Yesterday was a hard day. Not like an "I overslept and spilled my coffee" kind of hard day. More like an "I'm not sure how I'm going to mentally and emotionally get through today" kind of hard day. Everything went as usual until about 6:50 am (early, I know, but when your day starts at 4:45, there are lots of things that can happen by 6:50). I woke up and got ready for the day. I spent some time in the Word. I ate some breakfast. I drove to work and listened to worship music. I changed into my green scrubs and sat down at a table in the nurses lounge awaiting my assignment for the next 12 hours. Everything was as expected. Then I got the news no nurse wants to hear: "Erin, you've got the patient in room ---. She's a fetal demise. Full term. First baby. Went to the office yesterday for a regular check up and there was no heartbeat. She's here being induced."
Holy cow. That'll make your heart sink to your stomach. It'll make you wish you'd never rolled out from under your covers. I made the long walk down the hallway, got report from the night shift nurse, and headed in to meet my patient and her husband. Everything you think about labor and delivery goes down the drain in moments like this. There's no excited chatter about what color the nursery is or what the baby's name is. No lullabies or first cries. It's pure and utter sadness. The level of emotion in the day is off the charts. The need to be attentive and in tune with my patient's every need somehow seems impossible and yet there's a sense of that being exactly why I was placed in her path today. That every need I have, every thought is of no significance in comparison to her needs, her thoughts. That suddenly every fibre in my being is seeking to guide her and her husband through this process as tenderly and gently as I know how. And words will never be enough. There has to be touch. And eye contact. And just a presence of strength and empathy. All of this in addition to medical care.
The minutes tick by as we try to get her into labor to deliver the baby she dreamed of holding under very different circumstances that still rests inside of her. The minutes turn to hours. Hard conversations are had. Tears are shed. Pain is managed with any medications we can administer. Hope is given. Strength is borrowed. And somehow she makes it through moments she didn't think she could.
And I made it through my twelve hours. She still hadn't delivered at the end of my shift, so I passed her along to the next nurse who would strive to do the same things I had done for the next twelve hours. I left with the promise of checking on them when I returned to work on Friday. I moved on with my night, headed to youth group, trying to enter back into a less heavy place than where I spent all day. I ate. I slept. And I woke up this morning ready to face another day. As I listened to worship music on my way to a class for work I heard Shane and Shane's "Psalm 118 (This Is The Day)." I found myself belting the words "Give thanks to the Lord for He is good/ His love endures forever. He is my strength and He's my song/ His love endures forever...This is the day the Lord has made/ I will rejoice and be glad in it." And I instantly thought of my patient from the day before. She's still in a hospital room filled with sorrow over the loss of her child. And yet I'm rejoicing? I'm literally praising our Lord with a smile on my face? But somehow it seems right. Because of His sovereignty? Because of His promise that He works all things for the good of those who love Him? Because He weeps with those who weep and mourns with those who mourn? Yes. He encompasses everything. He is all things. He didn't cause this woman to lose her baby. It's the result of sin entering this world and bringing with it tragedy and brokenness and sorrow. But God is a redeeming God. He can use any bad experience for His good. He somehow makes all things right. And I got to rest in that this morning. Did it take away the pang of sadness I felt as I pondered the weight of what my patient is going through? No. Will it remove her years of sadness and grieving? No. But He does give hope to the hopeless. He is strength for the weak. He is sight for the blind. He is the great I AM. In every situation, in every circumstance, He is sovereign. And He is enough.
Coop, I can't imagine the weight and general feeling in that room. It takes an incredible gift to rejoice when people are rejoicing, yet grieve with those who are grieving. You've got the genuine heart to do just that, you could have walked through the realms of your workday and never felt the things they're feeling, but you didn't. You grieved with them, you cared about them. You were exactly the blessing they needed on that day...
ReplyDeleteDunno what kind of specialized training you guys get for these situations, so this might be redundant. But I've read several accounts of mothers in this situation whose nurses either didn't mention or didn't strongly suggest contacting Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep, and who mentioned that as a regret later. I have read a few people say that at the time they couldn't imagine why you would ever want that, but now the photos are treasured artifacts, and they are glad the nurse knew better at the time.
ReplyDeleteHi, Todd. Thanks for your post. We do have training in this and definitely connect the moms with Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep. It's an incredible organization. We have some incredible photographers that will come anytime of day and night. There are several ways we get the families connected - support groups, chaplains, social workers, etc.
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