With the help of generous donations from my Aunt Pam and Uncle Dave and an anonymous donor, Striding For a Cure is now at 53% of its goal!
Monday - 5 mile run
Thursday - 8 mile run
Friday - 12 mile long run
I spent this past weekend at work. On Saturday night, as I was giving report and getting ready to leave, a patient coded on the floor. A code means the patient is pulseless or non-breathing or both. A team of doctors, respiratory therapists, pharmacists, and nurses rushed to the bedside, stabilized the patient, and transferred him to the ICU. Event though it wasn't my patient, I helped grab medications and supplies for the code team and listened out for alarms and call lights of the other patients. Fifty minutes after my shift was supposed to be over, I finally punched out on my time card. When I walked in my front door and my fiance asked, "How was your day?" Out of physical exhaustion and mental fatigue, all I could do was mutter, "It was fine."
Then, as I'm drinking my coffee and browsing Facebook this morning, I come across an article that perfectly describes a day in the life of a pediatric nurse. For all those people who have asked me, "How can you be a pediatric nurse? Isn't it hard? How do you do it?" - this article is for you.
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On Being a Paediatric Nurse: I Wish I Knew How To Tell You...
I've had a few moments at work, recently, that really made me think about what it means to be a paediatric nurse. I was reflecting on a particular patient, and I wondered, when I got home, and my husband asked me, "How was your day?", how could I possibly ever share with him what it was really like? How could I share the conversation I had that day with a 6-year-old, mature beyond her years? Or the feeling I had when she told me she hates her scars? Or how weary I felt at the end of the day - a day that wasn't even particularly busy?
So, I thought I might share my thoughts with my friends, my colleagues, and all the other nurses out there - because sometimes it just feels good to write. Hope you enjoy - and please, feel free to share!
- Jacqueline Hanley
RN, BScN, BSc
The Hospital for Sick Children
Toronto, ON
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I wish that when asked how my day was, I knew how to give a truthful answer. I wish I could really express what a shift is like, and know I would be understood.
If I really answered truthfully, I might start off with how many times I saw a child smile. I might tell you about the tears I wiped. I could tell stories about the kids I made laugh. I could tell you about the kids I made cry.
I might tell you about the parents I consoled, reassured, encouraged.
I might tell you about the family that thanked me, and the family that pushed me away.
I might tell you how many times I grew frustrated. Or how many times I felt annoyed. I might tell you about how many times I thought my headache couldn't get any worse.
I might tell you how I taught a new nurse, and how I learned from an old colleague.
Maybe I would tell you about the stickers I stuck, the pages I coloured, and the teddy bears I tucked into bed.
I could tell you about the call bells that rang; the IV pumps that beeped; the monitors that alarmed.
I could tell you all about the blood product reactions, the worrisome fluid balances, or the child who was fine, and then suddenly, wasn't.
I could tell you how many gloves I put on, basins I emptied, and faces I wiped.
I could tell you about the tricks I use to sneak in an assessment on a three-year-old; the games we play so they will take their meds; and how in order to auscultate a five-year-old's chest, I have to pretend I'm listening for monsters.
If I were to tell you what my day was like, I might tell you that my hands will always feel sticky from hand sanitizer, and no matter how much I wash, "that smell" won't seem to go away.
I could tell you how funny it is to hear a two-year-old say "stethoscope," and how heart breaking it is to hear a child whisper, "I just want to go home."
I might tell you that today I heard a child's first word. Or saw his first steps. Or watched a preemie finish her first whole bottle. I might tell you about the father who fed her, who took this small victory as a sign of hope.
I might tell you how the bravest person I know is an eight-year-old. Or the happiest person I know is a two-year-old with a medical history as old as she is.
I might tell you about a moment of joy, shared with a family, a patient, a colleague.
I might tell you how many times I felt my heart break.
I can tell you about the steps I walked; the hands I held; the songs I sang to put them to sleep.
If I could really talk about how my day was, I might tell you about the decisions I made. The priorities I set. Or about my "nurse's intuition" that told me when I should start being concerned.
I could tell you about the orders I questioned. The orders I should have questioned. The split second decision I made. The carefully calculated words I chose.
I could tell you how I fought for my patient. I could tell you how my patient fought me.
I could talk about how I taught a parent to be the nurse to their child that they never wanted to have to be.
I could tell you how that parent taught me about hope.
I could tell you about the moments of panic. The moments of empowered confidence. How smoothly our team functioned. How resourceful we can be.
I'd want to tell you about the breaths we gave; the lives we saved; the lives we couldn't save.
I might share with you those moments when I just didn't know what to say. Or the times I realized there was nothing I could say.
I could tell you how often we see a child and family suffering and think that maybe enough is enough. I could tell you about all the times we think that everything will never be enough. I would struggle to tell you how hard it is to say goodbye; I'd have a harder time telling you how sometimes saying goodbye can be a relief.
I might tell you how many times I thought, "This isn't easy."
I could tell you about the times I feared that when I decide to have children, that they might not be healthy. I could tell you about how every time I have that thought, I wonder how my husband and I would cope - would we be like the families I meet here every day? How would we make it through?
I could tell you how hard it is to be a paediatric nurse. I could tell you how rewarding it is. I could tell you how I know I probably won't spend my career at the bedside, but how much I know I'll miss the bedside when I finally walk away.
I could talk about these things, if I thought I might be understood. Instead, I'll say, "It was good," with a smile; "I'm tired," with a yawn.
At the end of the day, being a nurse is one of the hardest things I've ever chosen to do. It challenges me. It inspires me. It exhausts me. It empowers me. I love it.
So it may sound cliché, but when I'm tired and worn, I try to remember these things. And I try to gather the strength and bravery of that eight-year-old, and the happiness of that two-year-old; and maybe next time, when someone asks, "How was your day?" - I'll smile, and yawn, and say, "It was... Indescribable."
Aug. 16, 2013
I had no idea, when I posted this on Tuesday, that it would spread so far or so quickly. Since this has gone much further beyond my own group of colleagues and friends, I thought I would add in a bit about myself!
I have worked for three years as an RN at The Hospital for Sick Children, on the Multi-Organ Transplant/Nephrology/GI&Nutrition/Rheumatology/Endocrinology/GIFT unit (that last acronym is a fancy one for our team that deals with Short Bowel Syndrome ;) ). I received my BScN from The University of Toronto in 2010, and prior to that, completed my BSc(H) at McMaster University in Biology/Psychology in 2008. I'm set to begin my MN at UofT this fall. On our unit, I'm the founder and chairperson for the Pain Resource Group, and I'm a member of our hospital's Pain Matters Task Force. I absolutely love my career, my colleagues, and our hospital, and I can't imagine working anywhere else! I live in Toronto with my husband.
I am overwhelmed and touched that my words have affected so many people. Thank you for sharing!
- Jacqueline Hanley
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