The very first move I made after accepting the challenge of Chief Nursing Officer was to gather the people. Every Monday afternoon, I ask leaders from all over the organization to sit at a conference table for an hour and talk about issues impacting the nursing workforce. It’s been seven months now, and they keep showing up. We are not solving giant, global issues but we are making incremental deposits of trust into one another. We are building bridges, not silos. I have to believe that kind of earned relational equity eventually cashes itself in and solves giant, global issues. Gathering the people seems to do that.
Another case today but thankfully, the only one. The resident remained completely asymptomatic and unperturbed, and could be found eating a snack at the dining room table when we got her test result. As we huddled in our haz-mat suited group, staring at her from afar and wondering aloud what to do because she most certainly cannot stay in her room or wear a mask, my supervising physician said simply we’ll just do the best we can.
There is nothing else for me to talk about except for this outbreak in my long term care facility. I have no other thoughts or words. I dream about it. I stare at the wall and think about it. I research other facilities, studies, evidence that supports some sort of different thing we should be doing. There is nothing. We have done everything we possibly can and still, our elders are sick. Thankfully, they are all still alive. I know we have protocols and PPE and vaccines and antibodies and antivirals to thank for that. I know it would have been a lot worse two years ago. But it still feels as close to an apocalypse as I can possibly describe.
My existence has shrunk to an hourly checklist. I enter a room to visit with an elder. I help them with the most basic activities of daily living. I sweat through my gear. I try to stay patient. I help them some more. I carefully remove my gear. I wash my hands. I tell them I will be back as soon as I can. I exit the room. I write down what I did, on a paper towel that is now wet and soggy. And then I put it back in my pocket and move on to the next room, reminding my coworkers and myself to take a sip of water and visit the restroom at least once.
Yesterday I told my husband, I cannot do this. And he responded with, Yes you can. Because you must.
Today I shouted to the staff, WE WILL GET THROUGH THIS. AND THEN WE WILL GO TO TRAUMA THERAPY TOGETHER.
I think it’s all true.
I found this in my drafts from four years ago… wild are the winding walkways on which I’ve wandered.
Several years ago, I stopped saying that I work as a nurse so that my husband can do vocational ministry. We’re both in ministry. Whether I’m waiting tables or taking care of dying people, it’s all worship. It’s all service. It’s all ministry.
But dang, there is something seriously sacred about taking care of dying people. I’ve never left a day of work wondering if I did anything of importance. I haven’t had a crisis of career or purpose since taking that first hospice job.
I think I still feel this way.
It is absolutely mind-blowing to me that I find myself editing visitation policy for my hospital today, TWENTY-FIVE months after this pandemic slammed into us. Once the vaccines arrived, I told everyone who would listen that we were in the fourth quarter of this thing. The end felt so near, we all collectively taste it. But then, Delta. And then, Omicron. And now, my team talks of Operationalizing COVID while we see record numbers of staff absent due to illness or exposure. I am officially out of witty words and pep talks for myself and my staff and my friends who are strangers on the internet. I simply put one foot in front of the other each day, and I expect everyone else is doing the same.
I hope to spend the rest of my life learning what servant leadership looks like. For now, though, I’m also in a position to model it for a new generation of leaders; that part is really, really fun.
Today I moved into my new office. Humbled, excited, ready. Grateful.
