It Doesn't Take a Stethoscope

To be honest (in a totally cliche way), my decision to become a nurse has forever changed me. My experiences in the hospital are embedded so much into the way I view and live my life. There are good days and bad days, and both can be hard to talk about. I often long to share these experiences with others but some things are not appropriate to discuss due to patient confidentiality. After reading a stranger's post on Facebook this morning in context of one of my shifts in the NICU earlier this week, I bawled (read it here, it was so touching).

There are some things that need to be said. **Reader discretion advised if you are pregnant**

There has been quite a frenzy in the media this past week or two about "The View" and the careless comments that were made about Miss Colorado's talent for the Miss America pageant. I admit, I was among those upset (however, it was really awesome to see nurses rally together to defend Miss Colorado and our profession). I enjoyed all of the memes on Facebook and we joked at work about how it's usually the doctors asking to borrow our stethoscopes. But after one of my shifts in the NICU this week, I had other thoughts (and while this post focuses mostly on my experiences with babies, I've had similar experiences with adults).

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Though stethoscopes are certainly essential to my work as a nurse, I find that does not really define the magnitude of my responsibilities as a nurse.

No, Joy Behar, my issue with you is not about the stethoscope.

It doesn't take a stethoscope to hear the anguished cries of a mother as she's in labor. It doesn't take a stethoscope to hear a baby's first cry after delivery. It doesn't take a stethoscope to hear the excitement of new mothers and fathers as they speak and whisper words of joy to their new little one.

By the same token, it doesn't take a stethoscope to hear "One and two and three and breathe" as the bag and mask is repetitively inflated to help a baby breathe, and chest compressions are given at a steady rate as a baby is resuscitated. It doesn't take a stethoscope to hear continuous beeping from alarms on the machines telling you that the resuscitation isn't effective enough. It doesn't take a stethoscope to hear the frantic footsteps of people running to grab blood products or the crash cart.

I have run down hospital hallways to make it to the bedside as quickly as possible. I have clumsily rushed to put together a bag and mask and attach it to oxygen for a baby that's blue. I have sat in the nursery at two in the morning with other staff and cried after our failed 3 hour infant resuscitation. I have held the hand of a mother whose baby was born with a terminal condition and shouldn't have survived delivery; I rocked the infant by her bedside so she could sleep for a few hours with the assurance that her baby was being held should he pass. I've seen the perfect little face of a stillborn baby who should have gone home with mom and dad.

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This week I had a sobering shift in the NICU. For nearly four hours I watched nurses literally running at full speed, back and forth from our unit and the lab, with fluids needed for a critical infant. I cringed at the sound of their pounding feet down the hallway and my heart ached. There was a particular silence and reverence that night on the unit among my coworkers and I as this baby was slowly dying. In comparison, my babies were progressing well. They weren't well enough to be home just yet, but they were going to be fine. They were going to go home. As I did their cares and fed these tiny babies that night, I was just a little more gentle and tender and whispered them words of encouragement and love.

These stories are the lives of your family, friends, neighbors, and community members, no matter where you may live. Their stories do not often get shared. Somewhere some parent is aching and longing to snuggle, feed, and change diapers of a baby they shouldn't have had to lose. Maybe it's the baby who lost a mother. You may know them personally, or they may be the person you pass in the frozen food aisle at the grocery store.

We don't always know what someone else is going through. My hope however, is that we can all be a little bit kinder and more forgiving and gentle with each other.

I would extend the invitation to think of these people today, and keep an extra prayer in your heart for them to have strength and courage in this unbelievably difficult challenge they have to bear. To these very special parents - I have no idea what it must feel like, but I hope you know that I ache for you and cry with you. And it doesn't take a stethoscope to do that.