In May of 2014, my adult stepson was in a terrible accident. His father called me, sobbing. "Bruce got run over by a truck he was working on. They're at St Catherine's." I was at least 30 minutes away. What to bring? I should just go. A sweater. Hospitals are cold. We'll spend a lot of time at the hospital if we're lucky. My phone. I could charge it in the car. Should I buy gas? My father had taught me to always have a full tank. Just in case.
I experienced the next days of my stepson's life from multiple perspectives: family member, nursing professor, and always, a nurse. I knew I would have to write about it. Nursing faculty comment on how it might be to lie in sickbed looking up at the face of a former student. Rarely do we consider what it might be like to see that student's face across the bed of a desperately ill loved one.
Family and friends were in the waiting room outside the ICU. They hadn't seen him yet. I told Bruce's mom and his girlfriend that I'd do everything I could. Sure, I had two advanced practice clinical certifications and a PhD, and I had ICU experience, but that was many years ago and my ICU days had been spent with babies. Now most of my time was spent at the university, teaching theory to advanced practice nursing students.
I sent the first e-mail to the university LISTSERV with the greatest reach.
"A dear family member of mine was just admitted to the ICU at St Catherine's with severe chest injuries. I'd be grateful if our nurses there could look out for him."
Responses flew back.
"Several of our alumni are APRNs on the trauma service at St Catherine's, including me. We'll take good care of him."
We waited all night, denial our only refuge. Bruce was intubated, ventilated, sedated. I saw two recent grads, staff nurses in the ICU.
The next morning, the trauma team told us that Bruce had sustained a catastrophic injury. Because they knew I wanted to know, they showed me the X-rays and CT scans. "Bilateral flail chest," they said. "Heart looks okay, but there's bone shards and blood everywhere." They talked about labs and vent settings. Pressors were maxed out. I wondered why he hadn't already died.
The team insisted that surgery was Bruce's best chance. Creative and risky, it had to be done now. Did we have any questions? "Yes," his mother said, "where do I sign?" They said that afterward they might do a tracheostomy and a gastrostomy tube. The family looked at me, puzzled. "Good," I said, "that's good." It felt like hope. They thought he might live! Later we heard how the team had argued about going to the OR.
Six of us were allowed to stay as they prepared him for surgery. Later, a nurse mentioned that that only happens if the nurse is generous and thinks the patient might die. Behind all that equipment, all those people, was the man we loved.
Occasionally, a nurse or a technician, avoiding our eyes, murmured to our nurse. She always knew what to say. She was managing equipment, drawing bloods, pushing meds, rerouting the four units of fresh frozen plasma that had been ordered to the OR, negotiating with the anesthesiologist, coordinating the move to the OR-all the time talking with Bruce, watching him for pain, and answering our questions. She told him again that there had been an accident, he was in St Catherine's Hospital, she was Meg, his nurse, and would take good care of him. She told us again that she didn't mind answering questions. She said she would repeat information eight times if necessary, because people under stress can't remember anything. She said she takes care of every patient as if he were a brother.
Bruce's father had never needed to know much about hospitals, but he had heard me talk about the art of nursing. He told her how impressed he was with her work, how she took care of Bruce and of us. She grinned at me and said, "I had good teachers."
PS: Bruce lived. It was a long and difficult recovery. His chest is a bit asymmetrical. There's the trach scar. But if you saw him out and about and didn't know about the accident, you might not suspect a thing. He's back to work full time, fixing trucks. He says life is good. I still talk about the art of nursing whenever I get the chance.