“I am a pediatric critical care nurse”
There. I said it.
If you’ve ever relocated in your adult life, you know you’ve answered the, “So what do you do?” question, many times. While making new friends as adult can be beast in itself (more about that another time) I especially hate this part of the get-to-know-you conversation. I’ve thought about making up a new profession to avoid the inevitable conversation that follows my answer. Without fail, the interaction goes this:
Potential new friend: So what do you do?
Me: I’m a nurse in the pediatric ICU
PNF: OOOh wow. That must be so hard. I could never do that
Me: It’s actually really wonderful and so fulfilling. (*thinking: I know no amount of explanation will make you believe me though)
The truth is, I have the best job in the world. I was given the privilege to be a nurse to the most innocent members of our society while they are going through one of the toughest things they’ve experienced so far in their little lives. And honestly, I really wish I was able to help others understand that.
It was meant to be
Throughout my childhood, I was surrounded by people in the medical field. Both of my parents are paramedics and I spent many holidays in fire stations, ERs, and hospitals. I was intrigued by the dinner table conversations about the crazy “calls” my mom and dad responded to during their twenty four hour shifts. So when I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I knew my answer pretty soon on, a nurse.
It took me a little bit longer to discover my love for the PICU. I spent a few years working with adults on the regular floor as well as critical care. Thanks to my time in the Air Force, I was eventually able to gain some experience in lots of different areas including the pediatric intensive care unit. After one day in PICU, I knew it was where I belong.
Nursing can be a tough field to stay compassionate, shift after shift, year after year, but caring for children and their families through crisis allows me to keep that true compassion easily. That combined with the intensity (hello intensive care unit!) of every shift makes it the perfect fit for me.
I am not the strong one
People tend to think it takes some sort of invisible strength to do what I and my fellow PICU colleagues do. That’s really not how I look at it, though. I have it easy. At the end of the worst shift imaginable, I get to go home. I get to walk out of the hospital doors and fall into the arms of my family. The families I take care of don’t always have that luxury. They are the strong ones. They are what helps me keep it together no matter how dire the situation may be.
It’s a very polarizing job. Some days are the happiest you could imagine. Sometimes I’m able to be a part of the “your cancer is gone” or “we got every last bit of the tumor” conversation. Sometimes I get to carefully place a newly extubated child in his mother’s arms so she can finally hold him for the first time in months. And some days are the worst.
Yes, our patients (our kids) die. Sometimes it doesn’t matter how much we do, how expertly our team works, or how long we continue to fight, they still don’t make it. Some shifts we spend caring for a patient we know is already brain dead and can’t see or hear or feel anything we are doing. We still whisper to them and hold their hand. Some shifts we shed sweat, blood, and tears with little hope that the patient we have will ever walk out those doors. We still draw up meds faster, push the blood in harder, and wrack our brains for another possible answer. Some shifts we spend crafting scrapbooks, memory boxes, and handprints for the family to take home once the inevitable happens. We still spend hours making sure every detail looks perfect for them.
It’s an honor to be a part of making situations like this, peaceful. An honor to receive a child from his mother or fathers arms and give them their last bath. An honor to adjust the tiny bows and Pj’s just right before stepping aside for the family to say their goodbye’s. These situations are life altering for our families. And sometimes they fall after a long hard road of hospital stays, surgeries, medications, and fighting. I will forever remember a conversation I had with a patient’s dad:
Everyone keeps saying how strong we all are. I don’t feel strong. We aren’t strong, we scream, we yell, we laugh, we fight, we just do whatever we can to get through, but strong is the last thing we are.
I wish I had the words to convince him of the strength I saw in him and his wife day after day, but I didn’t. I did the best I could to describe it, but I know he wasn’t buying it. To that father and all of the other amazing patients and families I come across daily, thank you for the strength you’ve shown me. YOU are strong, you are inspiring, and you are why we all can do what we do.
