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The fine line between being a professional with compassion and empathy with CLEAR boundaries versus being, well - me, runs a bit blurry. I remember this being pounded into my brain in nursing school - and I have never really learned the lesson. Sometimes it wears me thin, and at other times, I am glad that I chose to give a little extra.
I have many friends from work and when I talk to them, I know I am not alone in my feelings. I wonder if the reason we sometimes get more attached is because we work with children. I have never worked in a hospital setting with adults, so I have no foundation for my thoughts, and I have no reason to believe that this is actually true. Yet, I still wonder.
I admitted my infant patient into the PICU from a simple procedure - a heart cath. However, the news that the parents received from the cardiologist was not good, and the baby would be going into surgery the next day. I explained what the cardiologist said many times throughout the day. When you are hit with a bomb, sometimes things don't make sense. I see this over and over - you have to explain things to parents many times for them to understand, especially if the illness was not expected.
The morning of the surgery, the parents were anxious. Mom and dad held their precious baby throughout the night, rarely putting her down. Strong in their faith, I asked them if they wanted me to pray with them in case the chaplain they asked for did not arrive before the baby was taken to OR. They did, so I did.
I cared for their precious one many times, over several admissions into the PICU. I became close to the parents - and they trusted me with every aspect of care for their baby. The family moved to a new town, and one day, I got a text message from the mother saying they lost the battle, and the baby passed away, the funeral would be nearby, and could I come? Of course, I would.
Another child was admitted into our care for an illness that eventually left her without any brain activity. Over the days and weeks we spent fighting for her life, it was hard to get through to her mother, who seemed very aloof. One day as I was talking to the mother about withdrawing life support, she finally let me in to her private world. We talked about the life her daughter had lived, and who she was. Mom sent photos of her daughter from her phone to my work email, and I printed out the photos to hang in the room. Mom opened up about many details, including the fact that her daughter loved to straighten her hair and paint her nails. On the day the mother chose to withdraw life support, I brought a hair straightener to work, and another nurse brought pink fingernail polish. Mom painted her daughters nails, and I straightened her hair. She looked more like "her old self", mom said. And mom hugged me and wept. When we withdrew support, my lovely patient was surrounded by her friends and family. I received an email from the mother several weeks later, telling me thank you.
A beautiful baby was in our care for months. His parents were very young, and the entire staff became attached to the young mother, who was there the majority of the time, and our patient. She doted over her son, and she had to make some very grown up decisions for the plan of care presented to her. The parents never wanted to give up fighting for their son. I talked to the mom for hours over the course of her baby's stay with us. I learned her hopes and dreams, her fears, her plans. I listened - as did the other providers - and we supported. We admired her tenacity and hope. In the end, the parents both realized their precious baby was suffering immensely, and decided to withdraw support. The bravery they showed and love of their child more than their own desires to keep him alive another painful day was nothing short of courageous. The young mother still keeps in contact with me, and I know she is now expecting another baby.
I have cried more tears being a nurse than in almost any other aspect of my life put together. It pains me to see parents cry, a child die, and to fight and not win. I doubt I will ever learn the lesson or clearly define that fine, blurry line. I'm not sure I will ever want to.