It's been three weeks now since I got that late night phone call from my Dad to tell me that Dallin had been in a car accident. He told me that he had been flown to Mckay-Dee Hospital where he was intubated and currently in a coma. It's times like those that make you realize that the things that you thought were important, actually don't matter at all!
Luckily I didn't have work the next day, so I got up early and drove to Ogden to see him. Not long after I had gotten there, the nurse came in the room to infom the family and I that the that ICU doc wanted to have a care conference. We walked into a seperate room where we all sat down. The doctor and nurse came in shortly after. For the next twenty minutes, I will not only learn something so completley invaluable to my care as a nurse, but will also remember it as the worst twenty minutes I have yet to experience.
I have sat in on several care conferences held with families as they are being told that their child has cancer. Probably one of worst possible news any parent can get. I have witnessed the "deer in headlights" look countless times; grown men break down in tears; mothers sobbing.
But .... I have never once been on the recieving end.
As we all sat in that small, confined room, the ICU doc kept repeating over and over again,
"shearing is the worst possible brain injury"
"He'll never be the same again"
"The old Dallin is gone"
"this is really bad"
"this is really bad"
"this is really bad"
As I looked around the room, I saw the same look of terror that I have seen so many times before, but this time it was different. This time it was my own family experiencing it.
It's difficult to explain what it felt like sitting in that room. The longer I sat there, the more I felt life being drained from me. I have never felt such an utter sickness inside me. It seemed the longer he talked, the worse it got. I understand that he had to tell us exactly what was going on, but the way he said it made me feel like he didn't really care; this was just a job for him and in just a few short hours he would be going home. Because of this, it made me want to distance myself from him. I no longer made eye contact with him or cared to give him a pitty laugh when he attempted at making a joke. And then I noticed the nurse. What was she doing? How was she reacting to this awful news of her patient? What I saw was someone who had stepped out of her professional role. She no longer was a strong advocate who genuinly cared for the well being of her patient and family. Instead it seemed she made more of a point to flirt and laugh with the doctor as he "attempted" to lighten the mood. Frankly, she annoyed the Hell out of me. What I learned from this experience is what NOT to do. What we needed at that time, was someone who genuinely cared.
I know it can take years for anyone, not just a nurse or doctor, to know exactly what to say and how to say it during those difficult times. In the short time that I've been a nurse, I allready feel like I've had to "grow up" and have conversations with either a patient or parent about the hard things of cancer. But my perspective has changed now that I've been on the recieving end.
I learned from this experience that my job isn't just "shift work". For the twelve hours that I'm at the hospital, I can't be there just for the paycheck, but I'm caring for real families that need someone who genuinely cares for not only the patient, but for the entire family!
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