Sister, Sister
I was three years into my nursing career. I thought that I had already witnessed the worst of the worst, but I was so wrong.
The pandemic added a whole another level of stress and fear to nurses. The hospital enforced strict visitor restrictions. During the time of your hospitalization, patients couldn’t have visitors unless they were CMO, or comfort measures only. Although I understood the reasoning, this was devastating news for oncology patients, who spend weeks to months at a time in the hospital. For an extended period, visits only occurred through phone screens or windows. Nurses really had to step it up during this time. We had to fill in for patients’ loved ones while they couldn’t be present at their bedside.
The weight on my shoulders began to feel heavier than ever. Patients had to receive new cancer diagnoses, be poked and prodded for numerous tests, find out their cancer had relapsed, all in the absence of their support systems. It was truly devastating.
I remember when you were first admitted to our unit. You had a bone marrow biopsy done and spent the entire weekend waiting for results to determine a treatment plan. You were quiet and kind and had a great sense of humor. I enjoyed being in your room because I was always laughing when I was in your room. This always helped me through my long days. Your looks and your personality reminded me so much of my aunt, which created an immediate connection between you and I. You used to call me Nurse Jackie because you had seen the show on Netflix. When you found out your nurse’s name was Jackie, you picked up your phone, called your sister, and told her you met Nurse Jackie. It gave us a good laugh and became an inside joke from there on out.
There was only a month between your new cancer diagnosis and your death. You became so sick so fast. Your compromised immune system couldn’t fight the infection in your lungs, even with the help of antibiotics. You weren’t a candidate for treatment because you were so sick. Unfortunately, your weak lungs put you into respiratory failure. Your organs were starving without adequate oxygen. You became confused and agitated; everything you weren’t. There were no more jokes or laughs. I’ll never forget the doctor trying to explain how sick you were to your sister over the phone when we needed to discuss your code status. I cannot imagine how hard it was for your sister to try to understand how sick you were without being able to see you in person. I understand the bond between sisters, and my heart broke for yours.
I knew your sister was going to lose you, and I knew she was going to be lost without you- her baby sister. When you transitioned to CMO, or comfort measures only, I gave you all that I could to keep you comfortable. I tried to maintain your integrity as best I could. Your family could finally join you at your bedside at this point. Your sister had a hard time stepping into your room the first time she came to see you. I could see her pacing before your doorway. We walked in together. When she saw you, she dropped at your bedside reaching for your hands. She sat there for hours crying, holding onto what was left of her sister. Because you reminded me so much of my aunt, this hit me hard. I wanted so bad to be able to do something. As a nurse, you’re supposed to offer comfort and hope, but I already knew how this was going to end. I had a feeling I wouldn’t see you again when I left that night. It was only a few hours after I left my shift that night that I was informed of your passing. I’m forever sorry that you had to go through that horrific month without your loved ones by your side.
Your family was just as kind as you were. I joined them at your Celebration of Life following your passing. It was truly a perfect celebration for you. I always get nervous going to services for my patients. I go in already knowing there’s nothing I can do or say to take away the pain the family is experiencing. Sometimes I get fearful that someone is going to see me and choose me to blame for their loved one’s passing. I wait for someone to come up to me screaming in anger, but it never happens. The families of all the patients I’ve attended services for offer nothing but gratitude, and for whatever reason, this makes me feel even more guilty.