To Be a Nurse
On my first day of volunteering at Massachusetts General Hospital, I studied my pocket-sized MGH map until it melded into my mind for good, nervous about all sorts of worst-case scenarios. What if I got lost and couldn’t get a patient to their appointment in time? What if I forgot the wheelchair brake and they went surging forward when I turned my back into a brick wall? None of these things happened, thankfully. I spent around an hour shadowing another volunteer before venturing off on my first solo task. She informed me that they don’t usually let new volunteers handle cases in the cancer center while they are still getting a hang of it, because the same social ‘small talk’ doesn’t always apply. “You got to meet them where they are at” she vaguely explained, “it’s best to not say anything right away, just feel the situation out. Sometimes even asking ‘how are you’ can be too much on a bad day.” I understood; the contrast of lighthearted conversation within such serious circumstances could be helpful to some and triggering for others. Her remark was sobering, and surprisingly alleviated my racing thoughts. By focusing on why and where the patient was going and how best to serve their needs, my inner monologue held its tongue.
I found Gloria (name changed for privacy sake) wrapped in blankets, head bent and eyes closed near the emergency room exit. She had been in this morning for persistent pain and dizziness, a side effect of her medication. She was given yet another medication to counteract these symptoms, but more discomfort was inevitable for her that day, as her body was about to be pumped with poison. Yet when she opened her eyes they were bright, big, and warm, a demeanor that defied her physical state.
We careened down Yawkey corridor, the creek of leather creasing filling a comfortable silence between us. Empathy was no substitute for lived experience, but I didn’t know how it could surge so strongly towards a complete stranger. She had boundaries my compassion and well-meant curiosity could ignorantly overstep, so I stayed cautious, wanting to break the silence on her terms. I focused on pushing her forward at an even pace - not too fast or too slow - gingerly maneuvering every turn as smooth as I could. Rolling her wheelchair back into the elevator, I turned my head from side to side in paranoia, double checking that I had the margins just right. It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of the experienced nurses stuffed in like sardines with us; it was a way to express my respect. Nor did I see her as fragile, in need of overbearing pity and paternalism. She was overflowing with resilience; there wasn’t much others could give that she hadn’t already equipped herself with. My own courage reserves were child’s play compared to hers. What I could do in that moment was push her wheelchair with as much thought and care as possible, so goddammit, I was going to give it my all.
“I’m so tired my dear, so weak. So, so tired today.” She jerked her head slightly back towards me as she spoke, soft and low.
“I’m here for you. All I know for certain is that you have been through so much, and that takes an immeasurable amount of strength.” Consolations encountered so often sound obligatory, scripted, an empty transaction of words. Naively, I hoped she could sense my sincerity and truth. When life is slipping faster and faster from our fingertips, what can we cling to for certain? Our sense of self worth. Empathy becomes degrading unless accompanied by respect. How could I convey this to her, in such a brief time we had together? Thoughtfulness, precision, kindness.
She reached back and placed a hand over my knuckles, jarringly cold but her eyes warm.
“Lee-lah, I’ve no family with me to bear this out. I thank you so much for your kindness.” She drew in a shaky breath, every muscle in her diaphragm orchestrating the movement.
In the waiting room, I was prepared to cower over her wheelchair and reiterate her appointment details to the receptionist, but stopped myself. She was cogent, eyes alert, scanning the room. Instead, I wheeled her as close to the desk as possible, letting the receptionist lean forward as she softly gave her name. Illness could destroy all but the most important thing: her dignity. Lying in a hospital bed, we surrender ourselves to strangers for sometimes even the most basic functions. A sense of inadequacy, weakness, and shame can easily ravage us. At the very least, she could declare herself, affirm that she was living in this moment.
“May I hold your hand, dear?” I placed my palm in her outstretched, shaky one. The doorknob churned, she winced. I could sense the trauma she had towards the sound of papers shuffling, low voices deliberating behind closed doors, a sharp creek before a nurse materialized in the doorway. Then she relaxed, as if the anticipation of it all frightened her most.
“Guardian angel,” she whispered as the nurse wheeled her away, eyes crinkled. I sat for a moment in utter silence, wondering why she felt I deserved that. I think human connection sustains us when we are hurting too much to self-soothe. Short-lived interactions are not necessarily superficial, especially in healthcare.
Most of us envision cancer patients in a room adorned with get well cards, swarms of family members holding their hands, giving them the courage to face hell. Or a stroke survivor coming to with his or her spouse at the bedside, blurting out “I love you” on instinct when their eyes flutter open.
This is an idealized reality that only exists in Grey's Anatomy.
In reality, our hardest moments are likely endured while a scrubbed-in stranger writes their name in dry-erase marker before our beside. I know this because I've been there before, like so many of us. We appreciate their patience and help, but wish we didn’t need it. It is a form of love we didn’t ask for, but find ourselves receiving nonetheless. In a way, it triumphs over familial and romantic love because our entire life may depend on it.
It would be incredibly easy to find another profession that is less emotionally and physically demanding; I want to be a nurse because of these demands, not in spite of them.
