I remember my first patient that died.
She was young. Younger than me. A mom, a daughter, a sister, and a passionate elementary school teacher. She was living her life in a happy and fulfilling way when ovarian cancer knocked on her door. When I cared for her the first time, she was recovering from a dramatic abdominal surgery and coming to grips with the diagnosis. Stage 4 ovarian cancer. We focused on her post-operative recovery for the first few days, but as the diagnosis began to sink in, I found our conversations turned to how to be a survivor and have hope. I became her cheerleader, her confidant, and when her family went home, her advocate as a nursing professional.
I saw her when she was the most vulnerable.
In pain. Frightened. As a night-shift nurse, I was used to the “what-if” thoughts that plagued my patients in the night when the comfort of the family departed. That is when they usually allowed their nurse to see what they were really feeling. When faces of feigned bravery for their families could relax.
Over the next eighteen months, I was lucky enough to care for her many times.
Even if she wasn’t my patient for that shift, I made sure to check on her every time she was admitted for symptom management or pain control. I learned what worked and what didn’t when she was having a bad night. I knew the right mix of bland food she could tolerate when the nausea was bad. I helped her make a list of all the things she wanted to remember to tell her daughter when her mind was fuzzy. Sometimes I even made her laugh with my corny jokes and just forget for a moment that she was dying.
When she lost her battle, I was there. I made sure she wasn’t in any pain, that her favorite blanket was tucked around her just so, and that her family was supported. But what I didn’t realize was that I would need support, too. I was grieving a loss that had a monumental impact on how I viewed my role as a nursing caregiver. I was now acutely aware that many of the patients I bonded with would die on my watch.
Over and over again.
And to give in such an extraordinary way, I would have to make sure I was being cared for as well. I had to allow others to calm my fears, dry my tears, and give space for the emotions I had at work. I was not, thankfully, a machine instead of a human that just went about her night shift as if nothing had happened.
When was the last time you did a complete head-to-toe on yourself? A mental, physical, and emotional check-up to see what systems and areas are NOT within normal limits? It is easy to deny that nagging inner-nurse voice when it comes to ourselves. But if you were your patient, what would you tell the provider you were concerned about? What recommendations would you make for your own care? What consults would you immediately advocate for?
Take time to do your assessment carefully.
To be a nurse means to first care for ourselves so that we can care for others. You are your most vulnerable patient.
This article is an excerpt from Angela’s journal “From Burnout to Balance: A Nursing Resilience Journal” click here to purchase the journal.
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