Dear Nurse, Can You Hear Me?
Dear Nurse, a week ago, I was in a car accident. A week ago, I was brought into this hospital, unresponsive, a week ago, your trauma team put a tube down my throat to help me breathe. A week ago, doctors and nurses whom I may never meet again, saved my life.
Nurse, I am not sure what your name is, I can’t seem to read your tag, and perhaps that’s because you gave me something that’s made me drowsy, but I can hear your voice. You sound agitated. I know you’re having a busy and really stressful day. I know you have three patients today in intensive care, when you should only have two, I know you’re next up for admit, and how much that sucks. I know you haven’t had a break yet. I even heard you recite report about me to the attending Doctor. “She’s lethargic, not really responding.”
Nurse, I can hear you, why can’t you hear me?
I had no choice but to listen as you cleaned me with cold water, and I wondered if it was because I have a fever. I listened, as you and your work buddy complained about your coworker, how she always calls out. I felt exposed, even though I know you made an effort to place a gown over my private parts. I know in my heart you were doing the best you could but I felt an embarrassment beyond recognition and saw myself hovering in a corner above, watching this unfold. I felt soothed, as you began to rub my back with cream, and tried to reach for your hand to say thank you.But, you misinterpreted and reached for the restraints. “She’s not pulling this tube on my shift.”
I lay there once you were done, staring at the ceiling, listening to the alarms of the cardiac monitor, the swish of the ventilator - I listened to the footsteps, and stretchers whizzing by, the urgent voices, and finally silence. I began to count the shadows that passed by, and guessed it was perhaps the early hours of the morning. I reflected on the accident that I do not remember, but learned of from hearing the nurses during report. I tried to swallow past the intense pain of the invasive tube down my throat, and I felt frightened about what was happening to me, yet no one was really listening. I began to shiver as the night grew cold, the sheets doing little to cover me, my hands still captive in restraints. I drifted into sleep, a dream state of freedom.
“We’re going to take your tube out now,” I awoke to the voice of a doctor I had never seen. A kind face, his hand reassuringly touching mine, softly coaxing me to slow down my breaths as they pulled the tube. I coughed out the trapped secretions, and inhaled the blessings of breath; and I looked around hopefully for my nurse, but she had left, in place a different nurse, and I wanted to tell her - and my nurse of last night that I am also a nurse, and I understand the stresses. I understand the need for safety precautions, I understand the need to blow of steam. I understand the speed, and need for disconnect at times. I understand the urge to run at the end of the shift. I understand it was maybe one of those nights, and I can relate to surviving the idiosyncrasies of night shift more than you can imagine. I know you perhaps did the best you could and I wanted to thank you for caring for me. But most of all, I now understand what it means to be the person on the other side, and I wish it upon no person.
Instead, I keep quiet. It didn’t matter that I was a nurse. It mattered that I would see things, and hear what’s not spoken differently.
