a letter sent to my manager...
I hope this note finds you well.
I’m writing today to share a comment from one of our transplant donor coordinators, Leah. This week, two of your nurses worked with us on a potential cornea donation and they made an impression on her.
Leah writes, “RN Christa and RN Lauren were both very proactive and pro-donation. (They) Wanted to support the family the best they could. They were great, despite their patient being a MRO d/t lymphoma”.
The decedent’s family was very interested in transplant donation but due to the patients illness, it was not possible. Christa and Lauren did everything they could to make donation happen.
It’s interactions with champions like Christa and Lauren that keep us excited about donation and happy to be working so closely with hospital staff, like yours. We can’t do it without you.
Please feel free to share this note of gratitude as widely as appropriate. They both deserve a pat on the back.
this was a nice thank you for just some of the hard work i put in last week.
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
Monday, July 27, 2015
he sails on
it's been a long time dear blog...
i could make excuses. but in reality, i've been avoiding this space on purpose. i haven't wanted to process work life or real life (and now more than ever, the two feel very connected). it feels too hard. so i've just been letting things mull over in my mind, wreck havoc on my soul. some days i show up at work, just because i have to. and some days, i do my best. my very best.
the last week i had more amazing moments that i can count. more than i could ever share in writing. how lucky am i? when i contemplate job changes and career goals, i feel blessed to have been a part of amazing nursing moments. life moments. that remind me why i do what i do. why i was meant to be a nurse.
on wednesday of last week, after a fantastic birthday celebration that included 30 miles of backpacking in two days, i arrived at work to find one of my favorite patients on comfort care. strangely enough, i cared for david for the first time exactly one year prior.
comfort care is a blessing and a curse. i love taking care of people on comfort care. for some reason, i feel at ease with people when they are dying. i enjoy participating in families biggest, hardest, sometimes most beautiful moments. but of course, comfort care is sad. there are usually tears. shared memories and the best of stories. there is noisy breathing. and morphine. endless questions with difficult answers. often of which i do not have the answer to. but i'm good at saying i don't know. i'm good at answering the questions i can. and my calmest and kindest self appears. and it feels nice (especially when lately i've been a grouch).
i spent much of my 12 hour day in david's room. his wife, daughter, and son-in-law were present. there were visits from social workers, palliative care physicians, and friends. and there were snuggles (i love when loved one snuggle with their family members as they are dying; it's the most beautiful intimate moment to witness). there were stories - boy were there stories. david had spent many a year on a sailboat. in fact, he and his wife raised their daughter on a sailboat i believe. they were adventurers. kind and giving people. the kind i would like to be when i grow up. seriously. i'd be ecstatic if i could impart just a little bit of david and a whole lot of barbara in my life.
david's wife is the epitome of an angel. i can't imagine a better wife. she lived and breathed for david. his every pain was hers, and his every success was celebrated (i will never forget one time i was caring for david and he successfully pooped in a bedpain; barb celebrated as if he had won a gold medal in the olympics. and david, in his most cynical, dry voice said, "barbara, anyone can take a shit?!? but to her, it was noteworthy. celebratory. if she had had balloons, they would have been blown up. if there was cake, she would have lit a candle). barbara told me that over the course of the last year, david had been in the hospital 173 days. and while he was out-patient, there had been 150 clinic appointments. she was there for every one. every day. she never left his side.
david died peacefully in his sleep the evening after i cared for him. he and his family have touched me. deeply. if they are able to carry on with such grace, so too must i.
i could make excuses. but in reality, i've been avoiding this space on purpose. i haven't wanted to process work life or real life (and now more than ever, the two feel very connected). it feels too hard. so i've just been letting things mull over in my mind, wreck havoc on my soul. some days i show up at work, just because i have to. and some days, i do my best. my very best.
the last week i had more amazing moments that i can count. more than i could ever share in writing. how lucky am i? when i contemplate job changes and career goals, i feel blessed to have been a part of amazing nursing moments. life moments. that remind me why i do what i do. why i was meant to be a nurse.
on wednesday of last week, after a fantastic birthday celebration that included 30 miles of backpacking in two days, i arrived at work to find one of my favorite patients on comfort care. strangely enough, i cared for david for the first time exactly one year prior.
comfort care is a blessing and a curse. i love taking care of people on comfort care. for some reason, i feel at ease with people when they are dying. i enjoy participating in families biggest, hardest, sometimes most beautiful moments. but of course, comfort care is sad. there are usually tears. shared memories and the best of stories. there is noisy breathing. and morphine. endless questions with difficult answers. often of which i do not have the answer to. but i'm good at saying i don't know. i'm good at answering the questions i can. and my calmest and kindest self appears. and it feels nice (especially when lately i've been a grouch).
i spent much of my 12 hour day in david's room. his wife, daughter, and son-in-law were present. there were visits from social workers, palliative care physicians, and friends. and there were snuggles (i love when loved one snuggle with their family members as they are dying; it's the most beautiful intimate moment to witness). there were stories - boy were there stories. david had spent many a year on a sailboat. in fact, he and his wife raised their daughter on a sailboat i believe. they were adventurers. kind and giving people. the kind i would like to be when i grow up. seriously. i'd be ecstatic if i could impart just a little bit of david and a whole lot of barbara in my life.
david's wife is the epitome of an angel. i can't imagine a better wife. she lived and breathed for david. his every pain was hers, and his every success was celebrated (i will never forget one time i was caring for david and he successfully pooped in a bedpain; barb celebrated as if he had won a gold medal in the olympics. and david, in his most cynical, dry voice said, "barbara, anyone can take a shit?!? but to her, it was noteworthy. celebratory. if she had had balloons, they would have been blown up. if there was cake, she would have lit a candle). barbara told me that over the course of the last year, david had been in the hospital 173 days. and while he was out-patient, there had been 150 clinic appointments. she was there for every one. every day. she never left his side.
david died peacefully in his sleep the evening after i cared for him. he and his family have touched me. deeply. if they are able to carry on with such grace, so too must i.
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