unsung heroes

last week i had the ENTIRE week off. it was a spring break of sorts that i got to celebrate with my my student boyfriend, cole. we went to san francisco and walked miles and miles. and ate delicious chinese treats from non-english speaking bakeries. and like bad medical people, we allowed the sun to kiss our cheeks and chests, soaking up the surprising sun without sunscreen.

but now, i'm back. back to seattle. back to work. cole is back in school. and already burnt out of his new rotation - outpatient GI. he's ready to be done with school. and i'm ready to retire! ha.

in all seriousness though. i had a good work week. i worked 36 hours and although it was busy, it felt productive. i got things accomplished with my patients. i was a good nurse. better than my tired, burnt-out, cynical self. i could feel myself rejuvenated from days of reading books. and time spent on my couch. and it didn't hurt that i cared for two very kind men. one who wore fluorescent pink glasses (and joked that they were in support of breast cancer, but were really just an expensive mistake when he ordered prescription glasses over the phone) and the other who at 65, has lost all of his independence because of a transplant we gave him 4 years ago.

in just two 12 hour shifts (i only cared for this patient 2 of my 3 work days), i found myself falling "in love" with him. i don't mean the kind of love i feel for cole. i mean the kind of love a nurse feels for a patient. the kind of love that means, even when i'm not at work, i think constantly about them. the kind of love that means, i really want what's best for this man - whether that means he lives or dies. the kind of love that helps me appreciate my role as nurse and reminds me i am good at what i do.

this man's medical history is complex to say the least. he's had two transplants. and suffered from years of graft versus host disease. and now, although in remission from his cancer, will most likely die from his GVHD - a side effect from his treatment. i've never seen anything like it - skin so taut that his lungs can't expand enough to breathe. skin so rigid and inflexible that his arms and legs are permanently bent, contracted, inhibiting his ability to scratch his own nose, wipe his own behind, and be the independent man he longs to be.

i think what endeared me to this man was his willingness to be vulnerable. he admitted that he was afraid. he admitted his weaknesses and found the courage to ask for help. when his wife or i assisted him with the simplest of tasks, he thanked us. he spoke of the many hardships he has faced with grace. and continued on with the bravery and determination of a hero.

i think my patients are heros. super men and super women, battling life one day at a time. one precious day at a time. not wasting any moments between breaths.

handprints

you'd think after years of working on the same unit, with the same kinds of patients, i would have done most things by now. it's true. i've administered numerous kinds of chemotherapy, given drugs that i've never heard of, put my fingers in places i wish i hadn't... you get the idea. but last week, i did something i've never done before. and although it was a learning experience, i found it kind of weird. one of those moments where you want to laugh, but laughing would be inappropriate.

i helped a fellow nurse paint the hand of her patient with jet-black ink using a roller brush and made handprints on pretty paper. it was like an art project, for three year olds. only i'm not a pre-school teacher and my subject was not three. she was in her sixties. breathing with the help of a ventilator. her arms were flaccid and her fingers squeezed together tightly. her family members watched us, as if we had done this before. as if we should be good at arts and crafts with nearly dead people. and instead, we smudged paint. we had to make a few before we got any that looked like hands. and even the good ones looked like a preschooler had done it.

but to my amazement, the family loved it.

our unit is trying to get better at death and dying. thank god! this kind of improvement is right up my alley. i wish doctors and nurses were all comfortable talking about that journey. i wish we could light candles and sing. when parents of small children are dying, i wish we helped tape video messages or write letters. but instead, we're making handprints. and i guess it's a good start.

even though it felt weird to me.