each other that well. We could remain on the plain of a professional relationship, but it just didn’t feel right anymore. Not after you allowed me to see the hot tears of grief pour down your cheeks.
I stood by your side when the doctor said, “we have done all we can.” I stood helpless while the weight of his words assaulted your understanding, while the hard truth of how sick your dad was shook you in places you didn’t know existed.
I wanted to embrace you then. I saw your face, wide-eyed as the reality broke your heart to tiny pieces that escaped your body and overflowed down your cheeks. I wanted to, but I was frozen. I remained rooted to your right and unable to make my own feet move. I was frozen by the knowledge that I couldn’t make it better for you at that moment.
That’s the thing. I wanted to make it better. I needed to make it better. That’s what we do. We get the call of a patient arrival, we ready the room, and we get busy. We get busy fixing it, making it better. Making your dad better. And that’s what I had been doing, until this moment. Then it changed for me too.
I was confronted with the need to switch gears, to stop being all aggressive, and start being all compassion. There’s always compassion, but when the aggressive treatment, the hard work of fixing it stops, I’m struck motionless for a time. My mind has been so set on making things better that it takes a minute to realize I must stop and let go. Let go of my desire to fix it, to make it all better. Because sometimes I can’t.
My emotional turmoil as my plan of care changes is unimportant and incomparable to where you are, but if I seem to falter, even for a moment, this is why. I’m just readjusting in my heart and mind exactly what it is that you both need the most from me now.
I stop looking at fixing everything that’s broken beyond mending and I focus on comfort, on anticipating needs, on offering support in any way I can.
But still I want to fix. It’s what I do. So there’s that part of me that feels helpless to not be able to vanquish your grief. I’m not so daft as to assume I could eliminate your pain or bandage your feelings of loss until they no longer sting like the open wound they are. I only wish to offer some words of comfort, some salve to ease the torment, even just a bit.
I do realize though that you don’t need my words. Even as you have my full sympathy and especially my empathy over losing a parent; I know some times you don’t need to hear that someone “knows how you feel.” While your grief is so raw I won’t lessen it by saying I “feel your pain.” Instead I will just understand. I’ll be there and understand.
I will sit with you if you need or I will give you space. I’ll talk if you want to, but I’m a great listener also. If you need to cry it out, then I’ve got a box of tissues and a shoulder open for you. If you just want me to focus on him, being there for whatever he needs, then I will definitely fill that role.
You are in such a difficult place right now. Realizing time is short, that the end is inevitable, yet only being able to stand there as a witness to the situation to which you feel no control. I understand. And I’m here. Even if there’s nothing I can do.
I will cry with you if that’s what you need. I may not be able to help myself, and even if I could control the choking emotion that sneaks upon me when I see your tears, I don’t think I would stop it. I suppose I must release the angst as well.
Except when I know that won’t help you. And then I won’t. I’ll offer smiles and reassurance in your presence. If you need me to be strong then that’s what I will be. Just know that even if you don’t see my tears, it doesn’t mean I don’t weep. I do.
I will pray with you when I feel you need it. But even if I don’t pray with you, I’m praying for you, interceding while I watch you across the room, even as you’re unaware of my muted pleas to God for your comfort.
Sometimes all I can do though is say “I’m sorry.” And I know you expect nothing, but I want to give you so much. In my yearning to help, to fix things, I feel as if my “sorry” is pitiful and not enough. So I simply watch you walk away. I call out to you and as you turn back I smile, I nod. In that moment where I am without words I hope and pray that my emotional ties to you in this time are seen, that you feel the hug my soul gives to yours. Sometimes that’s all I can do.
Sincerely,
Your Nurse
Sally says
I write through my tears because I have been there. So touching. You can sound so tough at times and then you toss out a post like this and I see your tender heart. God Bless you as a mom, nurse and all the other hats you wear.
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you. Your comment made me smile.
Chris says
As the one year anniversary of my mom’s death comes closer (one week from tomorrow) I have been filled with memories of her last weeks and how horrible it was to watch her struggle with hallucinations and pain. This post is right on time for me. It helps me remember the doctors and nurses who cared for her even though she sometimes made them (and us!) crazy with her comments. Thank you for helping me remember them and how much they cared. 🙂
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you for commenting and sharing personally with me. Glad the blog found you where you are. God bless you.
Genie West says
As a Registered Nurse, I can relate to everything you have written on this topic. You have great compassion and are skilled in communication. Thanks!
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you so much.
Sherry says
How beautiful written! This brings to mind many days of watching a family as they watch their precious baby leave this world! My heart still aches for the family’s . Death is never easy and is different each time we experience it as a nurse! I feel like I know you just from the short time of reading your blog. You continue to lift my wounded spirit.
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you so much for commenting and sharing personally. Thank you for the compliment too.