By Marcy Phipps, RN, a regular contributor to this blog. Her essay, “The Love Song of Frank,” will be published in the May issue of AJN.
Years ago, long before I was a nurse, I read The Sheltering Sky, by Paul Bowles. He speaks of the tendency of people to take life for granted, and says that in the unpredictability of death there lies a presumption that everything is limitless:
“Because we don’t know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, an afternoon that is so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four, five times more, perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps 20. And yet it all seems limitless.”
Lately, especially at work, that quote has edged forward and lingered with me. The ICU I work in is primarily devoted to trauma, but there’s been a recent shift in patient demographics. Last week I took care of only one trauma patient—an athlete who’d had a bike accident—and then three patients with cancer in varying stages.
The patient I’m most haunted by is a 65-year-old woman who had arrived in the ER with pain and weakness and would be leaving the hospital with a stunning diagnosis of stage IV cancer, and with numbered days. When I last spoke to her she’d just met her new oncologist and was waiting to be transferred out of the ICU.
“I’m going home,” she said. “I’m going to be with my family and sit on my porch. I’m having a glass of wine.” Read the rest of this entry ?







