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| Just another day at work..... |
Found this blog post and thought it was worth posting. I
love my job but sometimes it’s difficult to describe how my day was. So here’s
a little insight as to what it may have been like. I shared this article on facebook and just had to share it here too. This is so perfectly written and explains all the craziness that we Ped's nurses deal with each day.
I wish that when asked how my day was, I knew how to give a
truthful answer. I wish I could really express what a shift is like, and know I
would be understood.
If I really answered truthfully, I might start off with how
many times I saw a child smile. I might tell you about the tears I wiped. I
could tell stories about the kids I made laugh. I could tell you about the kids
I made cry.
I might tell you about the parents I consoled, reassured,
encouraged.
I might tell you about the family that thanked me, and the
family that pushed me away.
I might tell you how many times I grew frustrated. Or how
many times I felt annoyed. I might tell you about how many times I thought my headache
couldn’t get any worse.
I might tell you how I taught a new nurse, and how I learned
from an old colleague.
Maybe I would tell you about the stickers I stuck, the pages
I coloured, and the teddy bears I tucked into bed.
I could tell you about the call bells that rang; the IV
pumps that beeped; the monitors that alarmed.
I could tell you all about the blood product reactions, the
worrisome fluid balances, or the child who was fine, and then suddenly, wasn’t.
I could tell you how many gloves I put on, basins I emptied,
and faces I wiped.
I could tell you about the tricks I use to sneak in an
assessment on a three-year-old; the games we play so they will take their meds;
and how in order to auscultate a five-year-old’s chest, I have to pretend I’m
listening for monsters.
If I were to tell you what my day was like, I might tell you
that my hands will always feel sticky from hand sanitizer, and no matter how
much I wash, “that smell” won’t seem to go away.
I could tell you how funny it is to hear a two-year-old say
“stethoscope,” and how heart breaking it is to hear a child whisper, “I just
want to go home.”
I might tell you that today I heard a child’s first word. Or
saw his first steps. Or watched a premie finish her first whole bottle. I might
tell you about the father who fed her, who took this small victory as a sign of
hope.
I might tell you how the bravest person I know is an
eight-year-old. Or the happiest person I know is a two-year-old with a medical
history as old as she is.
I might tell you about a moment of joy, shared with a family,
a patient, a colleague.
I might tell you how many times I felt my heart break.
I can tell you about the steps I walked; the hands I held;
the songs I sang to put them to sleep.
If I could really talk about how my day was, I might tell
you about the decisions I made. The priorities I set. Or about my “nurse’s
intuition” that told me when I should start being concerned.
I could tell you about the orders I questioned. The orders I
should have questioned. The split second decision I made. The carefully
calculated words I chose.
I could tell you how I fought for my patient. I could tell
you how my patient fought me.
I could talk about how I taught a parent to be the nurse to
their child that they never wanted to have to be.
I could tell you how that parent taught me about hope.
I could tell you about the moments of panic. The moments of
empowered confidence. How smoothly our team functioned. How resourceful we can
be.
I’d want to tell you about the breaths we gave; the lives we
saved; the lives we couldn’t save.
I might share with you those moments when I just didn’t know
what to say. Or the times I realized there was nothing I could say.
I could tell you how often we see a child and family
suffering and think that maybe enough is enough. I could tell you about all the
times we think that everything will never be enough. I would struggle to tell you how hard it is
to say goodbye; I’d have a harder time telling you how sometimes saying goodbye
can be a relief.
I might tell you how many times I thought, “This isn’t
easy.”
I could tell you about the times I feared that when I decide
to have children, that they might not be healthy. I could tell you about how
every time I have that thought, I wonder how my husband and I would cope –
would we be like the families I meet here every day? How would we make it
through?
I could tell you how hard it is to be a pediatric nurse. I
could tell you how rewarding it is. I could tell you how I know I probably
won’t spend my career at the bedside, but how much I know I’ll miss the bedside
when I finally walk away.
I could talk about these things, if I thought I might be
understood. Instead, I’ll say, “It was good,” with a smile; “I’m tired,” with a
yawn.
At the end of the day, being a nurse is one of the hardest
things I’ve ever chosen to do. It challenges me. It inspires me. It exhausts me.
It empowers me. I love it.
So it may sound cliché, but when I’m tired and worn, I try
to remember these things. And I try to gather the strength and bravery of that
eight-year-old, and the happiness of that two-year-old; and maybe next time,
when someone asks, “How was your day?” – I’ll smile, and yawn, and say, “It
was… Indescribable.”
by Jaqueline Hanley (RN)
There is not much I could add to this article. When I read it to Brian he said "I've heard you so all of those things." I have met the most amazing people (coworkers and families) working as a pediatric nurse. I am blessed to have the chance to be in this field and work with so many truly wonderful people. I have to remind my self this when I'm whining about working 12 hour shifts, the weekend or night shifts. Some day I'll get to work in a office (maybe) and have "normal hours" but for now I'll try to reflect on each day and take them as they are.
Shanna Rapp, RN
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