Please Note: This guest essay was written by my colleague Brian Beichner RN
This reflection is my personal advice to the nurse that has to deal with the loss or potential loss of a patient. My advice is simple, talk to your patient, always. I talk to them on their good days, we talk when they feel off, I have whispered in their ear as they pass, and I still talk to them when they are gone, while preparing their body for their last journey in this world.
We will call her Dee because she deserves more than “her” or a “she” in this memory. Dee was my mom’s name, so it is as good as any for the fictitious name of this patient. Dee was near comatose when I met her. She was mute, bedbound, and receiving most of her meals through a straw. I was to bathe her, administer medications, feed her, and chart her vitals. I did this routinely for a week until it began to feel empty. Her family told me that she hadn’t responded to them in months and that she was already gone but her body would not let go. I was relatively new to nursing at the time, so I took them by their word and performed my daily duties.
Between my duties, I would observe the lovely art around the room with detailed canvas paintings bright with emotion and life. Some full of joy, others more sad or somber, but all very real even down to the brush stroke. The family had informed me that Dee had painted them all, over 60 paintings in the house, not to mention those stored in the attic. Later while caring for Dee, I told her how much I loved her paintings, particularly the one of the ballerina. I wasn't sure but I thought she smiled, but I dismissed it and carried on with my duties.
This became my new routine with Dee; I would tell her how I felt about each of her paintings while I cared for her. I never heard much from her except for the occasional moan when I had to change her position. I talked about nearly all of them but my favorite was the teal clad ballerina dancing in the pond. One day while feeding her I shared with her that I told my friend about her paintings because she was a ballerina. Dee smiled and in the softest voice I ever heard told me, “I was a dancer, I love to dance.” She smiled for a few seconds longer and then her smile faded back to blank. This remained the only time she ever spoke to me.
I cared for Dee for three more weeks before I was transferred to another patient assignment. I always talked about her paintings while I cared for her but we never had another moment like the one discussed. However, I always felt like I could see warmth in her eyes from that day forward. I don’t know if it is true or if she even really talked to me. Sometimes I wonder if it was all in my head but I will never forget the bond that was created between Dee and I on that day and how it changed my nursing career forever. I always talk to my patients, especially when they cannot seem to be “checked in”. I think it is vital that a nurse say connected with their patient in any way they can.
Dee died at the age of 97 about 3 months later, or so I was told. I don’t know if she ever knew that I was with her but she remains with me in every patient I care for. I always look for the stories on the walls of my patient’s room. I search for the “ballerina” within each patient. I hope that someday, if I am stuck in the same state of in between, someone will search for me at the time I need to be found most.
Thank you Brian Beichner RN for sharing such an incredibly moving experience with us. Special thanks as well to artist, Anne Milligan whose painting compliments this narrative like a glove to hand. This painting was not created by Dee, yet it is Divine reflection of her spirit. Thank you, Anne!
Liz Sorensen Wessel
Journal of Sacred Work 
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