always a nurse

yesterday, as cole and i were leaving a local coffee shop, i waited at the door for an elderly man who seemed to be wanting to come inside.  instead he asked me what time the locale was open until and if i knew whether or not they served for dinner - he was inquiring for his son he was caring for.  without questioning, the man kind of unloaded on cole and me.  somehow he mentioned the name of the place he is living (which is affiliated with scca and thus, all of my patients) and so i said, "oh, i'm a nurse.  i wonder if your son is one of my patients."  i guess i'm always a nurse.  when people look dead on a sidewalk or just when an old man needs a shoulder to lean on and ear to listen.  poor man.  he explained his story.  he (at 80 years old) is the only caregiver for his son who has had a bone marrow transplant that has seemed to fail.  he used interesting words - layman's words - like "they keep killing him with chemo."  and when i acknowledged the stress he must be under, he said with tears in his throat, "sometimes i just want to run away.  but i'm his dad.  i'm his only person."  after chatting for at least 10 minutes, cole and i found an escape.  i almost wanted to invite the man over for dinner.  but instead we wished him well.  as we parted, he thanked me for all that i do.  he was genuine.  it was kind.  and sincere.  and it wasn't but 10 steps before i burst into tears.  "everyone i'm surrounded by is so sad," i said into cole's chest.  "life is so unfair for so many people."  no father should watch his son dying.

thank god for vacation.  and trips to guatemala.

i'm out. 

coinkidinks

we live in a very small world.

yesterday, my 75 year old patient was visited by his pastor.  because i saw that he had a visitor, i chose to leave my patient alone for a while.  eventually, i decided i should complete my tasks - deliver medication and check his blood sugar.  so i interrupted.  and thus began the weirdest coincidence.

my patient's visitor, his pastor for the last 25 years, is the husband of the woman who babysat me from the time i was maybe 2 until i was 7 (when they moved from mercer island to lake forest park).  gail lived right between my pre-school and what would become my elementary school.  i was walked across the street everyday so that i could play in her sandbox with her two sons.  she helped to raise me since both my parents worked.

the man didn't recognize me.  and at first, i wasn't sure he was truly mike, gail's husband.  but when i asked if his son's nickname had been popo, i got the strangest stare.  then it clicked for him.  "i gave your sons the chicken pox!"  (his mom had me chew gum and share it with her little ones - to get it over worth).

i love coinkidinks!

oops

nurses have DARK senses of humor.  so when my friend andy was having a hard day and said something about his patient having difficulty breathing, i kinda joked and said, "well, if he just stopped breathing altogether, maybe your shift would be easier."  andy looked at me with that you didn't just say that look.  and we parted and went about our lives.  it was just ten minutes later that i responded to an emergency light.  andy's patient's oxygen saturation was 70%.  he was struggling to breathe.  and unresponsive.  we rubbed his chest.  attempted to get him to respond.  we called respiratory therapy.  and anesthesia.  they intubated him.  and sent him to the ICU.  and all i could think was, "shit, did i make this happen?"  me and my stupid sense of humor.

feeling pessimistic

the last two days i worked, i cared for the sweetest woman.  she's 49 years old.  she's a mother.  to two twenty-something girls who very much need their mom.  go figure, she got admitted to our unit because she is SICK.  everyone on my unit is SICK.  but this woman deserves capitals.  she needs some cheerleaders.  or angels.  or something.

she is 120 post her transplant.  and although she got her own cells back (which is our "easiest" kind of transplant), she struggled from the beginning.  her mouth sores got so bad after chemotherapy, she was intubated.  her lungs started to hemorrhage for no reason.  her heartbeat became erratic and required extra monitoring.  and when she left the hospital, we thought it was a miracle.  we clapped.  and felt joy in our hearts.  a passion was re-ignited - a hope - that maybe transplant works.  maybe all this hard work - witnessing people suffer - has purpose.  maybe there is life after transplant after all.

but once again, now i am not sure.  her future - if she has one - is going to be VERY hard.

as i prepare for work tomorrow, i feel a sense of apprehension and anxiety.  the kind, loving part of me that knows i am good at my job, that knows i offered the best kind of support to this patient, wants to care for her again.  tomorrow and the next day.  maybe until her discharge - to home or to the heavens (we call it a discharge to the eternal care unit or a celestial discharge).  i know she felt safe with me.  and i did a good job, juggling all of her needs - medical and emotional.  hence, there's a small part of me that wants to call my unit and request that i be her nurse tomorrow.

but somewhere inside, there's also part of me that never wants to see her tearful eyes again.  part of me wants to avoid her like the plague.  pretend like she doesn't exist and never inquire about her well-being. if i accidentally acknowledge her existence, i want to pretend that she's getting better, that when her room is empty it's because she's well, shopping with her daughters, celebrating birthdays and graduations and weddings.  but i'm not that optimistic.  never have been.  and never will.  not when it comes to cancer.  on my unit.

stagnant

i haven't written much lately.  i think i've been feeling disenchanted. burnt out. bored. depressed.  

yesterday i spent all day with a girlfriend.  in the almost seven years since we finished nursing school together, cassie has had oh i don't know, three or four different jobs.  she went back to school.  she's a nurse practitioner.  she's moved at least three times.  had twelve different hair-dos.  run thousands of miles - literally.  and is currently making over her life - for the umpteenth time.  just hearing about her life is exhausting and exhilarating and exciting! 

i'm not writing about cassie because i'm jealous.  although sometimes i am.  jealousy is the worst, ugliest quality.  

i'm writing and comparing myself to others because sometimes i feel stagnant.  unlike cassie, i've lived in the same place for seven years.  my hair is always the same - long and brown.  i've had one job.  and there are only two initials after my name.  

sometimes i feel like i'm supposed to do more, be more.  try something new, and different.  like bangs.  or being the private nurse of a plastic surgeon!  

but i'm bad at change.  in fact, i sort of hate it.  so, it's back to work tomorrow.  and the next day.  and on sunday and monday too.  

here's the good news.  i have a vacation coming up - next thursday.  guatemala, here i come.  with hospital hunk.  remember him?  i love that man.  i'm excited for sunshine.  vibrant colors at boisterous markets. parading crucified jesus's during easter week in antigua.  and time away from seattle, the MEDEX PA program, and cole's never, ending homework to-do list.