five days

Life is both wonderful and awful, and this past week has made that more true to me than any other experience. Originally I signed up for overtime thinking it was the wise thing to do, what with the holidays coming up and my time off after this assignment, but in retrospect I see the purpose was not for my pocket book, but for a divine plan greatly affecting myself and several other people. I can honestly say it changed my life.

My work week start Tuesday. The three patients I was assigned to were in the front corner of our PCU, or step-down unit. The whole day I questioned whether or not I really was a nurse. Because of the way I was treated, you would've guessed I was a waitress, a maid, a servant, or some other worker that does not reflect the four years I spent toiling over books and tests earning the BSN RN after my name.  Knowing that I would be coming back for several days, I asked the charge nurse if I could be put in the ICU, and not back in the front corner.  She said she would try, but when I came in Wednesday morning, I had the exact same patients.  Trying to be professional despite my disappointment, I carried on with the morning as if I wasn't unhappy with where I was.  One of my patients was discharged early in the shift, and I thought I would get a break for a while.  There were a few other empty beds on the unit, so surely other people were in line to admit patients before me.  However, when the cleaning crew showed up immediately after my patient left, I knew that meant I wasn't getting a break, but would rapidly be admitting another person and finding myself buried under tasks and charting. I was annoyed. 

My frustration dissipated after the charge nurse came over to me and apologized. "I really think you should have this patient" she said, and explained that I would be admitting a young man, recently diagnosed with terminal cancer. "I know it's not your turn, but I think you'll be sweet to him and his family, and you have the corner room with a great view, so I really think you should get this patient." 

He arrived to me on the gurney with his wife at his side.  His yellowed skin and eyes reflected a man who's physical being started to fail, despite his strong build and otherwise healthy body.  He was weak and hurting, but still able to communicate.  Almost as soon as I met him, I learned that he was from Indiana, PA. My home town.  

It was so fun to talk with him and his family about towns, schools, culture, and people in our home of Western PA. We all thought it was so special that I was there to care for him, but we soon discovered another bond deeper and more eternal than a zip code.  

After the doctor came by and thoroughly explained that he would not survive this infection that brought him to the hospital, my patient, his wife, and I discussed how he wanted to die.  I asked him direct questions, spoke frankly and specifically about what he may or may not want to feel, and I made mental notes about how I would help this man pass comfortably.

Few people have thought about their personal death. Few people feel comfortable discussing this with family, let alone a complete stranger, but I assured my patient that I wanted to honor him and uphold his wishes once he was no longer able to communicate his needs.  That must have been so scary for him.  I can't imagine what it is like to not only talk about it, but stare death full on, and accept it's imminence. 

Due to hyper sensitivity to light and sound, we tried to make the room as dark and quiet as possible.  That evening I entered the room to administer medication I found his friend reading to him from the bedside. As soon as my presence was noticed, his friend shut the book and the room was awkwardly silent.  I asked the friend what he was reading, and he timidly explained that he was reading a bible verse to my patient.  I asked him to continue, so he read while I moved quietly around the dark room, completing tasks by flashlight. 

It was a verse from 1 Corinthians, and when he finished reading my patient looked me square in the eyes and said, "do you read the bible?" After I told him I did, he asked me to read him what the last thing I read was, so I read to him from Psalm 37, the theme of which is delighting in the Lord and waiting on His timing and plan, despite seeing others prosper and dealing with not getting what we want. When I finished the verses, he asked me, "what does that mean to you?"  A challenging question, he wanted to know if what I claimed to read actually had meaning to my heart and my soul. So I answered and gave examples from my life. It was quiet for a while, then he laid his head back, closed his eyes, and said, "amen." 

For the rest of my shift that day, and the days that followed, I talked openly with his wife, family, and friends about faith, my job, and what my goals were in taking care of him for his last days.  There were so many people there to support all of them, and as their arms were embracing this man and his family, they also wrapped around me, the nurse who would be with him for his last breath.

While he was still conscious,  my patient had an unquenchable thirst. But like most things in this world we live in, the one thing he desired most hurt him and couldn't satisfy. With every gulp of water he would him retch and vomit with intractable abdominal pain and shaking. My second day with him, I showed Psalm 42 to him and his wife, which starts, "as deer pants for flowing streams, so pants my soul for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When shall I come and appear before God?"  I wanted to encourage them that this earthly thirst which is accompanied with retching, would soon be over. Once in Heaven, he would not experience sorrow, grief, pain, hunger, or thirst. Ever again.  Later that day a huge group of people came in to the room to support him as he was baptized, as a proclamation of his faith through this trial. This was was followed with singing and praying.  It blessed the family, but it also blessed me tremendously, and stirred my faith for the days to follow.

This wonderful group of family and friends had accepted his death with peace, and so watching him for the next few days was a greater form of suffering than the finality of losing him.  His body just stayed and lasted, moment by moment succumbing to the toxins in his blood and the cancer taking over his flesh. It burdened their hearts, and it placed tremendous pressure on me.  Their questions were endless, "how much longer?" "is he hurting? please don't let him be suffering" "what is happening now? why is he making that sound?" When the call light went off, I knew I'd be walking into a darkened room full of tense and crying people, who were observing this man they loved fall in to a coma, accompanied with bouts of air hunger and seizures. 

In between medicating him, caring for my other patients, and busywork, I would spend my time with the family in his room or in the waiting room.  We would snack on food, tell stories, and stand in awe that we had all been brought together by this tragic situation. His father would pat me on the back and say, "we Pennsylvania people have to look out for each other." For five days I was his nurse. For five days I was with the family. I cried with them, laughed with them, held their hands, hugged them, and listened as they dealt with the pain of watching this father and husband, who had just been diagnosed three weeks ago, slowly suffer through the progression of death. 

His last evening was especially difficult for the family.  His mother had a moment in which she broke down and questioned a lot of things in life, and who could blame her.  This didn't seem right. It didn't seem fair. A few of us were around her as she cried out and sorted through her emotions and thoughts. Afterward she said to me through tears, "Megan, I have no doubt that God hand picked you to be his nurse through all of this. I can't tell if you are a nurse or an angel." 

I also have no doubt that God hand picked me. My patient's pastor said to me one night, "if you ever doubted that God has a plan for you, I hope this situation changes your mind."  He is right. God has a specific plan and purpose for me, and caring for that man and family was a pivotal point in my career and my faith.  I am a nurse, but I am not an angel. I am far from it.  I have a foul heart. I'm a sinner and so was my patient.  The difference for us is that we are saved by God's grace.  Apart from Christ's sacrifice on the cross, I have no hope, I have no merit. None of us do.

With all things considered, I should never have been his nurse.  I didn't want to be in Washington yet, I wanted to stay in Colorado.  That day I shouldn't have been at work - it was an overtime shift.  That day I shouldn't have been in the PCU, I should have been in the ICU.  I shouldn't have gotten the first admission, it wasn't my turn, but God moves in mysterious ways, and that day a lot of "shouldn't haves" aligned to a beautiful and heart wrenching five days. Most staggeringly though, I am reminded that I shouldn't be able to call Heaven my eternal home.  We all fall short of the glory of God, but God, who is rich in mercy, sent His son to live a perfect life, and die on the cross, bearing my sins and faced the punishment I should face when I take my last breath.  Because of His death, when I die, I'll stand in front of the gates of Heaven, and God will not see my sin and my life as a reason for Hell, but  the perfect life of a Savior who lived and died for me, which is reason for Heaven. That is not fair. That is not right. That is grace.

On my 6th day shift in a row, I came in to find my patient had survived yet another night.  And as I had so many days before, I walked in the room to find his wife and sister there.  We hugged and did our usual routine of discussing the evening shift and then determining our plan for the day.  I asked for updates on the kids and for more stories about my patient's life prior to the cancer. 

Later that morning, while at the bedside with these two amazing women, my patient took his final breath and passed from this world into Heaven.  It was like a warm blanket covered over us, and peace came into the room where there had previously been anxiety and pain. He was no longer suffering, he was finally resting. 

After we all cried and said our "see you soons" they left, his body was taken away, and it was like something inside of me broke loose.  The pressure and emotional, mental, and physical stress of those five days came over me and I went outside to the cold air and just wept.  I cried for him and his family that they had to experience this. I cried because this made me ache for my own family. I cried because I was so very tired. And I cried because of the unimaginable beauty of Heaven that he was now getting to experience, and that I will soon see with my own eyes.

This is a beautiful and wonderful world that we live in, but it is also a hard life, and awful and stressful.  But it's not forever, the world and all that is in it will pass away. But because of Christ, we will not perish, but have eternal life.