What I Tend to Forget About Nursing

I was working night shift when she came in through the ER, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know she wasn’t doing well. I mean, you can’t breathe like a fish thrown up on the dock and be considered to be doing just fine. And as I watched this frail, elderly woman do just that, sucking hungrily with infrequent gasps for the life-giving air her lungs so eagerly desired I knew I was in for a night. 

Two things happen when a patient can’t breathe. You either fight tooth and nail to create a way for them to exchange air, or two, they die. It’s really that simple, but the pathway to the eventual outcome differs with each person in distress that you encounter. 

On this night it just so happened that my patient would die, but the difference from so many other scenarios I had seen before, the ones where we pushed frantically on someone’s chest, cracking ribs and shaking their lifeless body almost barbarically, was that this lady would die on her own terms. She would exit this world comfortably without a young woman like myself poking, proding, or shocking her. 

It was my first year as a nurse, and this woman was my first patient who became a DNR once it was determined they were dying. She was the first patient I ever had who I would let go rather than fight to keep around, and at first I wasn’t sure how to proceed. I came into the room performing my every two hour, full body assessment, as if I could even do anything with the findings I acquired. I mean, I had to do something. 

But somewhere along the way, as I kept busy with the auscultation of continuously diminishing breath sounds, I struck up quite the conversation with my unresponsive patient. I spoke to her like she could hear me, and I touched her softly as if she felt each gentle caress. I spoke quietly with her daughter at the bedside, and I learned a lot about the legacy this woman would leave behind. 

By the end of the night I knew her favorite hobby, crocheting, and I knew each grandchild’s name. Even one that was growing in utero while she breathed less and less, and less. Other than lots of conversation and hand holding, though, I didn’t think I did much. She lived through my shift, suprisingly, and I left feeling like I wished I could have done more. 

That feeling made it all the more peculiar when the patient’s daughter returned to our unit a couple of weeks later. She brought with her a prayer card from the funeral, a long letter about my performance, and also the last blanket her mother had crocheted. The letter went to my manager, but the blanket was for me. It seemed I had made quite the impression. 

That happened eleven years ago, but I still think of it often. The memory rests in a special place where I hold certain interactions with patients and their families over the years. I thought I had done nothing special at all.  

The thing is in the field of nursing there are many demands. That coupled with the frustrations of the field and the negative occurrences you encounter can easily bring even the most zealous nurse down. 

Sometimes in my busyness I forget how special my time is considered to those under my care. 

Sometimes in my frustration and stress I forget how frustrating and stressful being sick can be, and I forget that I can help lessen that to a large degree. 

Sometimes while carrying out my repeated routines I forget that in the eye of my patient I’m really doing something special. I forget that being a nurse is really special. 

Sometimes in my fatigue and weariness of completing the multiple tasks at hand I forget how important the tasks I’m performing are to those in the bed. 

And especially sometimes I forget the amazing opportunity I have available to me. I forget that for someone out there I may be the kind word they need most, the soft touch they’re missing, the encouragement they’re lacking, or the warm laughter they long for during such a dismal time. 

It’s easy to become caught up in the chaos, burned out, frustrated, grieved, and simply oblivious to the true gift that nurses hold in their hands every day. The fact is that nurses hold the key to healing, the answer to wellness, and the ability to comfort when they can’t be the former things. Nurses are the hands and feet of medicine, and they are the cornerstone of healthcare. God uses nurses to be His comforting touch. 

When I think that I’m on the verge of forgetting the gift I have been bestowed to mean so much to so many I go back to my secret place of fond, patient memories. In this place even the instances where I was certain I had done little, somehow I was shown I had done more than I knew. What a wonderful opportunity nurses hold, to be able to touch lives even when they think they are not. 

It’s easy to forget that sometimes. 

It’s easy to get lost in long hours, demanding workloads, ever-changing policies, and patient complaints. It’s easy to forget the role we hold, the proud profession we embody each and every day. Even on the bad days. 

But the fact remains that to someone in your care you make the difference. You are the bright light at the end of the tunnel that calls them through their illness, whether that’s back to health, or even to an afterlife beyond the four walls of the hospital room. To someone you have done a very good job, and that’s worth remembering always.