Ready. Set. Go.

If someone knocked on my door right now and told me I could never be a nurse again, that from then on I was an accountant, a publicist… something else; it would break my heart. Yes, I complain, we all complain. I cleaned up excrement 5 times last night between my patients and helping other nurses, that’s a lot of ass wiping. It is hard work mentally, physically and emotionally. A million different things hinder us, from disease processes to mother effing HCAHPS surveys. I’m sorry I cannot give you enough pain medicine to take that headache away, the required dose would sedate you and we need you awake to catch it, if your stroke worsens. I know you want to be home and you hate the lights and noise of the hospital. I get it. I’ll fight for you to the doctors, and when they don’t listen, I’ll find a loophole. I’ll give you an extra dose of that nausea medicine when you’re throwing up; it’s safe, so screw the order. I’ll bend the rules and allow 3 visitors, instead of 2, because that is the first time you’ve smiled all day. There are things I can change, ways I can care for you physically and emotionally, so I’ll choose my battles. Sometimes caring for a patient is as natural as caring for my own mother. Maybe it’s the way her eyes seek mine for reassurance, or maybe it’s the silly way my toothless 93 year old patient grins, but for them I would rope the moon. Knowing I’ll likely never see them again breaks my heart and shows me it’s possible to love someone in just a few hours. To the patients we cannot save, I’ll remember you. Your face will flash across my mind months later. I’ll pray for your family. I might look up your obituary, it never mentions your illness, and I know being sick was not always your life. Other times I berate myself because I cannot connect with my patients. It’s not her fault her dementia controls her mind, making her swing at me whenever I approach. It’s not his fault he’s hurting and just wants to sleep. But the screaming, hitting, whining and demanding are making me insane. I’ll drive home crying after those shifts, wondering if I failed them on some level, if my complete lack of empathy was obvious. Oftentimes I hear nurses say, “it’s just a job.” I disagree. It’s not “just a job” when you’re the first voice someone hears as they come out of a coma. It’s not “just a job” as you hand new parents who have tried for so long their screaming baby. It’s not just a job as you hold the new widow with everything you have. Nursing is encompassing. It is self-sacrificing; it is denying yourself and your basic hierarchy of needs to achieve your patient’s needs. It is standing for 12 hours without peeing or eating. It is saying these words to a patient, “You’re okay; you’re in the hospital. You had a stroke; the tube is helping you breathe. We’re going to take care of you.” It is good and it is bad. It is digging through a bag of possession and finding your new admission’s phone so you can wake his family at 2 am to tell them he’s in the ICU. It is holding your anxious patient’s hand all night while mentally cursing the doctor for not writing the fucking ativan order, but smiling at her gratitude as you tell her bye in the morning. It is telling your fellow nurse she did the right thing as she tearfully asks, “Am I an idiot?” It is who we are, not “just a job.”