I have failed so many times this year.
I have failed to get out of bed on days where my body wouldn’t listen to me.
I have failed to be open with my family, friends, colleagues, and clients when the despair was too great to function.
I have failed to be as present as I could have been during this most unprecedented time – historical mostly due to failures in leadership, process, and procedure that have cost our country 289,000 deaths and counting as of the writing of this post.
But most of the time, I am able to do so much – get up, work, smile, speak, write, advocate, care, support, listen, live, be – and each action is a success that must be celebrated.
These are the days that will define my life.
I was a high school student during 9/11, graduated college in 2008 during the Great Recession, and worked as an emergency and radiology nurse during disasters, epidemics, and the worst days in the lives of so many of my patients. But this pandemic, this year, these moments – these will be what I tell future generations about.
And while I will speak to them about working through PPE and supply shortages, not knowing what to do when others needed it most, shouting reassurances to patients through masks and goggles, managing the public misinformation, and drowning in cleaning supplies at work yet not being able to find basic hygiene products at home, there are other more important moments that I will share first and most frequently.
I will tell the future generations of nurses and other healthcare workers about the fear of others, fear of an unknown, and a fear of bringing an evil home that could harm or kill my loved ones. I will tell them about the loneliness – missing my family, my friends, and not knowing when it will be safe to be around them again. I will tell them about the isolation – not just the feeling of being alone but also the physical distance between people – eating lunches outside, not in the break room with my coworkers. About edging away from others because of the unease of being around people without a mask. And the feeling of fear that was not always of others, but of myself, not knowing if I was unwittingly passing on a novel evil to others.
I will tell them about the crushing weight of shame when I called out of work as an essential frontliner, not for COVID-19, but for anxiety and sadness that I could not get under control, no matter how much mindfulness, self-care, and therapy I sought out. I will tell them about the days when I couldn’t move without my husband physically hauling me out of bed and into clothes to get even the most basic things done.
I will tell them that even in the darkest, loneliest moments that I was still me.
I was still a nurse. And I was no less of a nurse because of my struggles. Every time I took a stronger dose of my SSRI - I was a nurse. Every call to my therapist, appointment with a psychiatrist, and day I stayed in bed and streamed 12 hours of TV in an attempt at harm reduction – I was a nurse. I was nursing myself. I was nursing my mind and my brain chemistry. I was nursing chronic conditions called anxiety and depression that were exacerbated by the most unprecedented year in medical history.
And I never did it alone. I had my husband, my amazing partner in all things, who cared for me every day. I had my family and friends, IRL and online, who helped support me during my best and worst moments. I had my incredible nurse community – because we are a community that can withstand all things – who checked in, sent me packages, emails, texts, DMs, messages, and the most hilariously inappropriate memes to make me smile on days when I thought the world was ending. I will tell them that my nursing and healthcare people came together to support me because that’s what we do when the shit hits the fan – we roll up our sleeves and figure out how to fix it.
I want to tell everyone going into healthcare in the future that you are never alone.
You have generations of us - nurses, doctors, nursing assistants, techs, phlebotomists, imaging technologists, respiratory therapists, social workers, therapists of all varieties, and all the other medical roles that make up our incredible healthcare team – who have had those dark days, been in those paralyzing moments, and gotten through to the other side. We are here for you to lean on, get guidance, and receive all the wealth of our collective experiences. We are also here to represent those who have not made it. We know how impossible the work is, yet we continue to do it. Through the hardest moments, we are there to care for others, keeping them alive and comforted, making them better.
But know that you will have dark, challenging moments too. And often those moments will be in your car, on the way home, or at 0400 when you are unsuccessfully trying to sleep. You will be replaying things in your mind, wondering what you could have done differently, or thinking about how all of it doesn’t matter anyways. You may despair. You may want to give up. And it’s OK. I want you to know that I have despaired. I have wanted to give up.
But I haven’t, and you shouldn’t either.
I have seen the dark, and yet I eventually got up out of bed again. I showered, grabbed coffee, and put my scrubs back on. I got my PPE. I grabbed food and my nurse bag and went to work. I put on my mask and goggles. I cared for others because that’s what I do because I am a nurse.
When I tell others about 2020, I want to make sure they know all the parts.
And I want to make sure that no matter what year it is, the dark moments have happened and will happen again, but despite the darkness, there is so much light to be had. I show up every shift for the light. I am here to help you see it too.
Sarah @ New Thing Nurse
