THE Nurse

By the time I was wheeled into the hospital's TCCU (Transitional Cardiac Care Unit) that night, my body was "road weary", my mind was in shock, and my soul was parched. The two weeks leading to this moment had been peppered with multitudes of tests, doctors, needles, drugs, and even a biopsy, and then finished off with what I thought to be my death sentence. I felt like an empty, used paper cup.

Thankfully, my bed was greeted by a warm, strong voice, accompanied by a big smile. "I'm 'J,' your nurse; and I'm going to be taking care of you tonight. You're here because you need to be watched closely. Those clots can be dangerous. So we have to get rid of them as quickly as possible!" Her presence was assuring. She radiated care and comfort. This might sound trite, but is absolutely true. As soon as J crossed my plane of consciousness, I knew that the crazy ride was over -- for that moment. It was time to stop and recuperate sanity. I started to see the light at the end of the seemingly never-ending gray tunnel. I felt the ground beneath me. I could feel my heart beat again. Exhale......

J was compassionate without being overbearing; professional without being distant; and, most importantly, present. Her presence shored up my then-weak foundation. She was diligent, informative, assuring, and patient -- the quintessential care-giver. She took care of me for only two 8 hour shifts of the 2.5 days I was in the hospital, but the impact she made was quite significant. Particularly, I am really grateful for one short piece of advice she gave me. It became one of the helpful tools I used consistently during my bout with cancer.

One of the hardest things I had to do after I found out about the cancer was to relay this to my children. I was at a loss. What a daunting and heart-breaking prospect! It weighed heavier in my mind more than the cancer did. How do you tell your children that you are gravely ill? What an awful, awful thing to have to do! I wished more than anything that I could spare them, keep the cancer away from them. They're two young adults, with their whole lives in front of them. Cancer need not get in the way. I wondered if there was a way around this. There wasn't, of course! And I needed to tell them immediately. I was in a panic.

J, listened to my dilemma intently. Then, she offered the most perfectly brilliant solution: "Set the tone. Set the tone and they will follow." Wow! It was so simple and obvious -- and so true! How empowering were those 4 little words! Set the tone. Of course! How they would take the news would be up to me, largely. They're my kids and they will negotiate this difficulty based on the tone I set. I had to take the reins and not fall apart. If I needed to be surrounded by positivity and strength, I needed to demonstrate that. It had to start from me. What a great gift to have gotten from the Nurse! And for that I will eternally be grateful.

Nurses, I think are the unsung heroes of the business of curing folks. Their role is so substantial, yet (it seems to me) mostly unsung. If the doctors cure, then the nurses care. But that's even a gross oversimplification. Yes, doctors can come up with the course of treatment. But who is there with the patient, making sure that the course is executed properly? In my vast experience with health care professionals this past year, I can say with great conviction that without the nurses like J, I wouldn't have been able to do it. They were there to clarify, care, listen, and carry out the course of my treatment and provide the grounding and sanity needed to "stay the course."

So, J really is the the perfect example of all the nurses to whom I owe so much; from those who assisted me in the ERs to the other shift nurses at the hospital to the wonderful, wonderful oncology nurses who administered my chemo with so much care and compassion. Thanks for sanity and grounding over the past year.

I wouldn't be here without you.

And Then There Were Four

What I didn't mention in my previous post was how disorienting and frightening of an experience my second trip to the ER was. The first trip was certainly concerning. But I had my daughter with me, we were there in the middle of a slow ER night, and then and the doctor who mostly looked after me was the most amiable doctor I'd met in a long while. For an ER doctor, he never made you feel like he was always in a hurry to the next patient. He certainly put me at ease, even though I was there for 12 hours and there was the looming mystery of the blood clot in my left leg.

My second trip to the ER was the opposite. I was alone and panicked by my inability to breathe due to the excruciating pain on my side, and it was in the middle of the day.

As soon as I laid down in my bed, I was given a shot of morphine. Perhaps because of the lack of oxygen coming into my brain, I wasn't comfortable from the start. There was sense of ordered chaos permeating in the room. I could connect with no one, particularly because of the harried pace of a mid-day Emergency Room. I felt disembodied as I watched doctors and nurses fly by me to get to the next patient and the next patient and the next.

Certainly, this is not an affront to the ER at all because I know it is the nature of the Emergency Room -- particularly that of a busy, urban ER. Doctors and nurses were just doing their jobs. But, it still did not negate my feeling of isolation and panic. It was lonely and scary. Still and all I didn't want to call anyone to sit with me in the ER because it was the middle of the work day and I didn't want to bother anyone. As I was being poked and prodded, x-ray'ed, needled and wheeled from one test to another, I felt like a disoriented rag doll at everyone's mercy. But I held it together enough not to fall apart. Thank the good doctors and nurses for the morphine!

In this fuzzy, disorienting environment, I couldn't tell you what the ER doctor or nurse looked like or the many, many x-ray techs and MRI techs, phlebotomist, and hospital orderlies that took care of me looked like or sounded like--not if you put every one of them in a line-up for me to identify any of them. Everyone was a blur except for four people: the internist, one nurse, my surgeon, and the chaplain.

They will appear in the order that I met them.