The Missed Chance
“Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes. Because for those who love with their heart and soul, there is no such thing as separation.” -Rumni
I was still within my first year working as a nurse. I was trying hard to gain confidence as a new nurse. I’d often replay my shifts in my head on my days off, wondering how I could improve when I returned. “Leave work at work”, everyone encouraged. It seems like such a simple thing to do, right? Well, when you’re an oncology nurse, it’s nearly impossible.
I remember looking forward to my shifts when caring for you. As a new nurse, caring for anyone was still scary and intimidating, but caring for you was different. You and your family were so accepting of me. You were so kind, offering laughs to me throughout my 12-hour shifts. Sometimes I wondered how you and your family could be so kind, after your life was just flipped upside down. You provided such a warm welcome each time I entered your room. We exchanged stories about our lives, and I learned that you met your husband as a waitress, at the same restaurant he was a chef. We shared our love for Christmas. I remember needing engineering’s approval for all your Christmas décor. I didn’t mind coming to work when I cared for you, because caring for you felt so natural. I selfishly wanted to be your nurse every shift. Boy am I grateful for all the shifts I did get to spend with you.
I remember listening to the doctor explain to you what MDS, or myelodysplastic syndrome was as you received the diagnosis. As the doctor drew on the whiteboard in your room, I couldn’t take my eyes off your girls. I could see them trying so hard to maintain strong faces, but knew it took every muscle in their body to hold back the tears that were fighting to come pouring out. I barely held back my own tears, but told myself if your girls could stay strong, so could I. For such young girls, they were so mature. I wanted to get up and hug them both for you, tell them everything was going to be okay.
Although I was a new nurse, I knew well enough I couldn’t make such a promise to your girls, not when working in oncology.
Your girls’ strength mimicked that of yours. You took on this new and scary diagnosis with such optimism. After a few rounds of chemotherapy, you had achieved remission. That news made me so happy, but I knew you weren’t out of the woods just yet. Your WBC, or while blood cell counts took forever to recover. Your weakened immune system couldn’t provide you any defense, and as a result you developed severe inflammation of your mucosa, or mucositis. You remained strong and brave through it all, but I knew you were suffering. Your mucositis got so bad, you couldn’t talk for several days. The pain became unbearable. It hurt me to watch you suffer the way you did. I knew whatever pain I was feeling for you, your family was experiencing that x10. Your voice was so hoarse when you were just barely able to make out a few words. The first thing you managed to tell me was that you couldn’t take the pain anymore. I felt compelled to advocate for you, as your nurse. It was the least I could do for you.
The acuity of your illness was worsening, so you were moved to another room on the unit. It was best for you because you could receive better care there, but this meant I wouldn’t be your nurse anymore. Selfishly, I was upset. Nevertheless, when I had a moment during my shift, I’d pop in to remind you I was thinking of you. There was one shift I remember meaning to pop into your room, but the shift was so busy, and I never got the chance. I told myself I was back the next night, and that I’d make time then.
When I returned to work the following night, I received the news about your passing. It happened about an hour before I arrived at work for my shift. It turned out you coded in the evening. You had to be intubated on the floor, and then transferred to the ICU, where you passed shortly after. I learned that you had blood filling your lungs because of your low counts. I’m sure you felt like you were drowning in your own body. As if your death alone wasn’t devastating enough, I later learned that you passed away on your oldest daughter’s birthday. In that moment, I knew your daughter’s birthday would never be the same.
Everything in me crumbled. I wanted to burst into tears. I wanted to run out of the hospital. I wanted to punch something. I wanted answers. I had to fight back the tears as I tried to care for my patients that night. It didn’t seem right that I had to carry on with my shift when you had just passed. I wanted the world to stop and recognize what a beautiful soul it had just lost. But as nurses, we’re forced to move on quick. There’s no time to sob, or to grieve, until you get home after your 12hr+ shift. And if you’re working consecutive shifts, having a good cry could mean waiting several days. But remember to “leave work at work”, they always say. If only I had taken just five minutes out of my shift the night prior to say hello to you…I’m so sorry I didn’t.