the rocking chair

there was this patient on our unit for about two months. it's the kind of patient all nurses talk about - for both good and bad reasons. i would come in to work in the morning and secretly wish i could care for her, but would then breathe a sigh of relief when she wasn't my assignment for the day. she was a challenging person to care for, but she was so darling and her parents were so kind. her situation tugged at your heart strings and questioned your faith in medicine and fairness and all that is good in the world (if you even dared to believe in any of those things to begin with).

little lisa was 23 years old. i speak of her as though she was a child because in some sense she was. lisa had down's syndrome and strutted around our unit with attitude and sass when she was well enough. most of the time though she laid in her bed, snuggling her favorite stuffed bunny or shooting nerf hoops from the reclined position. her chemotherapy was mountain dew and the blood pressure cuff was an arm hug. she made nurses be creative and patient and appreciative.

but of course, like the rest of my patients, she got sick. super sick. and ended up being intubated and ventilated. eventually her kidneys shut down and she required dialysis. and just a few days ago, she developed a bleed in her head and a possible stroke and/or heart attack. her prognosis was dismal with intubation; hence, with the additions of numerous complications, her care became futile. her brave and kind parents decided to withdraw and allow lisa to die, with dignity and comfort.

i wasn't at work yesterday when she passed. but i heard the story. and i've cried several times since. people like lisa are often born to special people; or perhaps special people are created by folks like lisa. anyway, her father asked if he could rock lisa to sleep in a rocking chair, like he did when she was small. a fantastic nurse and good friend on my unit, nancy, made his wish possible. she went to the NICU and borrowed a rocking chair. and with the help of the respiratory therapist (who was needed to skillfully assist lisa and her many tubes into her father's lap), she transferred lisa from a giant, impersonal hospital bed to the lap of someone who loved her more than i bet he could ever have guessed. within just a few seconds of being disconnected from the ventilator, lisa slipped away. she stopped struggling to breathe (in a world that was likely challenging for her in many ways). and her parents embraced her goodbye.