My eyes were wide with fear, my stomach was in my throat, and my hands were experiencing a nearly uncontrollable tremor. She grabbed my hand as they began wheeling me down the hallway. I could tell by the way she was gripping my sweaty, shaky palm that she was kind. She had kind hands. They were cold and smelled of clean antiseptic, but I knew that she was there. She gave me a gentle squeeze here and there to let me know that she was with me. I could feel my IV burning in my other arm and my stomach was churning. I was nervous. I was staring up at the cold hospital lights thinking about how a doctor I had met once or twice before was going to cut into my body. I felt so small in that big hospital bed, so weak, so helpless. Yet she was still holding my hand; grasping it tightly. As we got closer and closer to the operating room, she began asking me questions. She asked me to tell her about my favorite things, my friends, and some of my dreams. All the while, she was still holding my hand. They moved me from my bed-on-wheels to a sturdy, cold operating table. The bright lights still shone in my eyes and I could feel my hair crunching in the stiff fabric that was holding my locks in place. She was still holding my hand. As the operating team surrounded me, hooked me up to cord after cord, and softly chattered about what each of them were doing, she was still holding my hand. A man with a harsher voice put a mask over my face and told me to breathe in a couple of times. The woman grasping my hand whispered in my ear that I was going to start to feel sleepy. She stroked my hair, squeezed my hand, and told me to dream about all of the wonderful things I had just shared with her. As the room began swirling around me and the voices became more and more distant, I could still feel her holding my hand. I knew she was there.
In what seemed like no time at all, I began coming out of what felt like the deepest sleep I have ever had. Everything simultaneously hurt and felt numb, yet I knew one thing for sure. She was still holding my hand.
She was my nurse. She had walked with me from the odd comfort of my hospital room, to the operating room, through the procedure, and was still there when I woke up in recovery. She saw the fear in my eyes and she wanted me to know that I wasn’t alone. She wanted to prove to me that she would be there with me every step of the way. She wanted to make sure that I was comforted and felt loved in a situation that can oftentimes be very scary and cold.
Although this specific recollection was from one surgery that I had, I have undergone more procedures than I can even count. I have battled a slough of health problems in my life. Many people might not even know what some of the conditions that I face are, but they represent defining moments in my life, as well as day-to-day struggles. My health is an unpredictable part of my life. I never know when I am going to have a good or bad day. Through my health journey, one thing has remained constant: my nurses.
In almost all of my hospital experiences, my nurses have been the ones that I most deeply connect with. They are the ones who manage my pain, give me advice, listen to my needs, desire to know me, provide help when I can’t do something on my own, and always make sure that I am supported. They have been my advocates when I need to be advocated for and they are the ones who slow down and help me understand what everything means.
I am in nursing school, because I want to be the person who gets to care for others just as I have been cared for. I want to listen to my patients and their families, walk with them through the unknowns, encourage them in hard moments, and always advocate for their needs.
I am in nursing school so that I can serve others when they are unable to do things on their own. I want to educate patients and their families, and comfort them when they need it. I am in nursing school so I can quell anxieties and manage each of my patients’ needs.
I am going to be a nurse so that I can hold my patients’ hands and never let go.
