check out this article here
i couldn't help but smile.
the trip of a lifetime. one last hoorah!
Thursday, February 21, 2013
souls
on tuesday, i watched my patient take her last breaths. she had no family at her bedside. she was all alone (other than for my presence). and so i held her hand. and watched her for several minutes. to see if she was going to breathe one more time. to see if i could see her soul leave her body. but she never breathed again. and i didn't see her soul leave her body. but something happened to mine. i can't name it. but i felt proud of myself for staying with a woman when i was afraid. and i felt alive even though i felt so sad.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
a bit numb
this week, in one twelve hour shift, my unit had three deaths. i think there is some strange fact - one person dies every eight seconds (and two more are born). or something. but, i'm pretty sure my unit filled the quota for the day in a small area. or for seattle for that matter. it sure seemed like a lot of loss. i don't like to think that many people are suffering all at once - especially around me.
i'm back to precepting new graduate nurses again (even though i adamantly told my bosses i wouldn't ever do it again because of a certain incident with one of my nurse managers - check this out). but, what can i say? i'm a pushover. anyway, as part of a new nurse's six week orientation, if the opportunity arises, i always make her participate in post-mortem care. most new nurses have never seen a dead body. most shake in their danskos a bit. and i walk them through it. explain that i think it's an honor to participate in someone's last bath. and if someone has to wrap a human body in a plastic body bag, then you better believe, i want to do it and i am going to do it with respect.
so, two new nurses, one seasoned male nurse (with a big heart and eyes that well up, even when he doesn't want them to), and i bathed a patient who had been on our unit for months. he had died a few hours before, peacefully, planned, on a morphine drip. each of us had cared for him before. he was a nice man. kind. quiet. strong. and we completed our task with respect and dignity.
however, without thinking too much about it, i assumed it would be my only intimate experience with death that day. i was wrong.
a few hours later in the day, i answered the call light of a patient. she was not my patient. but her nurse had asked if i could help her. the patient's pain pump was beeping and she was busy. so, as i messed with the pump and quieted the noise, i heard the patient rattle... the death rattle. that's what nurses call it. you know it when you hear it. it doesn't sound good. there is some struggle in it. and surrounding loved ones usually panic. typically you wait for another one to come. sporadically. not nearly as often as regular breaths. but this time, nothing followed. surrounded by her sister, son, and very best friend, i witnessed the last breath of a complete stranger. there were questions and instant sobs. "is she gone" her son wailed. "i think so," i said quietly, holding her hand.
ironically, a chaplain had followed me into the room moments prior. and so with her, we consoled the family. it was gut-wrenching and amazing all at once. her son began to panic; the 35 year old grown man began to hyperventilate. i told him to take my place, to take his mother's hand from my hand and to be with her as she passed. i assured him that both she and he would be okay. "i know," he said.
i stayed for a few minutes. long enough to know the woman was loved. that she was amazing. and irreplaceable. and the world will never be the same without her.
i came home from work that night. a bit numb. one more patient had passed, close to change of shift.
what does one do to recover from such a day? i'm not a drinker. but if i was, i just might have had a few.
i'm back to precepting new graduate nurses again (even though i adamantly told my bosses i wouldn't ever do it again because of a certain incident with one of my nurse managers - check this out). but, what can i say? i'm a pushover. anyway, as part of a new nurse's six week orientation, if the opportunity arises, i always make her participate in post-mortem care. most new nurses have never seen a dead body. most shake in their danskos a bit. and i walk them through it. explain that i think it's an honor to participate in someone's last bath. and if someone has to wrap a human body in a plastic body bag, then you better believe, i want to do it and i am going to do it with respect.
so, two new nurses, one seasoned male nurse (with a big heart and eyes that well up, even when he doesn't want them to), and i bathed a patient who had been on our unit for months. he had died a few hours before, peacefully, planned, on a morphine drip. each of us had cared for him before. he was a nice man. kind. quiet. strong. and we completed our task with respect and dignity.
however, without thinking too much about it, i assumed it would be my only intimate experience with death that day. i was wrong.
a few hours later in the day, i answered the call light of a patient. she was not my patient. but her nurse had asked if i could help her. the patient's pain pump was beeping and she was busy. so, as i messed with the pump and quieted the noise, i heard the patient rattle... the death rattle. that's what nurses call it. you know it when you hear it. it doesn't sound good. there is some struggle in it. and surrounding loved ones usually panic. typically you wait for another one to come. sporadically. not nearly as often as regular breaths. but this time, nothing followed. surrounded by her sister, son, and very best friend, i witnessed the last breath of a complete stranger. there were questions and instant sobs. "is she gone" her son wailed. "i think so," i said quietly, holding her hand.
ironically, a chaplain had followed me into the room moments prior. and so with her, we consoled the family. it was gut-wrenching and amazing all at once. her son began to panic; the 35 year old grown man began to hyperventilate. i told him to take my place, to take his mother's hand from my hand and to be with her as she passed. i assured him that both she and he would be okay. "i know," he said.
i stayed for a few minutes. long enough to know the woman was loved. that she was amazing. and irreplaceable. and the world will never be the same without her.
i came home from work that night. a bit numb. one more patient had passed, close to change of shift.
what does one do to recover from such a day? i'm not a drinker. but if i was, i just might have had a few.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)