transition
I started clinicals at the convalescent home this week, and I landed in the middle of it. "It."
I was put on the hospice wing. A woman was just checked in with Stage 5 cancer. Age 54. She has a daughter, younger than me, who is there night and day. She keeps coming into the hallway and laying the side of her head against the wall, staring at nothing. There's nothing she wants, nothing I can do. Her mother is dying.
Her mother is really and truly my responsibility now, at least for the 6 hours I am there every day. The doctors are gone. The R.N. only need look in once or twice a shift. I do what's left to be done. I reposition her mother every two hours, bathe her, change her linens, keep up with her catheters and hydration. It's hard for the daughter to watch me do these things for her mother, who was strong and competent and raised her on her own. The daughter sees me coming and she cries.
I don't know how to be. I can't be Nurse Sunshine, who the hell wants that, and I can't cry, because that's not fair to them. I try to be gentle and strong and accessible. I try to be competent and sympathetic. I don't know if any of that is working. I know after this is over, the daughter will never want to see my face again.
It doesn't feel right to keep intruding on the daughter, who is sick and sad and miles away, to offer help. I try to catch her gaze and hold it, to open the way for her to speak if she wants to. She does, she has. Her mother can't speak any more. Her mother's name is Sherry.
That first day, I cried on the way home. In fact I wailed. Then I called my mother, who understood. Then I called Skott, who met me for late-night pho and a long silent embrace on the sidewalk in the rain. Then I found I could go home and sleep.
I was put on the hospice wing. A woman was just checked in with Stage 5 cancer. Age 54. She has a daughter, younger than me, who is there night and day. She keeps coming into the hallway and laying the side of her head against the wall, staring at nothing. There's nothing she wants, nothing I can do. Her mother is dying.
Her mother is really and truly my responsibility now, at least for the 6 hours I am there every day. The doctors are gone. The R.N. only need look in once or twice a shift. I do what's left to be done. I reposition her mother every two hours, bathe her, change her linens, keep up with her catheters and hydration. It's hard for the daughter to watch me do these things for her mother, who was strong and competent and raised her on her own. The daughter sees me coming and she cries.
I don't know how to be. I can't be Nurse Sunshine, who the hell wants that, and I can't cry, because that's not fair to them. I try to be gentle and strong and accessible. I try to be competent and sympathetic. I don't know if any of that is working. I know after this is over, the daughter will never want to see my face again.
It doesn't feel right to keep intruding on the daughter, who is sick and sad and miles away, to offer help. I try to catch her gaze and hold it, to open the way for her to speak if she wants to. She does, she has. Her mother can't speak any more. Her mother's name is Sherry.
That first day, I cried on the way home. In fact I wailed. Then I called my mother, who understood. Then I called Skott, who met me for late-night pho and a long silent embrace on the sidewalk in the rain. Then I found I could go home and sleep.
Hey - beautiful post, and what a dilemma. Sounds like you are meeting it with every resource at your command - good luck!
Posted by
postacademic |
4:43 PM
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