“I am first and foremost, human.”
Early in my academia career, I introduced myself to my students as being not only their educator but “first and foremost, a nurse.” I’m not sure why I introduced myself that way—maybe it was the pride that comes with holding their hands through the start of their vigorous career and the excitement that comes with it. But after a whole lot of grief and a long stint of sadness, the phrase “first and foremost a nurse” no longer resonates with me.
Don’t get me wrong—being a nurse has been the highlight of my life and career. From the moment I changed my major (for the fourth, fifth, or maybe even the sixth time), I’ve loved every second of the job, no matter how physically, mentally, and emotionally taxing it was. I decided to teach to share that joy and touch lives by creating new nurses. It has truly been a calling; however, on a spiritual plane, my journey in nursing (and in life) was flipped on its head just this last year.
We tend to uplift our healthcare personnel as “healthcare heroes” and by default of the term, there is an assumption of invincibility that goes with it. But how realistic is that description? By no means does this discredit the efforts and tremendous feats nurses face daily. I’m not sure if it has come with experience or age, but I don’t think I’ve come across a single fellow nurse who recognizes themselves as a hero or someone who doesn’t wear their heart on their sleeve. I’m not a hero, either. I’m a nurse who does not need the valor of any other title. Sure, maybe sometimes I’m helpful or I make a difference in a patient’s life, but again, I am “first and foremost, human”—one who puts others’ needs ahead of my own.
Being the only nurse in my family comes with some added pressure, too. Aside from the typical medical questions, I have an unspoken and self-assigned duty to care for everyone in the family in any way I can. As a nurse, at least in my family, I am a medical dictionary, an off-duty educator, and an advocate, even in those hours away from the bedside. And although I will never deny or resent any of it (because honestly, who can care better for our own loved ones than ourselves?) and as much of an honor it is, I have still found myself feeling as though I am “first and foremost, a nurse.”
Unfortunately, in what feels like has been a relatively young life, I am familiar with loss. The collective losses in profound periods of growth, from my childhood until now, definitely inspired my career choice.
About a year ago, my grandmother’s health declined rapidly, and the nurse in me forgot to stop being a nurse and only be the grieving granddaughter I was. Amid the summer semester and a few weeks shy of her 93rd birthday, she took her last breath, and I felt a piece of my soul go along with it. My grief hasn’t been pretty.
My grandmother was the pillar of my inspiration to become a nurse. She and I had a soul connection I can’t begin to explain. She also wanted to be a nurse, but as a Latina during the Great Depression era, it simply wasn’t an option for her. Regardless of a degree, she cared for anyone she could in any capacity she knew how to and was constantly learning the best and most up-to-date ways of doing the simplest skills. Her love and inspiration carried me so incredibly far, and by default, the loss of her was the most devastating to date.
Just as with any of my patients, I racked my brain for anything I could’ve done to be more helpful to her. I wanted to care for her in any and every capacity I could. I wanted to be her case manager, home health nurse, hospice nurse, and advocate, but in that drive, I failed to recognize that “I am first and foremost, human.” I wanted to save her, and it was a distraction from my presence. I could not sit still in the quiet moments and just “be” with her. The hospice nurses recognized this and took the time to sit with me, nurse to nurse, and let me be a vulnerable, sobbing mess. They knew how badly I wanted to do something, anything, but regretfully understood there was nothing to be done.
After some time away from work, but not enough time away from my email account and online coursework, I returned to the classroom. I submerged myself in piles of work and the creation of new course activities, presentations, and experiences. I didn’t allow myself enough time and grace, but again, as nurses do, I put my students’ needs ahead of my own.
But I didn’t feel like the same person anymore. Each week, I developed a new activity or lesson, and each weekend, I slept through my sadness between clinic site visits. I convinced myself that I needed the distraction from my own emotions, and being busy was the remedy to that. Little did I know my emotions themselves were wildly distracting me, and it showed through my student evaluations.
Though I felt I had been open about my situation, simple comments like, “She takes too long to respond to emails.” or “This class was harder than it needed to be.” made me recognize that I wasn’t transparent enough. I didn’t intend any harm, but in retrospect, I see that my lack of self-compassion for my healing did not allow me to be fully present for anyone, with the biggest impact being on my students.
Those evaluations, as mild as they were, felt like they added fuel to the fire of my already all-consuming sadness. I only knew I had hit rock bottom when my body began to physically manifest what I tried so hard to suppress in my mind. With lots of healing still in progress, a whole year later, these realizations have helped me regain some momentum.
My grandmother would have made a phenomenal nurse. She poured love into people’s cups, despite the emptying of her own. She winked at me when she could and smiled with any remaining strength she had. I recognized parts of me, like my crooked finger and pointy elbows, are exactly like her. I’d like to think that I’ve inherited her other qualities as well, like finally understanding that grace can only be given to others when we can first give it to ourselves. We can’t be phenomenal nurses, or inspire phenomenal nurses, without self-compassion, and we really cannot connect with others if we lack humility created by these human experiences.
So in this, my friends, colleagues, and even students, be kind to yourself. Take a step back from the chaos when you can, and really, truly FEEL. Allow yourself to sit in that feeling, process it, and heal, just like we encourage our patients to do.
After all, yes, you are a nurse. But like me, you are first and foremost, human.
Deanna M. Vilardell, MSN, RN, is an instructor at Texas Tech University Health Sciences Center El Paso and a member of Sigma’s Alpha Beta Theta Chapter.