Confronting fragility: a perfectionist father’s illness.

“Nurses make horrible patients,” my dad’s words echoed in my mind as I stood beside his hospital bed. Confined to this cold and sterile room, he, once a seasoned nurse, now teetered between worlds, fighting to maintain control of his crumbling body and the walls that had always surrounded him.

My father took pride in his immaculate exterior wall. He kept a well-manicured lawn and showcased three exemplary children and a life partner we referred to as our “uncle” when outside the wall. The inside structure was sharp and less forgiving. Within the confines of his perfectly controlled life, I was subjected to restrictive diets and forced to starve myself, all in pursuit of fitting his external vision of a perfect 16-year-old girl. I didn’t match his mural, but at least I had “a pretty face.”

In this hospital bed, my father’s wall became brittle and translucent. Machines whirred, extending their tentacles, both charging him with life and subtly stealing it away. Weakened by the long-term use of prednisone, his body bore the weight of cancer’s progression, leaving him moon-faced and unrecognizable. His once unblemished mural, now in ruins, left him dependent and vulnerable, requiring nursing assistance for basic tasks like toileting and bathing.

In his time of greatest vulnerability, the nurses assigned to his care—Nurse Kay, Nurse Jessica, and Nurse Tina—turned a blind eye to his suffering. They refused medications, neglected repositioning, and denied him even the most basic nursing care. Overhearing their callous remarks dismissing him as “the gay guy” shattered my faith in their advocacy. It became clear to me that if anyone would champion his cause, it would have to be me.

Becoming his nurse: a daughter’s journey,

My father became my “patient” teacher, a role reversal that defied our usual dynamic. He guided me in recording his input and output amounts, deciphering lab reports, and assisting with tasks like bedpans and urinals. I learned how to care for his raw and neglected sacral bedsore, a wound the nurses refused to acknowledge. One night, I spilled the urinal on his bed as I was attempting to slide it out from under him. A knot of shame formed in my throat. But through his own stifled cry, he taught me how to change sheets while he remained in the bed.

Each lesson chipped away at the wall between us, revealing vulnerability and fostering a deeper understanding of his plight. “I should’ve been a nurse,” I quipped, removing his soiled sheets.

Amid the chaos of raising three children of my own, a new career in nursing seemed impossible. “It’s never too late,” he replied.

His vulnerability and the blurred boundaries of our relationship inspired me to consider that I could both be a nurse and a mother. He saw my potential instead of flaws; he saw me. This revelation opened new doors as I embraced the idea of becoming a nurse.

A father’s lasting impact.

One fateful Sunday night, sitting by his bedside next to a Christmas tree, I held my father’s hand as he departed this world. The grandfather clock chimed ten times, and a few minutes later he was gone. Following his death, I spent much time going through the motions, sipping life through a straw from under the surface, as I fought against drowning in grief. In the struggle to find balance between life when he existed and life without him, I clung to the transformative experience of caring for my father. It became the driving force behind my journey to become a registered nurse, forever shaped by his lessons on humanity. Through this experience, I discovered that patience, not just patients, makes a great nurse.

Amanda Converse, BSN, RN, is a pediatric nurse in Nebraska. She writes, “When I’m not doing nurse things, I like to write and paint. I published my first children’s book last fall. I live in Waverly, NE, with my husband, three children, and two perfectly imperfect puppies.”