Columbia University Narrative Medicine Volvox Presentation

Please join me, the editors of “The Healer’s Burden: Stories and Poems of Professional Grief,” and two other contributors to the book, Lara Ronan and Rondalyn Varney Whitney, for a virtual panel discussion in the upcoming Columbia University Narrative Medicine Volvox Presentation on Wednesday, October 28th, 2020, from 7-9 pm EST / 5-7 pm PST.

I and the other contributors will be reading our pieces, and then we will have a discussion about the incredibly important and pertinent topic of professional grief in healthcare workers.


I can think of no other year when this conversation matters more.

You can find the link for registration and other info about the book here.

https://healersburden.com/upcoming-events/

Pre-Order Available: The Healer’s Burden

I am beyond thrilled to share that this book I had the privilege to contribute an essay to, The Healer’s Burden: Stories and Poems of Professional Grief, is now available for pre-order. My essay is titled “Silent Intercession,” and I am so looking forward to slowly making my way through the rest of the pieces.

Here is a description of the book from the editors:

What is Professional Grief?

Ignore. Suppress. Hide. Work in high-loss healthcare environments commonly demands turning away from one’s interior experiences in order to rapidly turn toward the next patient. In a culture that discourages vulnerability, how can a care provider effectively deal with the challenging emotions that naturally arise when faced with death, especially now in this critical time of pandemic? Thankfully, The Healer’s Burden: Stories and Poems of Professional Grief makes a space to tend this occult grief, and not a moment too soon. In a broad array of artistic and accessible perspectives, healthcare workers from multiple disciplines bravely pull back the curtain on their experiences of loss. Despite delving into death, The Healer’s Burden eschews the twin traps of despair on the one hand and platitude on the other. Using principles of narrative medicine, the editors catalyze a much-needed conversation about professional grief by including thoughtful questions and writing prompts. This book is a must for educators and clinicians alike who wish to constructively engage with rather than avoid their experiences of patient death.

With a foreword by Rana Awdish, MD, author of LA Times best-selling memoir In Shock:
“Reckoning with grief is no small task. But ignoring it is no longer necessary. ”

I can’t encourage you enough to buy this book, and share it with the healthcare professionals around you. It’s such an important time for us to bring this conversation to light in this extraordinary year that is 2020.

what I wish I could heal as your nurse

Would you give me permission to tell you

without overstepping my bounds, personal, professional

that this is not your fault.

You were only trying to take good care of your baby;

you didn’t know,

you didn’t know.

 

I see the protest in your eyes,

Someone has to be to blame, and that someone is me.

If I had known, if I hadn’t done this, if we hadn’t done that

our baby would still be alive.

 

How can I help loosen the grip that this mistake

threatens to hold over your life?

Would you give me permission to tell you

Can I tell you, you are still a good mama

Can I tell you, you are still a good papa

 

Can I tell you, your baby would forgive you too if he had the words;

of this I am sure.

 

Can I tell you, he knew you loved him to the very end.

Your tears baptize him

and your blessings flow

 

and flow

 

and flow.

 

No Ordinary Sunday

The readjusting back and forth between intensely challenging nursing shifts and everyday normal life is a real thing to navigate. It still catches me by surprise every time, how hard it really is.
I am in the thick of a full 12+ hours of trying to manage chaos and logistics in a unit full of very sick patients as charge nurse. In the blur, I am stopped in my tracks by moments of seeing family members who had literally just a minute ago received devastating news. A mother weeps, clutching her child’s teddy bear to her chest. The teddy bear is caught in this strange in-between of what was, and what now is. And then just 30 minutes later, I see the next set of family members with the same, but profoundly unique, broken expression.
I don’t want to grow overly accustomed to that expression on the family members’ faces and what it means. Yesterday held neither the appropriate time or space to let the stories sink in, to let me pay respect to the stories by allowing a human emotional response to all that they hold.
They always hit the next day. I work every Saturday, so often it’s Sunday at church. I’m catching up with friends I haven’t seen in a week. I want to hear about their life and their own joys and burdens. In the pit of my stomach I am nauseous with sadness over the stories that are hitting me. I am singing songs about hope, redemption, and joy, and it is in the practice of trying to form truthful words with my lips that I find the rubber hits the road with what faith in a good and loving God really means. This happens every Sunday for me, this small crisis of faith, as I am reconciling everything I have seen just the day before at work with everything my soul aches to sing with conviction on an ordinary Sunday at church.
I am chasing my healthy children in the church courtyard, taking in the gift that these ordinary moments are – to be able to just chase my healthy children at church. In my mind, I find myself reverently asking the parent next to me, “Isn’t it incredible…that we are here, watching our children play?” But I realize how odd that would sound. I am trying to catch up with friends after a week apart. And I am trying to decide whether to speak of my nausea and sadness, my mini crisis of faith, my weekly reconciling at church of what hope and joy look like for me, what they look like for the families with that indescribable expression that I left at the hospital yesterday. Do they look the same, or are they altogether different? Should they?
This is the navigating that I do as a nurse, between ‘work’ and ‘real life.’ They seem so entirely opposed and contradictory to each other, and yet so deeply and profoundly connected.
There is, for me, no ordinary Sunday.

TED-Ed Lesson for TEDxTalk “How Grief Can Enable Nurses to Endure” is now available!

For all nurse educators, managers, leaders, bookclub facilitators, or bedside nurses looking for a guided way to talk about work-related grief with other nurses:

I have created a new TED-Ed lesson based on my original TEDxTalk, “How Grief Can Enable Nurses to Endure.” It includes some introductory prompts allowing for people to share about their work-related grief experiences as well as their perspectives towards grief. The lesson then provides additional insights and references to other authors who have addressed grief and self-care in less traditional ways. Finally, the lesson concludes with closing discussion prompts to help participants consider how they can begin reframing their perspective towards work-related grief in nursing.

Participants do not currently need a TED-Ed account to participate in the discussion, as my desire is to reduce all barriers for voices to be heard in this conversation.

Please share this lesson with nurses, nurse leaders, managers, administrators and educators. It is my deep conviction that these conversations need to happen for the betterment and well-being of nurses who regularly encounter suffering, death and dying, and all the accompanying emotions.

Click here to access the lesson, and thank you in advance for contributing to this vital conversation!

A Strange Gift

Warning: This post is a bit on the heavier side, especially compared to the silliness of my recent conversations with Siri.

Yesterday was the first time I’ve ever done post-mortem care on a little patient, minus the partial experience I had as a nursing student a few years ago. Surreal hardly begins to describe the experience, from cleaning up a messy room that bears witness to the intense activity involved in coding a patient, to making eye contact with parents who are absolutely raw with grief, to bathing the patient in order to restore some small sense of dignity, to wrapping the patient with a shroud and bringing the patient to the hospital morgue.

Surreal. But it is part of my world. Our world, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not.

I was drawn to ICU nursing because I have a strong appreciation for the depth of issues that we face there, and I see it as an incredibly precious time to be a support for not only the patient but their grieving family members as well, particularly when we are dealing with end-of-life care.

But the weight of it all is substantial. The quiet entrance into a room full of grieving family members is the entrance into a space that has just suffered the most violent of all emotional earthquakes, looking for a foundation, is there one left? A space full of disappointment beyond measure but sometimes also hope, anger but sometimes also peace, and exhaustion… always exhaustion. After all, it takes everything you have and everything you are to say good-bye to the heart of your own heart. It takes all your being to search for light in a very dark place. This is the space that I entered as a nurse yesterday. What could I bring? What could I bring, and would it change anything in this space?

I could bring juice and crackers to parents who have thought very little of their own needs for hours, days, weeks, months, years.

I could clean up the room, quietly, gently, respectfully. There are some parts of saying good-bye that you just don’t need to remember, especially in an ICU. I could reduce the sense of chaos in some small way. I wanted such a clean room for them.

I could bring silence. Of course if they had questions, I would do my best to answer. But in terms of consolation for newly grieving parents, I am convinced that less is more. Maybe I say this out of my own lack of tolerance for pat answers. The movement towards resolution with our suffering is simply not as neatly packaged and bow-tied as some might have us think, and I am convinced we need to learn how to get more comfortable with being really uncomfortable in the gray areas – even as people of faith. I am convinced that the gift of silence to a grieving family is the recognition that they have now been thrust into an extremely uncomfortable, gray area, where they will likely stay for a very long time. Trying to move them out of it with premature clichés is counterproductive and potentially very hurtful.

I was so thankful for the accompaniment of an incredibly tender-hearted, skilled social worker who truly bore the brunt of the family’s grief yesterday. I told her how thankful I was that she was there, and that she did what she did so well. Her response was inspiring, sober, and honest. “Some of us are just gifted for this. And it’s a strange gift to have.” I am not an expert. I am awkward and new and scared as a young nurse facing these kinds of big issues. But by the grace of God, I believe I am gifted and called to this work. And I could not agree more. It is a strange gift to have, but it is mine, and it is what I have to offer.

Reblogged: Can Grief and Joy Coexist?

I deeply appreciate the honesty of this blog. I have lost my stomach for pat answers laden in overspiritualized vocabulary that invalidate the reality of what people experience when life is just honestly, hard. I have a deeper hunger for something both honest and real when we talk about joy in Christ, because of Christ. The same Christ who knew the Father was good, loving, and in complete control when He was broken on the cross and asked why He had been forsaken. He knew He wasn’t back Home yet, and He knows we are not either, not yet. This is the Savior I love, in whom I hope and in whom I can rejoice.

Clearing Customs

There is a phrase in Mandarin Chinese, bei xi jiao ji (悲喜交集), meaning “mixed feelings of grief and joy.” Grief and joy aren’t commonly thought of as partners, but when faced with loss, cross-cultural workers need to understand that one doesn’t necessarily cancel the other one out.

Expressing Grief

Dr. Steve Sweatman, president and CEO of Mission Training International (MTI), says that the call to take the gospel of Christ to another culture “inevitably is a call to sacrifice, to losses, to things that you will have to leave behind or give up.” This sacrifice takes many forms, and MTI has identified five categories of loss experienced by Christian cross-cultural workers. They are

  • a stable home
  • identity
  • competence
  • support systems
  • a sense of safety

In an audio presentation at Member Care Radio (entitled “Good Grief“), Sweatman also discusses the differences between concrete and abstract losses felt by cross-cultural…

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