Algorithms & I Love Yous
I don't write about being a nurse much, because I think it's morbid and people really don't get it. There are things about my career that if I write about, you will either think I'm crazy or inhumane. Or some people get weirdly offended, like what I'm trying to say is that I think my job is harder or more stressful than theirs. I'm not saying that. But being a nurse is a huge part of who I am, and I think it's time I wrote something about it.
I also have some friends (who are not nurses or in the medical field) that are concerned I don't have feelings or that I'm jaded and detached when it comes to my job. That I lack compassion (eye roll). So I thought I'd give you glimpse of something rolling around in my mind after a tough shift recently.
I am no stranger to death. I've been in the ER for 6 years—people die all the time. But some stories stick with you more than others. I guess this is one of those times for me. So I wrote her a letter. Here is me being human about being a nurse.
Sweet girl,
I cried for you after I left work that night. I do that sometimes. It's not hard for me not to cry at work, but when I get in my car and close the door...sometimes I cry. Not often. But sometimes. Before I get home to my family or before I meet a friend for dinner. And then I put my smile back on because talking about people dying doesn't make good dinner conversation. But I cried for you. I feel silly admitting that. We medical people have this weird taboo about knowing we have feelings but thinking we can't show them in the context of our work. We are just silly that way. None of us would fault the other for showing feelings when it is appropriate, but we still don't most of the time. It's just how we are.
I knew you were so scared, and you were trying to tell us that something was wrong. I knew, baby. I knew you were sick and I knew you were not going to leave the same way you came in. Sometimes nurses just know that kind of thing in their gut. It's something that makes us really good nurses, but we hate the way our stomachs turn when we feel it. I spent the time caring for you—calm and determined—fighting what my stomach was saying, trying not to make it true.
Do you want to know why I think you've stuck with me? Because sometimes at my job I feel like I have to choose between being a nurse and being a human in order to be efficient, but I think I was both for you. And I am so thankful for that. Nurses, maybe more so ER nurses, are good at being caring while being distant, because it's what we have to do. Humans tend to get all emotional and panicky when they are in a crisis, so we nurses keep our cool and flip on our nurse switch so we can do what needs to be done. We are no good to you if we are a puddle of tears on the floor. We can't think clearly if we feel, so we just think. I am really good at that sort of thing, turning my feelings off to be able to take care of certain people in certain situations. I wonder sometimes if I'm getting too good at being a nurse and not good at being human—too good at thinking and not too good at feeling. But somehow I felt like I could do both for you at the same time.
We paid attention and caught all the signs and followed all the algorithms for what we saw. Algorithms are our religion in medicine. But there are things algorithms don't do. I looked around the room and saw plenty of people doing plenty of tasks, and then I looked at you. And I knew I was there for you in that moment. I made my way to the head of your bed and I looked you in the eye and promised I'd be there the whole time. I told you I knew you were scared but I wasn't going to leave. I promised. You and me, we'd be in it together. I stroked your little head and smoothed your strands of hair out of your face. I got to tell you how brave you were, and you nodded because you believed me. Sweet girl, you were so brave. I whispered prayers for you in my head. Over and over. Real prayers to the Jesus I believe in. Then I found your mama in the hallway and made sure she got to kiss your little cheek and tell you how much she loved you, and you got to tell her those same things back. You got to hear her voice one last time. There isn't an algorithm for that sort of thing. They can only teach so much humanity in nursing school, and the rest is up to us. That's what makes it easier to sleep at night after a shift like that—when I know that I cared for your body, but I also cared for your soul. That is a rare feeling at my job, at least for me. I'm proud that we cared so well for your body, but I'm more proud that your mama got to kiss your cheek and tell you she loved you. That's what I'll remember forever. That's what she'll remember, too.
I know these kinds of things aren't up to me, who lives and who dies. Most days I am thankful for that because I wouldn't want that job. But some days I wish it was up to me. Sometimes I wish I could choose. I wouldn't have chosen that ending for you. But I'm thankful that you gave me the gift of being able to be a nurse and a human, and see you as a patient and as a person at the same time. Maybe that's why you've stuck with me more than others, but I wouldn't take it back just so I wouldn't have to think about you. It made me better. I won't forget.
I also have some friends (who are not nurses or in the medical field) that are concerned I don't have feelings or that I'm jaded and detached when it comes to my job. That I lack compassion (eye roll). So I thought I'd give you glimpse of something rolling around in my mind after a tough shift recently.
I am no stranger to death. I've been in the ER for 6 years—people die all the time. But some stories stick with you more than others. I guess this is one of those times for me. So I wrote her a letter. Here is me being human about being a nurse.
Sweet girl,
I cried for you after I left work that night. I do that sometimes. It's not hard for me not to cry at work, but when I get in my car and close the door...sometimes I cry. Not often. But sometimes. Before I get home to my family or before I meet a friend for dinner. And then I put my smile back on because talking about people dying doesn't make good dinner conversation. But I cried for you. I feel silly admitting that. We medical people have this weird taboo about knowing we have feelings but thinking we can't show them in the context of our work. We are just silly that way. None of us would fault the other for showing feelings when it is appropriate, but we still don't most of the time. It's just how we are.
I knew you were so scared, and you were trying to tell us that something was wrong. I knew, baby. I knew you were sick and I knew you were not going to leave the same way you came in. Sometimes nurses just know that kind of thing in their gut. It's something that makes us really good nurses, but we hate the way our stomachs turn when we feel it. I spent the time caring for you—calm and determined—fighting what my stomach was saying, trying not to make it true.
Do you want to know why I think you've stuck with me? Because sometimes at my job I feel like I have to choose between being a nurse and being a human in order to be efficient, but I think I was both for you. And I am so thankful for that. Nurses, maybe more so ER nurses, are good at being caring while being distant, because it's what we have to do. Humans tend to get all emotional and panicky when they are in a crisis, so we nurses keep our cool and flip on our nurse switch so we can do what needs to be done. We are no good to you if we are a puddle of tears on the floor. We can't think clearly if we feel, so we just think. I am really good at that sort of thing, turning my feelings off to be able to take care of certain people in certain situations. I wonder sometimes if I'm getting too good at being a nurse and not good at being human—too good at thinking and not too good at feeling. But somehow I felt like I could do both for you at the same time.
We paid attention and caught all the signs and followed all the algorithms for what we saw. Algorithms are our religion in medicine. But there are things algorithms don't do. I looked around the room and saw plenty of people doing plenty of tasks, and then I looked at you. And I knew I was there for you in that moment. I made my way to the head of your bed and I looked you in the eye and promised I'd be there the whole time. I told you I knew you were scared but I wasn't going to leave. I promised. You and me, we'd be in it together. I stroked your little head and smoothed your strands of hair out of your face. I got to tell you how brave you were, and you nodded because you believed me. Sweet girl, you were so brave. I whispered prayers for you in my head. Over and over. Real prayers to the Jesus I believe in. Then I found your mama in the hallway and made sure she got to kiss your little cheek and tell you how much she loved you, and you got to tell her those same things back. You got to hear her voice one last time. There isn't an algorithm for that sort of thing. They can only teach so much humanity in nursing school, and the rest is up to us. That's what makes it easier to sleep at night after a shift like that—when I know that I cared for your body, but I also cared for your soul. That is a rare feeling at my job, at least for me. I'm proud that we cared so well for your body, but I'm more proud that your mama got to kiss your cheek and tell you she loved you. That's what I'll remember forever. That's what she'll remember, too.
I know these kinds of things aren't up to me, who lives and who dies. Most days I am thankful for that because I wouldn't want that job. But some days I wish it was up to me. Sometimes I wish I could choose. I wouldn't have chosen that ending for you. But I'm thankful that you gave me the gift of being able to be a nurse and a human, and see you as a patient and as a person at the same time. Maybe that's why you've stuck with me more than others, but I wouldn't take it back just so I wouldn't have to think about you. It made me better. I won't forget.
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