What do you see when you see me?
Do you see a stone-faced, serious woman who would rather complete the task at hand than socialize?
Perhaps, sometimes that’s me. But there’s more to me than just what you think you see.
Do you see a cut-up, a singing and dancing clown in scrubs, riding an abandoned IV pole down the hallway while her co-workers cackle?
Guilty as charged.
Do you see a nurse who said, “I’ll be right back,” but then didn’t come? Or do you see a mean nurse who doesn’t come when you call, ignores you, or won’t give pain medicine right when you need it?
Please, allow me to explain.
What about this? Do you see a drill seargent, bossy, know-it-all who makes you cough when your incision hurts, or get out of bed when all you need is some rest?
Sorry. Not sorry.
Do you see a person who can’t possibly understand the pain you’re currently experiencing, empathize your deep level of grief, or know how hard it is to be in the hospital?
You’d be surprised.
I wonder if you see a robot, a medicine dispensing machine, incapable of having her feelings hurt by harsh words, hastily thrown comments, or unrealistic demands? Do you see a servant without need for nourishment or potty break?
I just have to ask.
What about this? Do you see my heart? Do you really?
Can you glimpse my compassion for your plight, or the kindness I display when I wipe your sweaty brow?
You don’t have to notice for me to continue, but I wonder if you see.
Do you see me holding back tears when you get the bad news, or my lips moving silently when I’m praying for comfort for you?
I do, you know.
Do you see that when I’m serious it’s because the situation is serious, that my mind is running a hundred miles an hour to remedy what’s ailing you?
Do you see that when I laugh heartily it’s because earlier I wanted to cry? Can you imagine that sometimes we joke to keep from losing our joy in the face of so much stress and sadness?
Do you see my pain, that I know how grief feels? That I know how hurting hurts or helplessness is stifling?
Oh God, I wished I didn’t. But I do.
Do you see that I care, that I really and truly care? Do you see that while it hurts, it also helps? Do you see that I only want to help?
I do.
Do you see beyond the walls of your own hospital room? To the elderly woman that has fallen, the one I’m helping back in bed? What about the young man who is coding, a jagged line racing across the monitor over his bed?
Can you see why I’m not there with you?
Do you see that I am human, that my blood also runs red? That I have emotions, a family, even a sense of self-worth I try to uphold?
But above all, do you see my kindness?
Oh, my, I hope you do.
Do you see that I see you?
I really do.
I see that you are not my last patient with the same diagnosis. And I see that you are more than a room number, or even the harsh words that you may say. I see that.
Do you?
I am not your past experiences with healthcare, or the nasty nurse who treated you before.
You’re not how you feel, and I’m not how I appear.
Do you see?
Look again. Then tell me, what do you see when you see your nurse?