Written 2012 October
I shut my eyes close. Yet I can still see flickering small, red spots just like you are in a dark box. This is the only way out from what it seems reality for us.
We are fragile beings.
I can see when patients begin crying hysterically as they cannot breathe. Some calmly holding my hand while I am trying to be compose but still breathing fast.
We are individuals at the mercy of our body.
This time I wanted to make a short real story of a "Baba"- as we call most of our patients. This Baba who passed away 2009. It was my first death-and-dying experience. He is someone who can actually converse in English in apparently Arabic world. It was the first toxic night as I turned 3 months working in Saudi Arabia. A story that I can never forget.
I touched one patient who was entirely exhausted and full of pain. I left no words while looking at him- and he looks helpless as I am helpless. It seems that for all his life he was fighting to survive but here I saw him giving up. He survived a heart attack and left him a healthy part of his heart working but it is not enough, he survived while his kidneys did not and he needs a help of dialysis- and he survived an impending bone infection again but left him handicapped as the surgeons amputate his legs-just above his knee.
He was calling me every five minutes- I will never forget that. If I got exhausted, he was even more. If I was complaining that my back hurts for all the lifting. He was having more pain. And the conversation starts as he grabbed my hands looking at my tired whining face.
He held my hands. And said, "My daughter, I'm sorry. You just don't know how I feel. You just don't know what kind of pain I am going." I want to say, I know. It must be so hard for you. I pity you-I will do my best. Oh, Ill give you more pain reliever but I cant. I just stayed there teary-eyed and I keep nodding my head while I hold his hand even firmly.
"I'm sorry if I keep on calling you. I'm sorry I made you tired. Do you know any medications that can ease my pain. What will I take? No doctors can even answer me that all."
- I cannot say a word. I can only remember my self nodding with my eyes teary. I tried not to cry as it was taught that a nurse must be strong in this kind of moment. But my eyes showed a lot that I don't need to say anything.
He called me daughter again, in his sincere words, like a father he pleaded me to let him breathe fresh air. He asked me if I can wheel him outside the hospital. So, I called the doctor-on-call but with his license at risk he said he cannot let him. He cannot permit him to go outside to breathe fresh air.
My heart was actually aching for him. If he was my father I'd risk because I know time is short. And I want his time to be where he wants to be. At least at that moment he just wanted to breathe not inside a suffocating room of a hospital.
I survived that night. Barely. With an incident report written against me for giving a 2u insulin for a BSL of 16 and with my innate carelessness I forgot someone to check it with me bedside.
That was the last night I saw him.
Those medications are not of any help. His entire body rejecting and in turmoil.
With me running out of words to explain. With my clumsiness to hide my face out of emotions. I was 22 years old trying to be 40. I was 22 who felt like a 9 year old with a father.
After growing up many years without one, I met that patient who called me daughter. I felt like his daughter. Just being there.
I was close to crying, helpless, whispering prayers in my mind and heart. Holding my father's hand. Reminiscing the last time I held my real father, it was like that. Catching his breath and facing what we call end and I was there beside him. Beside Baba and years ago I was beside my Papa along with his last breath.
I missed you. And to my patient Baba- I will never forget you for bringing back what is like to be called a daughter.
