Punching Bags

Patients can be so cruel at times, lashing out at the very same people who provide them life saving care in their hours (and days) of need. They throw out insults and racial slurs like daggers to our hearts, saying such pointedly mean and ignorant things that it's tough to simply shrug the words off. They rant anti-gay or chauvinistic sentiment with such vehemence that it's all one can do to shut out the epitaphs. As healthcare professionals, we are taught that, most often, they don't mean what they say. They are not themselves, especially when some type of brain injury is involved. We know we're not supposed to take it personally. But, sometimes, the yelling and the ranting is so cruelly directed at us and is so personally offensive that it's difficult not to. We have to wonder if there isn't a kernel of personal truth to their hateful comments. We want to think the best of everyone, but it's not always so easy. We try to build thick skins, but sometimes the insults are too much. All too often, I've seen the sting in a coworker' eyes. And I know it's been apparent in mine from time to time, too. In what other industry would this ever be remotely acceptable? Why are we expected to be the punching bags? And worse, we're supposed to take the abuse with a smile? It's a serious flaw in the healthcare industry; one that I have no clue how to begin solving. All I know is that you should give your favorite nurse, or other healthcare worker a big hug today, as you never know what they went through at work.

Everything is not Always Merry and Bright

The ICU can be such a strange place during the holidays.  We try to make the unit merrier, dressing it up with Christmas trees, ornaments, and other seasonal decorations.  The break room is filled with sugary treats.  We wear our festive scrubs and buzz with holiday energy.  Our chatter turns to shopping, gift-giving, party plans, and cookie baking.  It really is like any other workplace this time of year.  And yet, an ICU is nothing like any other workplace, so all of our merriment can almost seem out of place.

I mention this because I caught myself in this conundrum the other day.  There I was, on Christmas Eve morning, obsessing about what to make for the following day’s brunch.  Eggs Hollandaise?  A frittata?  I couldn’t decide.  It was going to be our first married Christmas together and I wanted everything to be perfect.  I bustled around the unit, lost in my own thoughts, weighing one menu option against the next. 

And then came my reality check.  I heard the wails coming from behind closed doors, each cry emanating unfathomable loss.  It took me aback, like a slap in the face, jolting me from my happy thoughts.  The reality of it all began to weigh heavily on me; my biggest worry was an egg dish, while this family was saying their final good-byes.  I felt trite for fretting about perfection, while their Christmases will never be the same.

This job can do that to you sometimes.  And by “that”, I mean give you a hard dose of reality that will set your priorities straight.  All of the death and suffering juxtaposed against frivolous holiday cheer only serves to remind how fragile life can be.  I can’t stop living, or being excited about the all of the silliness it entails, but I can appreciate the little details.  That’s what my job teaches me.