To Hell with Politics, and Happy Nurses Day!

It was a long day at work. Thirteen hours later, my apartment remained just as I’d left it. I placed my empty water bottle and coffee cup on the table and sat down for a moment. A quick scroll through my emails and social media quickly overwhelmed me with news and opinions about the new healthcare bill. Pros, cons, and mostly anger. 

I searched for an unbiased report and skimmed a couple articles. So many opinions. So many numbers. So much money. So much talk.

Votes. Parties. Critics. Supporters. Right. Wrong. Pushing. Blocking. Winning, but someone always losing.

It made my head swirl. As I read, I thought of different people I knew who would be affected—and how they would be affected. I thought of friends and family and patients. There was no perfect win-win situation.

“To hell with politics!” I finally said aloud as I tossed my phone down and stood up to head for the shower. 

When I walked into the bathroom, the sight in the mirror made me smile and then shake my head. My hair was flying in a hundred directions due to repeatedly donning isolation gowns and an N95, a special mask for airborne diseases. I was a mess!

As I pulled my hair out of a ponytail, I thought again of all the politics surrounding healthcare. I looked again at my reflection in the mirror. I was a mess, but it didn’t matter. I care about healthcare laws, but I care more about people. Isn’t this where my mind had naturally wandered when I read these articles, to real live people and how they would fare with these changes?

Today is National Nurses Day. This is what nurses are about: people.

Adobe stock photo

We care about people. We care about people with no insurance and people with insurance, people receiving Medicaid or Medicare and people paying out of pocket. We care about people who are black, white, green, and blue. We care about people who are Democrats and Republicans and everything in between. We care about people who are born in our country and those who came here later in life. We care about people when they take their first breath and when they take their last. Short, tall, heavy, light; two legs, one leg, no legs, five legs! We care about people.

Because we care about people, we care for people when they are sick. This is what sets nurses apart.

In order to care for people, we set our differences aside and form a team (a family, really) that will do whatever it takes to help people recover: dress wounds, give medications, wipe bottoms, start IVs, perform CPR, call doctors, answer phones, and so much more.

Certainly, we have strong political beliefs and opinions, and we know money is a factor. But if we were called today and told, “A disaster has struck and you will not be paid, but people are dying,” our hospitals would be overflowing with help. With nurses. 

As nurses, we care about you! Truly, nursing is an amazing profession. Each nurse makes dozens of sacrifices each shift to care for our patients and for each other. It's quite normal to sacrifice our comfort, our lunch (half) hour, holidays with family, and even our bladders' urges to pee. We do not do what we do for attention or applause (we often encounter more poop than thank-you’s), but we do appreciate knowing others care about us, too! 

To all my nursing friends, thank you. You are brilliant, humble humans. Even though I hope I never have to care for you in the hospital, I care about you!

This National Nurses Week (May 6-12), we invite you to celebrate nurses with us! Take time to thank a nurse or tell them how much you appreciate what they do.

However, regardless of whether or not you appreciate a nurse this week, we still care about you. We will still care for you. It’s who we are as nurses. It’s what we’re about.

Happy National Nurses Day & Nurses Week, friends!

When Failure is a Guarantee

As many of you may know, I am currently in shift toward copyediting and writing as a career and away from nursing (see Why I Quit Full Time Nursing). The transition into the writing world has taken place over the past few weeks, and though I mainly feel peace and excitement about the change, I'd be lying if I told you I'm not nervous.

I am. I'm nervous, and I'm worried, and sometimes I'm overwhelmed.

Adobe stock photo

Yesterday as I drove down the road under the cloudy Texas sky, I thought about my fear of rejection. Over the past few days I've submitted freelance articles and queries to various websites, with the knowledge I will eventually either be rejected or accepted. At one point in life (okay, for most of my life), the possibility of rejection would have prevented me from trying at all. My fear of failure and the belief I had to be the best simply wouldn't allow for such a huge, unnecessary risk. For all those years, failure was not an option.

As I slowed my car down for a red light yesterday, I suddenly realized that still, failure is not an option.

Failure is a guarantee.

Over the years, I've read accounts by writers and bloggers about the rejection letters they received from editors, publishers, magazines, and websites. They described heartbreak and frustration and anger and discouragement, and they also described perseverance and perspective.

As I submit my articles, I know my work will be rejected sometimes (probably more often than not in these beginning stages). It's inevitable. Yet I am learning to maintain my sense of self-worth and identity so I can move past it. I know who I am, and I know my work is not a reflection of my value.

Still, it is disheartening to know failure is a guarantee—and about the only one I could think of that comes with writing. That, and a low budget.

All afternoon, I pondered the change within me from being terrified of failure to accepting it as a part of life. Later that evening during a time of worship with my church small group, I had another realization, just as sudden as the one about failure. I knew in that moment I had to lay down my editing career and writing dreams at Jesus' feet, and I had to leave them there. For the first time in my life, I found how easy it is to become a workaholic (now that "work" was something I loved). I had to invite Jesus into every word I wrote and every article I completed. If I did these things, I knew:

Success was not an option either. It was a guarantee.

Success is living and breathing in the presence of Jesus, holding onto the hem of His robe and offering my talents and gifts at His feet. It is using my work to glorify Him, yes, but more than that it is a continuous, desperate, building desire for more of Him. With this unquenchable thirst for more of Jesus, with Christ as my whole world, there could only be success. There already was success. Perhaps success isn't something attained or accomplished but something as fluid and active as recognizing the presence of God.

Moving and breathing and talking in His presence is success. I have success in my lungs as I breathe and type now because I am breathing and typing with Jesus. Success will never be a thing that can slip from my hands because success is knowing Jesus, and His Spirit lives within me. And if ever I become desperate to grab hold of success again, I have only to remember:

Turn to Jesus, for not just success but life is found in Him.

Lessons from the Bedside: Constipation, Oversharing, and Mental Health

No, not oversharing about constipation. As a nurse, is there ever oversharing about bowel movement woes? There's nothing like the feeling after a really good, healthy poop.

Several months ago, I was talking on the phone to a friend from nursing school and was explaining how it's been a long journey learning to process things with others instead of holing them up inside me like a squirrel hoarding nuts for the winter. 

"Sometimes," I told my friend, "I forget to process things and go back to shoving them deep inside and trying to forget about them. It's so unnatural for me to talk about everything and process it. Every time I go to counseling, I have to relearn to open up. The longer I go without consciously processing things, the harder it is to start again."

My friend graciously agreed, and then the perfect analogy popped into my head.

"It's like I get emotionally and mentally constipated," I decided. "And sometimes it gets so bad it's impacted, and I need an enema to get things going again..."

Too cute. I couldn't resist. (Stock photo from Adobe)

Thank God for nursing friends who, rather than being grossed out, laugh richly and loudly at these kinds of things. In fact, I'm pretty sure she even said she was a big fan of the analogy. Nursing friends. They are wonderful.

Like bowel movements, everything in life flows a little easier when we regularly practice owning and processing emotions, events, and struggles in life. The longer we push the need aside, the tougher it is to begin. When I was a child, I spoke so few words I could remember everything I said to everyone and when I said it. Naturally, I figured everyone else was the same way and wondered why some people would tell me the same stories over and over again. I genuinely believed they were intentionally telling me the story for the fifth time because they thought I needed to hear it five times. I didn't realize until much later it was possible to talk so much you actually forgot what you said and to whom you said it! Though I have since conformed and routinely have more conversations than I can recall, it's still not my natural bent to process life out loud. It's taken a long, long time to develop this habit that's so easy for other.

Of note, conversely, some face the challenge of oversharing and lacking boundaries (the opposite of constipation would be "the runs"). This, as you can imagine, can get really messy, really fast. The nurses who are reading this know what I'm talking about. Sometimes we walk into rooms and have to wonder: "How in the world did they get stool in that spot??"

Sometimes, life gets a little crazy and our ability to process life gets put on hold. Traumas or deaths or major life events alter our habits, and in those times all we can do is lean on each other. We turn to each other the best we can, give supportive care, and clean up the messes as they come. From my own experience, I know we often feel ashamed and judged for our involuntary reactions when life overwhelms us. There was a season after returning from working in a Cambodian hospital I broke down every few hours and breaks between classes were spent in the nursing building's chapel crying. I was embarrassed, but I didn't have to be. Sometimes we lose control. It's temporary, and it's okay.

Unlike bowel movements, learning to share appropriately—enough, regularly, and with boundaries—is a trial and error process. It's one I'm constantly challenged by and one I think we will all continually be adjusting and tweaking throughout our lifetimes.

So I'll keep trying and tweaking. A little daily stool softener like Colace may resemble a phone call to my best friend or a journal entry spilling my thoughts. A little laxative like lactulose or milk of magnesia may take the form of a therapy session. A little antidiarrheal like Imodium may look like the restraint not to tell that person my deepest fears or post a blog about a wound that hasn't yet healed.

The analogies could keep going and going, but the main point is this: we all get a little constipated or have diarrhea mentally and emotionally, and this is okay. Health is the goal, because we all know it's true:

There's nothing like the feeling after a really good, healthy poop.

Lessons from the Bedside: Life After [a Patient's] Death

Recently I took care of a patient who died.

The patient went quickly and without pain, but for some reason the death shook me more than usual. The next day, I found out a different patient had decided to go hospice. At home in my bed, I cried as I thought about how I'd gotten to know these dear people, and how their lives had or were coming to an end. Not in a painful or sudden or traumatic way, but coming to an end nonetheless.

Admittedly, lately I've been working extra shifts at the hospital and have been slightly overwhelmed by nursing in general, and maybe that's why these deaths seemed to affect me more than usual. Saddened by the loss of life, I sat in my bed begging my body to fall asleep while tears slid down my face. Sickness, sickness, death, sickness. Though I love my patients dearly, I was worn out.

Stock photo from Adobe

All I wanted was to help people succeed. It's what gives me the most fulfillment and satisfaction in life. In high school, I played competitive soccer. I only scored once the entire time I played, and the one time was sort of a fluke! I didn't care, though. My favorite position was center mid-field, where I could receive the ball from our defense, take it up field, and set up a scoring opportunity for our forwards. I may have scored only one goal myself, but I couldn't keep track of my assists. When I could create space on the field and send the perfect pass—just the right position, speed, and timing—for a goal, I was just as thrilled as if I had scored myself. Their success was my success. Nothing brought me more joy.

These setups for success were the kind of work I wanted to do every day, and working in a hospital, staring sickness and death in the eye every day, felt like just the opposite.

These thoughts swirled in my brain the next day as I drove around town after dropping by the hospital to say goodbye to our now-hospice patient. I cried in the car, and I told God I was sad, and I questioned what role I had as a nurse in helping others succeed.

In the car at a stoplight, tears slipping down my face, I wondered. I wondered if I had a limited view of success. I wondered if to the patient and to God, success didn't mean staying on this earth. I wondered if it meant them crossing over into eternity and feeling His embrace. I wondered if being one of the last faces someone sees, one of the last hands they hold, one of the last voices to say a prayer for them on this earth—I wondered if this was helping them succeed in moving to the next place they were meant to be, the place we were really all made to be: the presence of the Most High God.

This realization crushed me. I wept like a baby at that stoplight, and I can't help but cry a little now as I remember that sweet moment. We can only see part of the soccer field, and perhaps sitting with someone at the end of life is akin to assisting them with the most epic goal of their existence, the moment they see God face to face.

To be frank, though this perspective helps me process the experiences of this week, it doesn't make death any easier. It doesn't mean I won't cry the next time I have a patient who dies or who make the difficult decision to go hospice. It's easy for others to remind me it's special and important work to care for people in their last months, days, and moments, just like it's easy for others to tell me my work as a bedside nurse is honorable and impactful. Speaking or hearing these words is not the same as living out the moments at the bedside. People like to say nursing is a calling, but even if it is a calling for some, it's still a job. There is still the wear and tear of cleanups, medications, assessments, the moment-by-moment deepening of relationship between nurse and patient in every interaction, and the moment-by-moment decisions and realizations a patient is declining. The sweetness of helping someone succeed does not remove the deep sorrow of death.

Yet, I am thankful there is sweetness and not only sorrow.

Today, I'll keep hoping. Hoping for what's to come, for the day we'll all be on the other side of death, when there will be no more sorrow, only the sweetness of the presence of Jesus. Yet until then, I'll keep praying, and I'll keep crying. And I'll keep doing my best to be a part of the setup for success.