Today, as I helped remove the IV of a patient who we just shocked into a life sustaining heart rhythm, he grabbed the hands of me and my fellow nurse, breaking into a sob-punctuated prayer of thanks for the care he received.
It made me weep a little, too, clandestinely. I think of all the ones I have saved. I think of the ones that I have not really wanted to save but did so anyway, my heart torn between the prospect of making them suffer and making them live. I think of other hands I have held, while they lay dying, alone. Maybe the 17 year old who jumped off a bridge, who didn't feel like he had any reason to live. Maybe the 29 year old who hung himself, whose distraught wife I comforted as she screamed after finding him, cold and blue and wet from self urination. Maybe the 5 year old, as I translate for a room full of red-lidded eyes who yearn for an answer that their baby will grow up. I think of myself, tortured by thousands of dreams in which I push on my own baby's chest while waiting for their eyes to remove their glaze.
I don't know always why I weep. But today, it was wonderful to have a patient pray for me. Too often, the caregiver's pain is forgotten. Too often, we forget it ourselves. Too often, we don't pray for each other.
No comments:
Post a Comment