Notes on Nursing: Reflections from a Sleep-Deprived Nurse

Disclaimer:  I am writing this after working a 12.5 hour night shift, and I now have been awake for around 19 hours.  Why are you writing a blog right now instead of sleeping???  you may be asking yourself - and the best answer I can give, aside from insanity, is that writing for me has always been an outlet and a place to be real and vulnerable.  My thoughts, observations, and perhaps even wisdom come from being in the moments of raw emotion.

I am a nurse.  It's not the only thing that defines who I am, but it does dictate a large portion of my life and influences my perspective on the world.  Although I have wanted to be a nurse for many years, I did have some other aspirations as a young child.  In kindergarten, we were asked to draw a picture of what we wanted to be when we grew up.  I drew a picture of me serving food as a waitress, and when questioned why I chose that job, I replied "because I want to give people food."  Author, teacher, and magazine editor were some other options before I "settled" on nursing around age 12.  (Yes, little Alyssa was in many ways similar to 23-year-old Alyssa).  Why did I want to be a nurse?  Well, I wanted to help people of course!  I actually did have somewhat of an idea of what nursing was like, as I volunteered in a hospital, but I still held onto that idealistic view of what a nurse is - a compassionate, calm, and capable individual who never grew weary of caring for the sick, a Mother Teresa-type.

It only takes one shift on the unit I work on to shatter that ideal.  As kind of a person I might like to think I am, there are families that just suck the goodness right out of you.  As far as being calm and collected goes, more often than not I am frazzled and my mind is constantly running, all the while attempting to be physically (& mentally & emotionally) present with each patient.  Nursing is exhausting.  Some times you just don't feel you can give anything more of yourself, and in those moments, you must find the strength to do it anyway.  Although a lot of the world seemed to panic when some of Mother Teresa's private letters and writings revealed doubts in God and bouts of depression, I found it comforting and reassuring to know she was human and she was real.

I love my job.  I really do.  Yes, there are definitely things to complain about and parts of the "system" drive me absolutely crazy.  But I truly feel it is a privilege to be able to go to "work" to love and serve people in some of the most difficult times in their lives.  When you tell someone you work in pediatric oncology, you often hear "I could never do that" or "God bless people like you."  I cannot speak for other types of nursing and I believe that every helping profession role has it's challenges.  But it is a hard job.  Watching children go through treatment for cancer can be heart-wrenching.  The chemotherapy destroys their body...pretty much any body system is vulnerable to side effects.  Then there are the emotional and mental hurdles....losing their hair, taking medicine all the time, not being able to go to school, the pokes, the pain, the nausea.  But it is in these moments where you see the fighters, the team players, the heroes.  Strength emerges in the midst of obstacles, and there is joy and celebration in the smallest of things.

And sometimes, they don't make it.  I have been a nurse for almost 9 months now, and a handful of kids I have cared for in some capacity have died.  Yet the past couple nights really are the first time I really have had to care for someone who is actively dying.  I use the word "actively" because this individual is actively participating, they are alert and oriented x4 for the most part, yet it only takes one look to know their body is shutting down.  The process of dying isn't very peaceful and witnessing the anxiety, the discomfort, the pain of a teenager as they attempt to come to terms with hand of cards they have been dealt, it just breaks, actually demolishes, your heart.  All of a sudden your strong sense of faith is flooded with questions and doubt, and even though you believe the next life is a million times better than this one, you can't even begin to make sense why the transition between the two causes so much suffering.

Sometimes I cry.  For my patients.  For their families.  And for me.  But it's the day I can no longer cry that I fear the most.  The tears represent some emotion, some feeling - they mean I am still alive inside and in a small, simple way, my pride subsides, my weaknesses surface, and I cry to God for comfort.  And He shows up.  For my patients.  For their families.  And for me.  Showing up to work at the hospital is my job, but loving on people is my passion, my calling.  There are moments when I start to stress about what my life is going to look like in 5, 10, or 20 years.  Am I suppose to invest here in my hometown or move halfway across the world or try and maintain a balance of the two?  But God patiently always brings me back to this - whether at Children's or in Kenya or wherever else the Lord takes me, I have endless opportunities to love and to serve, and that is what I was created to do.