Pain surrounded her every day. She saw it in their faces, heard it in their voices. Sometimes when she administered medications or wheeled them into a treatment room, she wished she could go somewhere else—anywhere but this place.
Many patients were wizened and confused from aging; their faces like the little apple dolls she saw at craft festivals. Others, the younger ones, were wasted from disease, their faces gaunt with skin drawn over their cheekbones.
She had to ignore their whimpering pleas, “Not again, nurse, please let me be.” At times like that she couldn’t talk, her voice would begin to break and quiver. She never said anything, knowing that tears would overcome her. She feared her tears. She imagined them flowing like a waterfall rushing over a steep cliff, carrying her away. Then she would no longer be capable of healing.
At one time she could force her feelings into the little box she had created in her mind. Even when her patients’ bodies seemed broken and drained of all humanity, she told herself that she was an angel of healing and that they would die without treatment.
Now there were nights when she couldn’t sleep, her patients’ suffering haunted her and kept her awake. On those nights she would rise from her rumpled bed and drink glass after glass of wine until their voices were stilled and the pain in her soul was muted.
Sometimes she took out old photo albums. Her favorites were the ones in which she smiled and seemed happy. In a few of them she had her arms around someone who had been part of her life then. Those days, those people and their names had faded from memory.
One early morning, as dawn lit the eastern sky with pink, lavender and blue, she wondered if ice water had replaced the warm blood in her veins. She examined her hands, half expecting her skin to be covered with a silvery frost. Yes, she was made of warm, soft flesh. She pinched herself. Yes, she felt pain. She traced the light blue veins on her arms that showed through her seemingly transparent skin. Yes, she was human—made of flesh and blood. Placing her hand on her chest, she felt her heart beat.
Tears welled in her eyes remembering the day when a patient with hands like claws had desperately begged, “Just let me die.” The nurse had gently pried the woman’s gnarled fingers off her sleeve and had given the old woman yet another injection. After a few minutes, the woman had fallen into a fitful sleep, and the nurse hoped it would be the last time she would have to push a needle into that withered arm.
Lately, it had become just about impossible for the nurse to ignore their pleading eyes, to loosen their desperate grip, to turn an un-hearing ear to their supplications.
As the nurse sat in the early morning listening to bird song, she was overcome with weariness.
The nurse knew the day was coming when she would have to leave the pain and suffering behind. She prayed that it all would become a memory; and she would have to force herself to recall their anguish.
Then she could be human again. And maybe, just maybe, she would smile. And she would let the sun warm her, and the ice water in her veins would thaw.
Painfully and uncomfortably true, beautifully written.
During the three years my mother spent in the nursing home, there were a lot of staff changes. You have captured the internal changes of someone who stayed a long time. I like the hope at the end.
A painful but insightful read. The medical system is set up to prolong life past the time when the patient wishes. I saw my mother’s suffering and the point when she said “I didn’t know it would be so hard to go. ”
She was ready and although I would have wanted to keep her longer, it was no longer in her best interest.
Beautifully expressed Kathy. I nothing but empathy for nurses (my younger sister is one) who have to deal with pain and sorrow every working day. I don’t know how they do it, but I do know their hearts are full of compassion, and they are angels on earth.
I learned from my Mom, 24 years ago, that she was very brave. When she was told she had pancreatic cancer with 3 months to live, she said “No thank you to treatment”. She died with dignity 8 months later, spending her precious time with her family. “Quality is more important than quanity”