To the Families of My Patients: We Don’t Forget

This May will mark six years since I wrote this entry from my private nursing journal. 🧡
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The time was winding down for my nursing orientation, and she was a new admission. My preceptor told me this patient was going to be mine. She needed an allogenic, “fresh” transplant. I needed to mark this off my checklist of things to do or see before orientation finished. A perfect match, the two of us.

I was a new nurse, and she knew it. But she didn’t seem to care. She had confidence in me that I didn’t even have in myself. I spent the entire shift in her room the day of transplant as the infusion bags dripped into her central line. We talked and laughed, and I got to know her as well as she got to know me. Suddenly I knew this stranger’s entire life story — her kids’ names, where she worked, where she and her husband had met — and she knew mine.
She became family so quickly.

When she was admitted nine months later for a small infection, I was the lucky one that got to call her my patient again. And this time I had finished orientation; I was on nightshift, figuring out my job, and I was proud to show her how much I had grown in my nursing career in the time that she’d been at home. And she said that she was proud of me.

She made the time pass quickly. She made the shifts seem happier. I genuinely looked forward to going in every night and talking with her as I’d listen to her lungs or clean the infected wound. Try to wean her off the oxygen she was using. Administer dilaudid and morphine around the clock, because she needed it. Fetch her ice and an extra blanket, because she was alone a lot of the time and had an excruciatingly painful time walking.
Our little routine lasted for weeks.

On this night, I think she knew she was dying. It was 5:48am. It had been a long and stressful night that was turning into an even more stressful morning, and I was feeling weary from the extra, critical care that she required. I tried to stay positive.

I was in her room taking vitals. Pushing metoprolol to try converting her heart rhythm back to sinus. We were talking like normal. She grabbed my hands. She told me that it had been an honor to be my patient all this time. “Almost a full year of friendship,” she’d whispered. I told her that I loved her, and through tears I asked about her family coming to visit later that day. Then she took her last breath. It was so quiet and peaceful that I almost missed it, but I knew.

We did all that we could, but I think she knew it was her time to go. I have never forgotten how it felt to hold her as she quietly closed her eyes and simply stopped talking to me. I’ve never forgotten the other patients I was privileged to hold as they passed on, either.

We don’t forget your loved ones when they leave us. A lot of shifts for us are spent reminiscing on the good and the bad times. The lessons we learned from them. The laughter we shared with them. The stories we heard from them.
We don’t forget their smiles or their funny, little quirks. And we don’t forget the intense battle it took to live just one more day. One more day. Just one more day.

It was intimidating to me when I started work on this specialized unit, taking care of adults and children; most facilities only offer one or the other. Now I just consider it all the more a blessing.
I learn every night from the adults as well as the kids. They all teach me something different.

One boy taught me to find some kind of joy in every day. Like your favorite ice cream flavor, despite some pretty bad mouth sores. Even the really painful days can be painted with joy. He never knew he taught me that.

One lady taught me that life will be sure to knock me down a time or two and make me feel stupid. She taught me that these times can be used by God to bring my eyes back in focus on Him. She taught me that they can make me stronger. And better. I hope she knows that I have tried to let them.

One little boy taught me that our words can be used to build each other up or tear each other down. He taught me that words can sting and can’t be taken back.

Another lady, in the midst of her own death, started praying for me. Me. The one who wasn’t sick or hurting or dying. She taught me to think of others a lot more frequently than I think of myself.

One man taught me that it’s okay to laugh at yourself every now and then. He was hallucinating from the chemo. And he knew he was. He would say something off the wall — like telling me to get the spiders off the ceiling for him. He would catch himself, his confusion. And then he would laugh and shrug his shoulders.

One taught me that we can’t take clothes or riches with us when it’s time to go. We have to leave it all behind. But we can leave behind a whole lot more than just materialistic items; we can leave behind our gracious, everlasting love.

The morning that I was holding her hands and they slowly went limp, I broke into pieces. I went home and wasn’t sure that I could face two more nights of work. Let alone the rest of my career.
But I’ve learned to throw on some scrubs and show back up, even as my heart is aching. I’ve learned that there are still more patients who need our care. There are more fighters to learn from and to laugh with.

God turned the brokenness into a lesson, and I carry it with me every night. I carry her with me every night. We all carry a piece of your loved ones every time we put our scrubs on to face whatever the next shift might hold.

Even after all this time, we mourn with you. We think of you during special occasions and holidays. They each have their own, unique, special stories to us, and we remember them all too well. They taught us too much. They made us better caregivers, better at our jobs. They fought too hard. They were stronger than any of us ever could be. So we don’t forget them when they leave us.

How could we ever do that?