Dear Sir or Madam,
I’m writing you this little correspondence in regards to that sticky situation that occurs when you walk onto my unit before I am aware. In that instance when I am sprawled out in a rolling chair with the back reclined, a Diet Coke in hand you will walk unexpectedly around the corner. You will see me laughing, and perhaps almost be infected yourself by my jovial chuckle. But in this particular moment you will be quite certain that I am in fact doing nothing. You will assume that I am performing the carnal sin of nursing by not actually doing a thing.
Well, I must be honest with you. At the moment, the truth is… I am doing nothing. You will have caught me red-handed doing zilch.
In that moment of discovery of my apparent boredom you will be inspired to find me something with which to occupy my mind. But before you do I thought I would explain the part you do not see.
Here’s the rest of the story.
What you may not know is what transpired over the past eight hours prior to my eventual sit down. I’m honestly surprised I can even muster the strength to sip my caffeinated beverage after the misery three quarters of my shift has presented.
When you see me sitting at the nurse’s station you will not know that I have been fighting all day. Not fighting with my coworkers, as they are the best sweet assistance I have in times of trouble. No, I’ve been fighting for life.
I’ve been fighting to keep a confused patient experiencing DTs from climbing out of the bed. I’ve been fighting to secure her airway, and fighting to maintain her heart rate and blood pressure to numbers more compatible with life.
I’ve been fighting to maintain my composure for my patient’s family as I explain in moments of serious stress what are the best options for their mom right now. I’ve been fighting not to cry as I hold an emotional daughter. I know that I can cry later, but certainly not when life-saving interventions are my top priority. After all, I’m fighting to keep mom around.
I’ve been fighting my own emotions as the continued stress of hour after hour of chaos mixed with nursing skills are performed over and over, and over. I fight the urge to not breakdown as more and more is demanded of me to keep my patient at the level of care she needs to be, and the worry over if I’m doing everything right tries to crush me.
What if I make a mistake in all this rush? Indeed I’ve been fighting time. There just doesn’t seem to be enough of it despite the realistic length of twelve hours.
I’ve been fighting the urge to walk away at my most frazzled moment, but I think we both know I could never do that. There’s no way I could leave my patient in their hour of need. Or anytime for that matter.
So what you cannot see when you see me laughing is that I’m doing that so I will not cry. I’m doing that to combat the emotional and physical unraveling of the past eight hours so that I will not completely fade away. My spontaneous joy is battling against fatigue, burnout, and stress. I’m fighting to keep my love for my job. Because honestly, some days you really have to fight.
But I understand that you may not see that. You will see me sitting, and that is all you’ll see. You will be unable to fathom how my day has gone thus far, and in your understandable blindness to my frayed nerves you will be unable to allow me that moment of much needed rest. Instead you will feel obligated to keep me busy.
So while I understand chart audits, follow up phone calls, and tidying the unit are important tasks I will ask that this one time you just let it slide. After all, though I look relaxed for the moment we both know that it’s only the calm before the next storm.
Please allow me that brief time on dry land before I am thrown back into the raging sea.
Sincerely,
Your Exhausted Nurse
