Working in the Neurological Rehabiliation Unit (Neuro-Rehab) is an experience that can’t quite be put into words. It’s fast-paced, intense, and the stress of some situations can even occasionally make my own heart rate go up as high as one of our traumatic brain injury patients.
Some people love me. I was just given a certificate for one year of service. A week later I started my second semester of nursing school. I can promise you that you do not want to be a patient in my unit. If you are then that means you’re really sick. But I can also promise you that if you end up here you will get stellar care by a team of the best health care providers available.
Often times I may act a little wacky though. I may seem rude at times. Maybe my patients catch me acting totally inappropriate for the situation at hand. Maybe they've even thought, “how can you act that way with all this going on with my family member?”
Well, I have my reasons. Following is a letter to the families of Rehab patients everywhere.
Dear Disenchanted Family Member of My Rehab Patient,
So you walked in to me singing a song out loud as I hung that tube feeding, huh? You were a little bewildered, and thought, “Is that from the Sound of Music? Why is she so inappropriately jolly considering my dad has a tube down his nose?!”
First off, it is the Sound of Music. After all, these are a few of my favorite things.
I’m not singing for my own satisfaction. What you don’t realize is I’m singing to calm my nerves, to keep myself relaxed. Your dad almost died before he came here. I’m concerned for him, but I don’t want you to see that on my face. I don’t want you to worry about him. That’s my job. I just want you to love him.
I know you just heard us laughing and cracking a joke in the hall. I get it. You don’t see anything funny with your mom being paralyzed in that bed, attached to all those monitors.
I understand. I do. I hope you can understand that while you were home sleeping unaware I watched the young mother next door go home on hospice. She couldn’t fight the cancer anymore. Now she can die at home peacefully with her family. At 34 she didn’t think she'd run out of time…doctors tried. I begged God, but she went anyway. I heard her son say, "But Mommy who's going to cook dinner for me every night?" and she let him cry in her hair for twenty minutes.
There also was a code blue. My coworkers restarted the heart of the man across the hall. They did CPR on him so many times, and actually broke his ribs. Just when they were afraid it wouldn’t restart, it did.
Some times I have to laugh. It’s the only thing I can do. I know when I cry, it's so hard to be able to stop.
I’m really sorry if I seemed short with you when you came in to visit. I know you thought I was being rude, and I know that once outside again you complained about me, saying “she must have wanted a break instead of taking time to talk to me!”
No. I won’t get a break today. I wasn’t trying to be rude. I was focused on the change I just noticed on your dad’s pulse ox. I was wondering what I would try when I have my license, when his blood pressure plummets again. You see, the RN is giving the maximum amount of all those drugs you see hanging. I know you’re not ready to say goodbye. I’m not ready to give up. That distracts me sometimes and makes me a less than perfect conversationalist.
I want you to know that when I see your grandma in this condition I feel your pain. I think of my own grandma who passed away after her own aneurism. When their conditions mirror each other, so similar in presentation, it’s like peeling the scab off my grief. I don’t let you see that, but I choke back my own tears while you cry.
Oh dear mom, as you try to maintain your composure while your child remains paralyzed, I have to fight to keep from sobbing all over your shirt while I hug you. Your situation is a very real confrontation of the frailty of our children. I don’t like it as a mother. I will sweat blood to fight for your son's comfort, no matter the age. I know it could be mine just as easy.
My kind sir, as you cry over your injured spouse, I’m sorry that I have to walk away. I’m sorry I can’t be stronger for you. For a moment I place myself in your shoes. I imagine my loved one laying there, and I grieve with you. Then I get back on the gloves and I change the brief on your bride. I just wanted you to know that.
My singing, dancing, laughing behavior might make you think I’m indifferent. Or my distraction and firmly set expression might make you think I don’t care.
But I do.
What you don’t see is when I pull into my driveway at the end of the night after my long shift has ended. Often times I put my car into park and I cry. All the stress of fighting for them, all the grief pushed away, all the emotions finally have time and catch up to me. I don’t sing or laugh. I bawl.
Then I wipe my eyes and go inside. I hug my boys a little tighter. Then I go to bed early so I can come back in the morning and fight another day.
I just wanted you to know.
Sincerely,
Your Rehab Tech aka Nursing Student
