The Founders' Board of Ann & Robert H. Lurie Children's Hospital of Chicago’s Post

Transcript

I wish that when asked how my day was, I knew how to give a truthful answer. I wish I could really express what a shift is like and know I would be understood if I really answered truthfully. I might start off with how many times I saw a child smile. I might tell you about the tears I wiped. I could tell you stories about the kids I made laugh. I could tell you about the kids I made cry. I might tell you about the parents I consoled, reassured, encouraged. I might tell you about the family that thanked me and the family that pushed me away. I might tell you how I taught a new nurse and how I learned from an old colleague. Maybe I would tell you about the stickers I stuck, the pages I colored. And the teddy bears I tucked into bed. I could tell you about the call bells that rang, the Ivy pumps that beeped, the monitors that alarmed. I could tell you about all the blood product reactions, the worrisome fluid balances, or the child who was fine and then suddenly wasn't. I could tell you about the tricks I used to sneak in an assessment on a three-year old, the games we play so they will take their meds, and how in order to auscultate a 5 year old's chest, I have to pretend I'm listening for monsters. I could tell you how funny it is to hear a 2 year old say stethoscope, and how heartbreaking it is to hear a child whisperer. I just want to go home. I might tell you that today I heard a child's first. Word, or saw his first steps, or watched a preemie finish her first whole bottle. I might tell you how the bravest person I know is an 8 year old. Or the happiest person I know is a 2 year old with a medical history as old as she is. I might tell you about a moment of joy shared with a family, a patient, a colleague. I can tell you about the steps I walked, the hands I held, the songs I sang to put them to sleep. If I could really talk about how my day was. I might tell you about the decisions I made, the priorities I set, or about how my nurses intuition told me when I should start being concerned. I could tell you about the orders I questioned, the orders I should have questioned. The split second decision I made, that carefully calculated words I chose. I could tell you how I fought for my patient. I could tell you how my patient fought me. I could talk about how I taught a parent to be the nurse to their child that they never wanted to have to be. I could tell you how that parent taught me about hope. I could tell you about the moments of panic, the moments of empowered confidence, how smoothly our team functioned, and how resourceful we can be. I'd want to tell you about the breaths we gave, the lives we saved, the lives we couldn't save. I might share with you those moments when I just didn't know what to say, or the times I realized there was nothing I could say. I could tell you how often we see a child and family suffering and think that maybe enough is enough. I would struggle to tell you how hard it is to say goodbye, and I'd have a harder time telling you how sometimes saying goodbye can be a relief. I could tell you how hard it is to be a pediatric nurse. I could tell you how rewarding it is. I could tell you how I know I probably won't spend my career at the bedside, but how much I know I'll miss the bedside when I finally walk away. I could talk about these things if I thought I might be understood. Instead, I'll say it was good with a smile. I'm tired with the on. At the end of the day, being a nurse is one of the hardest things. Ever chosen to do It challenges me, it inspires me, it exhausts me, it empowers me. I love it. So it might sound cliche, but when I'm tired and worn, I try to remember these things and I try to gather the strength and bravery of that 8 year old and the happiness of that 2 year old. And maybe next time when someone asks, how was your day, I'll smile and yawn and say it was indescribable.