It’s another late-night subway ride. I decide to take the train to the end of the line—Coney Island. It’s cold. I challenge myself to follow the Boardwalk and take in the night sea. The moon is glittering on the water like a yellow brick road. Calling the tide home to him. I walk the water’s edge and think of my father. I think of me, which in turn makes me think of you. I smile and a tear forms and is crystalized in moments. The same is true of you in my mind. Frozen. How I worry that I will one day forget. How I have prayed that I would one day forget. Betwixt and between. Exactly as it should be.
I once had a patient who suffered from severe short-term memory loss due to a brain tumor. As I started my shift, I quickly realized that forgetting why one was alone in a hospital can be extremely frightening. Who knows what experiments these doctors may be up to? To not recall if they are friend or foe. No comfort of one’s clothes, well-worn watch, or shoes. Just you in a backless gown and yellow hospital socks to fight back the overexposure and the constant chill of the unit. Strangers come and go, telling you about a reality you can’t grasp. It keeps slipping away every 30 minutes or so.
As the night grew on, I noted that the patient’s anxiety was increasing. I promoted sleep, but quickly came back the common complaint of our uncomfortable beds. He didn’t want to stay in it and I was worried about elopement or fall. “Okay. If you can hold on for 45 minutes, I can help with your body aches by giving you a massage and hopefully that will help you to sleep,” I offered. Bodywork helped me to discover nursing and earn my degree. It was amazing to have people open up about their lives and relationships while in my hands. Trusting me with intimate topics that they sometimes hadn’t even broached with loved ones. It was a mix of talk therapy and therapeutic touch. Over time, I realized these skills were easily transferrable to nursing. I thought of a nurse as a nun or priest. Not perfect, but someone who had experienced the grit of life and could hold your light and dark without judgment. Whom you could turn to and have faith in during times of trouble. The only times I felt like I failed as a nurse was when I allowed my own troubles to get in the way of my patients’. When I didn’t have enough energy to show up like I wanted.
I knew my forgetful patient, whom we shall name, Gary, needed me to be within eyesight most of the night or else I would be forgotten. If that happened, I would have to rebuild our relationship all over again. I found I couldn’t be away from him more than 30 minutes at a time. Staying close was neither easy or difficult. I had 5 other patients to worry about, but preventing a fall or worse was always a top priority. Plus, his personality made our time together a pleasant one.
I found myself rolling my medcart through the hall, peeking my head into his shared room constantly. “Just give me 15 more minutes,” I assured him while rolling out of one room past his and into another. “Ten more minutes,” I screached out while answering a call bell.
“Okay. It’s midnight and I’m all yours.”
For some reason Gary and his roommate had no curtain to separate them. I later learned this would become an issue since one patient was able to witness the amount of care given to someone else. At the time, my main concern was keeping Gary calm so that all of us might have a pleasant night. I took out my cell and began to play a favorite classical piece, “The Lark Ascending.” I then grabbed a lotion bottle that I had placed in hot water and began my late-night work.
Gary calmed almost immediately. The cold of the unit disappearing for the first time that he could remember. As I worked, I thought over his situation and stated, “You know? Most of us are always struggling to live in the present. To no longer think of the past and to not worry too much about the future. To just be. In some ways your brain is giving you permission to do that right now. It can almost be seen as a gift if you can trust the process.” Both of us fell silent as the music continued to play. Gary then turned on this back and as the emotion of the piece swelled in the room, he allowed his arms and legs to float and wave in the air.
“I feel…. I feel….” He struggled to find the right word. “I feel… I feel…” I gave him time to locate the emotion. “I was just thinking. So many people struggle to live in the moment,” he told me. “To just be present. In a way, my brain is allowing me to do this now. If I can trust the process, it isn’t so bad.” I smiled, realizing he was actually having this thought without me for the first time.
“I feel…. I feel…”
Gary never found the right word and didn’t need to. He drifted off to sleep. His neighbor, watching the whole seen commented that I’m a good nurse. I silently smiled and rolled my cart out of the room.
In the morning there was shouting as Gary awoke to the aide trying to clean him up. “Where are my clothes? Where is my wife? I want my wife!”
“It’s okay, Gary,” I said, running into the room. “You’re in the hospital. You have a tumor and you forget a lot. You’re safe.” But there was no calming his anxiety. I took out my work phone and called his wife who was able to finally settle him down.
His neighbor, who apparently wasn’t a morning person was also up in arms. Upset at how much care Gary got over him. This was a morning where I couldn’t win. It wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. I learned how to roll with the punches and not take things too personally. Especially after the magic of that night.
After giving report to the day nurse, I went back to Gary’s room to say goodbye. As I entered, I saw him turn to his neighbor. “Hi, I’m Gary. I’m forgetful.” I realized that there was no use in saying goodbye. That I and last night had already been forgotten. Tears swelled up at the beauty and tragedy of the moment. As if I was watching a play. My body temperature rose as the tears streaked my cheeks just as a supervisor came walking by.
“Good morning, Robert. Go home!”
In many ways, I was home.
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