“I never saw an ugly thing in my life: for let the form of an object be what it may, – light, shade, and perspective will always make it beautiful.” ~ John Constable.

I know without a doubt that my life would have been very different had I not been transplanted at an early age from the damp grey northwest of England to the hot, colorful island of Jamaica.  In a very practical sense it changed who my family would be, since I married, and had four children with, my (as they say) high school sweetheart.  It is an entertaining thought, though quite pointless, to wonder what would have happened if…and that is how novels are born!

One thing that remained constant was my desire to be a nurse.  I was very small when I declared that to be my goal (‘when I grow up’) and despite some wavering in my teens, I stayed true to that plan.  I had my dress up costume (as well as a cowgirl outfit – a girl has to have choices) and a book of first aid that my mother must have had since World War II, and from that I learned about bandaging.  Somehow, as I grew into my teens (and definitely before I entered nursing school) I could see myself in what I thought the nurse’s role was: to stand at the bedside of a suffering soul, place my hand soothingly on their forehead, and stare into the Doctor’s eyes across the bed as he asked: “What do you think we should do, Nurse?” 

Nursing school soon robbed me of my fantasies, but every day was different and exciting.  I do not regret that I trained in the British tradition, in a hospital-based nursing school.  After the first eight or twelve (who remembers?) weeks of classroom and lab experiences, we spent the next three years learning on the job, three months following a schedule on the wards, then two weeks in the classroom.  You worked as part of the team, along with other nursing students senior and junior to you; there were a few staff nurses (already graduated); the ward Sister (nurse manager in US parlance) and Nursing Auxiliaries (aka Nursing Assistants).  We worked days, evenings, nights, whatever they put on the schedule you worked it.  There was even one horrible ‘split shift’, where you went in for the start of the day shift, worked till about 11 a.m., were ‘off’ for about five hours, then came back in to work till 9 p.m.  What could you do for those hours off, knowing you had to go back in?

I am not lying when I tell you I had fun in nursing school.  It was there I learned the important mind-body connection as I saw the difference an attitude could make.  There was a young married man who was given a terminal diagnosis, he had leukemia and even with aggressive treatment they could not promise him long to live.  He said, absolutely not! He took his family to Lourdes for a divine intervention and healing, came back and had his chemo, and outlived their predicted prognosis by a few years.  On the other hand, an older man was also given a diagnosis of leukemia, but good news, it was treatable, and he could anticipate beating it and living out his days.  He heard the word leukemia, turned his face to the wall, and was dead within months.

It is ‘nurstories’ that sustain us when we face the worst of times.  We take nuggets, snippets of the lives of others to remind us to be hopeful with and for those we meet along the way.  As much as we are supposed to teach, to educate, to help patients learn to take care of themselves better, to help them cope with the challenges of ill-health, we can take away even more from each encounter.  Every nursing instructor has a host of personal experiences to illuminate her/his lectures, to try to illustrate what it means to be a nurse.

This week I met a young nurse who was one of the first to travel to New York City in the first wave of the pandemic.  She told us a few stories of her reality, and I suddenly thought how quickly we have moved on from seeing those healthcare workers as the heroes they are.  We have been so happy to return to ‘normalcy’ (hold on, did someone say new variants?) that we don’t even want to think about that strange world we lived in collectively, when we trusted no one, went nowhere, hunkered down in front of our computers.  Except across the country hundreds of thousands did not, could not hide from the responsibility of caring for the sick, even when it was hopeless.  Even when your co-worker might be the one you were caring for tomorrow.

And I wondered how many have left the profession? How many still need treatment for PTSD? In the immediate aftermath, once things were under control, there were books written by those frontline workers.  But just as the American public did not treat the returning Vietnam Vets very well, we have all moved on.  But how are those nurses doing, I wondered?  I asked her, and she said that yes, she had a therapist to talk to throughout those challenging times.

As human beings we are good at covering things up, blocking memories, changing history as we see fit.  But we also know that those things that seem to be healed over can fester like an abscess, and suddenly one day come roaring up to the surface, threatening the health of society.  In the aftermath of Covid, more people than ever are suffering from anxiety and depression.  Are they getting help? Do they have someone to talk to?

This Friday morning I am sending out grateful thanks and love to all of those frontline workers who went through the worst of times, and hope they have found healing.  I invite you to share your stories with me, for stories themselves are healing, both for the teller and the listener.  I give thanks for the storytellers, for those who are ignoring book bans and continuing to teach the truth of history, the teachers.  I hope everyone gets to hear the story of another, to develop greater empathy and a new perspective.

Have a wonderful weekend, Family!

One Love.

Namaste.