A few weeks ago I had a particularly tough patient. I know every new day doesn’t guarantee progress. But I still like to think that I leave my patients in an improved state from how I found them. And with this particular patient I struggled to see what impact I left.
Quick onset of a disease that they weren’t going to recover from. Hospital delirium had set in. Constant verbal outcries. Restraints. I exhausted my PRN medications early in the shift and was in commuication with the doctors, but nothing seemed to help. No progress had been made in days. And, due to the patient’s mental status, I wasn’t able to communicate with them about their needs. Or at least not in the traditional, verbal way.
I felt limited. I felt helpless.
Upset by my perceived lack of contribution, I called my friend on my way home to clear my head. Not expecting to have my mindset changed, I was surprisingly relieved when she said, “I know it doesn’t feel like you helped them, but at least you were there. And sometimes that does more than you know.”
After she said that, I felt a weight lifted from shoulders. A new lightness in my chest. Because she was right. I was so hyperfocused on everything I wasn’t able to do for the patient that I looked past the impact my presence alone can have. I still talked with the patient every time I entered the room, explained what the plan was and what medications they were getting through their feeding tube, and who else was visiting that day. I lead each encounter with a shoulder touch or a hand squeeze to let them know I was there. Hoping that some of it got through to them.
What I would’ve given to have just one moment of clarity for them that day. But some days all you can do is lead with your gut. Follow orders. Promote comfort. And at the end of your 12 hours, know that at the very least, you were there.
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