I go to wash dishes this morning, a song comes on and suddenly my eyes begin to fill with tears again. Just an hour ago I pushes a bag of frozen corn to my eyes to try and help the swollen lids from crying last night. But this morning, on top of grief I feel this sense of shame for being so deeply sad. The work we do it so incredibly difficult.
Remember that kid I told you about? The one who refused to leave this earth and was instead determined to make it to prom and graduation? Well he made it to both, then I watched him take his last breath last night. The past two days I cared for this brave young man, before watching him take his last breath in the middle of our shift change. Both myself and the on coming nurse were in the room, talking with his mother whom was curled up in bed with him. We were talking when suddenly we both noticed a change in his breathing out of the corner of our eye. In a moment, he took one more breath, and was gone.
There aren’t really words for moments like this, no matter how expected it may have been or how long I do this work, it never gets easier. People ask me in the moment outside the room how are you? I answer I’m okay, because in that moment I am, I have to be. I still have a job to do, and need to remain brave for this patient and family. My emotions will come later, but right now I am still focused on them.
Don’t misunderstand me here, I am not saying to never show emotion or ever cry in front of a family. That’s a part of the job, and it’s human to show emotion. I think it’s important for some families to see that we too are deeply affected by their children; it shows how much we care. But in this moment, I cannot let all my guards down, because it’s not about me or my emotions. All too often, it’s not until I walk out those doors that the flood gates open. This is why we must push on in the moment, despite what we witness.
So back to this morning, I am sitting here feeling deep grief but also shame for feeling so deeply affected. After all, it’s not my family, I only knew him for a little over a year, and it’s my job right? We choose to do this work, so it’s easy to think if you can’t handle it then maybe you should be doing something else. Let me tell you, there were many times while I was pursuing this job and in my first years that I was told just that. And you know what, for awhile I believed them. I thought, maybe they are right?
But am I wrong, or are others just not paying attention? How can you expect anyone to watch a child die and not feel deep grief? Even if you only knew them for a day, or a week or a year, it’s tragic. We are not only witnessing death, but the shattering of parents’ hearts. The breaking of a family and life that once was. The loss of a life with so much potential. Why should we be okay in these moments? Or rather, who could be?
I used to think I was wrong, that I should just get up and move on. But if you’re an empath like me, there’s just no way. And I’d argue that a lot of those who come into this profession are empaths, because that’s what drew us in the first place. I hope you release the shame you feel because you don’t need to carry that too. You don’t need to walk this path alone, with grief and shame all wrapped up in one. It’s okay to just be sad.
In fact, I think feeling this deep grief is essential if we want to keep doing what we do. It’s the only way to continue on this path that holds grief and healing in one, over and over again. With each death, we grieve and grow. We expand our hearts and learn how to heal a little better. Or maybe we don’t, and that’s okay too.
For anyone who may read this who is not a nurse or may have experienced a personal loss, please know this is in no way a comparison of what you experience. The only reason we can do this work is because it is not our own loved ones. The grief and pain you may feel is something I can only imagine, I cannot even begin to comprehend. This is instead for those of use who become intimate strangers with those we care for, and the unique grief we feel during this journey. A grappling of sorts with grief that feels so close and yet so foreign.
We grieve those we lose, for what we knew, what we didn’t, and the life that was cut short. We grieve for the family whose life will never be the same, and the things that will never make sense. We grieve for the reality that we can’t save everyone, despite how hard we try. We know this isn’t possible, but it doesn’t make it easier.
So where does this land us? What do we make of it? Well this is the question I have pondered and reflected upon over and over for ten years now. A question I have grappled to comprehend and still come up short. But what I know is that in this deep grief, there is love. And a profound sense of gratitude for having known such grace and strength in this tragedy. That the dark brings out the light, and engrained in this love is a sense of peace. That because of these experiences, we live a little brighter, and what a blessing that is. It’s a privilege we get to walk alongside these sacred moments, and to carry the grief with which we are left.