As a med surge nurse, I’ve encountered all types of characters on my unit. We get a little bit of everything since we cover general medicine and some minor surgery patients. I’ve washed the feet of drunk homeless men who broke into giggles due to the intimacy of the act. I’ve assisted courageous elderly Russian women to the bathroom who cried due to losing their autonomy. And I can’t forget those feisty rebels with gang or drug backgrounds who cursed me for three days straight and then begged to work with me and even protected me with each visit after that.
It’s easy to fall in love with one’s patients. You give so much to help them heal, both mentally and physically. You clean up their accidents, wash their faces, and calm their loved ones. And then you let go. To live another day or finally come to rest.
Sometimes, a patient is brought to you knowing that they won’t leave alive. Like Charles, brought in by a nursing home when there was nothing left to do.
Charles came into my care straight from the emergency room. I did his admission documentation and made him comfortable. Then we waited. Charles’ eyes followed me each time I came into the room to check on him or work with his roommate.
“Are you okay,” I would say each time. He would nod, “Yes.”
Then by 5 AM, I came in and noticed his eyes were no longer following. They were staring out into space. “Charles? Charles, are you with me?” No response. I checked for Charles’ pulse and felt he was still with me but would pass soon. The doctor phoned Charles’ son, but his son didn’t have time to come in. I was confused. How could one not have time to say goodbye to their father? No matter what happened in life, this was your opportunity to say your final goodbye. Upset by that choice, I decided to stay close to Charles until he closed his eyes for the final time.
Another case was Ahmed, who was predicted to pass within a couple of days. He was transferred to me with a fentanyl drip already running. Already decreasing his length of stay. My job was to increase the dosage little by little when Ahmed showed signs of distress. Lucky for me, he never did. Instead, I sat next to him and we talked about his life. About his love and mine. “I wish I had met you earlier,” I told him.
Every once in a while Ahmed would get confused and forget that he already said goodbye to his love. “You have to write this down and make sure he gets it.” I grabbed a pen and paper and was ready to take notes. Ahmed began his speech but soon trailed off. His thoughts washed away by the fentanyl flowing through his veins.
When my break came, I told him, “I can either take my full break and be gone for an hour, or I can eat quickly and come back to be with you. Which would you prefer?” He chose the latter. “Can you come back quickly?” And so I did. I ate a small meal and came back to rest next to him. I placed my hand in his and fell asleep.
At 6:30 AM, with only 30 minutes before change of shift, a colleague graciously woke me up. My hand still locked with Ahmed’s. Another late clock out I would need to explain to my manager.
After seven years of working, I know the memory of some patients will always be with me. I also believe that some pop in to watch over me. Like, Sandra, who wasn’t even my patient when we first met. Her nurse was frustrated that she was denying the antibiotics prescribed to help with her breast cancer. Her cancer had once been treatable, but no longer. Sandra believed in God’s grace alone and refused treatment. She now only had two months to live and wanted those last months to be on her terms, not the doctors. Seeing the frustration on my colleague’s face, I offered to go in and speak with the patient. When I did, I met a slim and pretty black woman only a few years older than me. She was listening to gospel music and had her bible out. As I entered, Sandra took me in and quickly asked, “Are you gay?”
I braced myself. “Yes, I am,” I said with pride.
“Well, don’t let anybody tell you to change. God loves you just the way you are. Don’t you ever forget that.” It wasn’t exactly what I expected her to say, but I was grateful. I don’t recall why Sandra was so gay-friendly, but she did share with me some of her story. She hated hospitals due to her father being a drug addict and how hospitals helped feed his addiction. “They made him worse, not better,” she told me. “The whole system is rigged to harm rather than heal,” she believed. Sandra also had her own issues with addiction, but her vice was food. She had been obese at one time, but the cancer helped with that. Not exactly the kind of miracle diet pill one prays for.
Sandra and I spoke for about an hour before I left her. In that hour she became a sister. Someone who was and still is very dear to me. During the following shift, I was her nurse, but was so busy that I couldn’t find another hour to share. At the end of that shift, she told me, “I didn’t want to say this when you first arrived. The doctors are now giving me two weeks instead of two months.” My heart cracked. I couldn’t hold back tears as I gave report to the day nurse.
I never got to physically say goodbye to Sandra before she passed. I was deep in my depression and couldn’t find the strength to travel to the Bronx where her hospice facility was. But that didn’t stop her from saying goodbye. She did so through a dream.
While passed out in my bathtub, which had become my norm, I dreamt I was in a large hospital room with windows that looked out on an expanse of trees and grass. I turned and saw Sandra in her bed. We spoke for a moment and I turned to take in the view again. When I turned back towards Sandra, she was gone. I then awoke in my bath crying. I got out and called her hospice and was told, “No one is here by that name.”
“But I’m sure you’re the right facility. She has to be there.” Again, “I’m sorry sir. No one is here by that name.” I understood.
I’m grateful to Sandra because I know she has stuck with me during my Dark Night. Always routing for me and making me feel loved. “Don’t forget.” I won’t.
There are more whose names I would need to alter to discuss, but they don’t need to be named. Having the ability to share their love and protection is enough, I feel. And as they do, I vow to share it with those I meet along my journey. I would also like to thank those still living who have protected me. Always from the most unlikely places. Like a few Trump supporters who assisted me when the most liberal of us wouldn’t. Or those whose line of work causes many to judge, and yet they were willing to alter their judgments of me. Thank you for your kindness. I can’t tell you how much it means to see a face light up when I appear when most grow dark or afraid. Your light radiates to the core of my being and is what allows me to shine, even if ever so softly.
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