This is a letter written by Any Nurse, RN, who is working Christmas at a hospital in EveryTown.
I’m not complaining, don’t get me wrong. I knew when I became a nurse that working Christmas comes with the territory, and on top of that I’m fairly new (haven’t “paid my dues” yet) but..I’ll be honest, it’s still hard.
I’ve never spent a Christmas away from family before. It feels really, really strange. Even wrong. I’m just not used to it.
My alarm BRINGSSS!!! at 0500 and it takes a second for the dread to sink in. Oh, no. Today’s Christmas. And I’m scheduled to work. Maybe I could call in sick? Would that be extra sick points? It’s not my fault that I suddenly developed nausea and vomiting…that happens, right? Yes, that’s it!…food poisoning…and the kids will be SO happy and surprised when they wake up and see me still here…and …No.
With a sigh, I swing my legs out of bed, feeling in the dark with my feet for my slippers. I pad to the bathroom and quickly shower. Blow dry my hair and pull on my scrubs.
[ “I feel bitter”]
Why me? I don’t want to go in today! Pity party in full swing, I tiptoe down the hall and out past our beautifully decorated tree with red and gold foil wrapped gifts of all sizes piled underneath. I pinch and crush a couple of pine needles in my fingers and inhale the spicy, woody fragrance. I reluctantly leave my sleepy warm house, pulling the front door gently shut behind me, for a heavy silence outside and my cold car. Guiltily sneaking away from my sleeping family.
The commute to work goes so fast- too fast! No other cars on the road! I park, walk in to the hospital…and step onto my unit for a jarring reality, a non-Christmas world. IV alarms are beeping, call lights ringing, pharmacy techs are busily delivering medications…all as if it’s not Christmas at all.
I take report. There are no light assignments today. All patients that could possibly be discharged have been, and the patients left behind are all really sick. So many isolation rooms!
Some patients are so sick they don’t even know it’s Christmas. Some may not even make it through the shift. Wait…at least I’m not a patient, right? There’s that.
[Tweet “I get to leave. I get to leave here and go home when my shift’s over.”]
Like almost every other work day, I soon am so busy that I forget everything else. GI bleeds and c diff and acute MIs don’t care what day it is. The outside world fades far away until my world is reduced to a rolling blue vein on an arm in front of me, with me holding a #20 gauge catheter, praying I get it with one stick. My patient badly needs a blood transfusion. I even forget it’s Christmas for whole moments at a time.
Suddenly I hear “Code Blue Cath Lab, Code Blue Cath Lab” paged loudly overhead. I’m not on the code team, but my heart jumps, then sinks a little, imagining someone’s loved one coding on Christmas, wondering if they’re going to make it.
In my head, I instantly concoct a whole story, complete with a distraught wife and grown children flying in from all over to say their last good byes to Dad who arrested on the table. Later I will hear they coded him for fifty minutes before calling it. That means he was on the young side. How that family will ever celebrate Christmas again, I don’t know.
Lunchtime. Fingersticks, double-check insulins. Dietary serves bland turkey and ice-cream scoop portions of dressing on industrial plastic patient trays. I pretend it’s fabulous and Oooh! and Aah! for my patients as I lift the tray covers and open napkin packets.
By contrast, the break room table is laden with colorful salads, rich desserts, tasty pancit, and homemade tamales. Mouth-watering deliciousness. I duck in to grab a bite, but Dr. Good Timing returns my call, and I have to duck out to ask the family if they are going to agree to a PEG tube placement. One thing leads to another, and I don’t get back to the break room for over an hour. By now my bladder is about to burst.
Off and on during the day, I think about my family. I miss them and feel guilty. It’s 1400…what are the kids doing right now? Squabbling? Playing with their new toys? I’m changing a wound vac.
A pediatric nurse from down the hall pulls Valerie, a 2-year-old burn patient, around the unit in a red wagon. Valerie was the victim of a hot oil burn, a kitchen cooking accident. Valerie was alone at home with her mother’s boyfriend, who was babysitting. The hot oil severely burned the right side of her face, her right arm and the top of her right hand. Everybody knows her and stops to greet her. Valerie recently learned to blow kisses, and she’s still a bit uncoordinated with her left hand, but she blows kisses to everyone at every opportunity.
She’s such a spunky, spirited little girl! She’s holding a plain red felt Christmas stocking stuffed with small goodies and lifts it up high for me to see, her blue eyes bright and shining.
I hope she doesn’t have disfiguring facial scars. But I think she will. She doesn’t care now, but I see ahead to her 13-year-old self and my heart aches so badly I can’t think about it for long. It’s so unfair. I have a 2-year-old girl, and can’t imagine.
My 42-year-old patient, Angela, found out last night (Christmas Eve) that she has metastatic spread from her primary pancreatic cancer. We nurses had all read the reports and knew before her doctor told her, exchanging glances with each other every time he walked on the floor. She looks so good, so…alive! But she doesn’t have much time left. Pancreatic cancer is fast.
Angela is one of those beautiful women who make people do a double take when they first see her. I freeze frame a picture of her in my mind as she looks today, shoulder length silky blond hair, fine features, large blue eyes. Why is she not a model? I know in a short time she will look very different. Cancer will ravage her looks.
It seems all of Angela’s family and friends must be here, there are so many people crammed in the room, most of them standing. I go to other patient’s rooms to steal extra chairs and drag them in. Covertly, I watch her husband, Brad, and silently grieve for him. With him. He’s holding it together so far. Probably for the sake of their twin 11-year-old girls, who are constantly texting on their phones.
[Tweet “My husband doesn’t have cancer. My kids have a healthy Dad”]
Steve, my 29-year-old, unemployed, frequent flyer drug addicted patient with endocarditis- NO ONE comes to see him. Maybe they’re coming later? I don’t ask. He jokes and acts tough. But if you look at him closely, you can see the hurt in his eyes. His jokes don’t hide the pain. Who hurt him so badly? When? When he was a small child? Like Valerie?
I bring him a big wedge of three layer chocolate cake from the potluck. And a styrofoam cup of coffee the way I know he likes it, three creamers with three sugars. From a fresh pot I just made. Mmmmm, that coffee aroma is the best. A special Christmas blend of allspice and baked apple. I keep thinking I’m going to bring Steve a real coffee cup from home, but I keep forgetting.
[Tweet “I have a good job with benefits. Working indoors. I’m getting premium pay today.”]
I help Anita, my nursing assistant, bathe our 76-year-old female patient admitted yesterday with a stroke. Anita combs her thinning permed white hair, and I apply red lipstick from her cosmetics bag to her lips. Her smile is uneven, but she looks beautiful and I tell her so. I hold up a mirror. She utters something guttural and unintelligible, her speech garbled from the stroke. But I distinctly think I hear her say “Thank you, dear.”
Her daughter smiles at me gratefully, and her eyes mist up. I look away so mine won’t mist up as well. That’s almost all the Christmas I need in that moment.
On the way back to the nurses’ station, I answer a call light for a patient who’s cold and asks for a blanket. I go to the supply room- Yay! The blanket warmer is stocked and I pull a folded, soft one out, hugging it to my chest as I walk back. I tuck her in securely with the warm blanket. It’s a silly little vanity, but I take pride in my warm blanket-covering technique. The blanket needs to go next to the skin but you have to do it without uncovering or exposing the patient.
She smiles as the warmth seeps in. I like being the Giver of Warm. Very basic, but one of my favorite things to do.
Back at the station is a Starbucks steaming hot, large peppermint mocha latte with my name on it! Really? Wow! From Brad, the husband of the lady with cancer! I’m humbled. He’s losing his wife and he brought me coffee?
[“I feel blessed”]
I’m grateful for this job where I get to care for others with skilled hands, knowing I helped. I’m grateful for my coworkers, not one of whom grumbled all day.
Everyone left their families today, not just me. Anita, my nursing assistant, has 4 kids. Two of whom are teenagers and are causing her no end of grief. She’s a single Mom. She’s my hero. Randy, the Respiratory Therapist, Marlene, the housekeeper, the doctors on call. My work family.
Oh my gosh, it’s 1830! Where did the day go? I rush to finish up, give report and clock out. Home to my waiting family. You know what? Working Christmas turned out OK, after all. I can’t want to share my day with my husband and cuddle my beautiful, healthy children.
But still, maybe next year, could I get Christmas off?
How to Deal with Toxic People when you dread family get-togethers
Until next time friend,