Over the weekend I watched a normal family unit cope with a devastating series of events. Whilst some members "crumbled" under the weight of the situation, others remained stoic, each person dealing with the news in their own way.
You see this a lot on ICU
I have learnt that you can never ever second guess just how people will react in these situations, because often enough, non have ever been through something similar before.
The other morning I received an email from the wife of an old patient of mine.
I had been instrumental in helping the woman becoming pregnant, ( something I am sure that you would never have believed ) but you have to remember that the patient involved had a severe traumatic paralysis and that I was the nurse working with the couple in the fertility clinic at that time.
The patient, who I will call James, was only in his twenties at the time. He had dived into the sea on his first holiday in Spain and had struck his head on the sand at a shallow spot.
This had resulted in a fracture of his fifth vertebrae,and an immediate and devastating paralysis from his chest down.
He never recovered.
I remembered James well. I remember him being nursed flat for twelve weeks with his neck in traction. I remembered his wife, a pragmatic Nolfolk countrywoman who could only visit on weekends and I remember him never complaining about his lot, even when faced with the overwhelming sadness of loosing every physical thing you ever held dear.
James just dealt with the brickbats.
His mantra was "let's get on with it!"
The generic email from James' wife remained typically simple.
It said " we are sorry to report that following a short illness James died peacefully at home surrounded by his friends and family and with his loyal dog Judy at his side.
He was a much loved son, brother, cousin, uncle, husband and father and was an inspiration to everyone who met him"
I last saw James at that fertility clinic appointment twenty years ago. He remained resolutely upbeat about his life with disability, that is until I was involved with the intimate and very private moment that fertility patients have to endure, only then did he break down and cried silent tears in the worried hope that all would be well.
I remember wiping away those tears for him, for he was not even able to do that for himself, and he cried long and hard for much of the consultation as the fooodgates opened after years and years of coping without complaint.
James' son was born healthy and happy the following spring. I believe he is now a student at The University of Suffolk.
You see this a lot on ICU
I have learnt that you can never ever second guess just how people will react in these situations, because often enough, non have ever been through something similar before.
The other morning I received an email from the wife of an old patient of mine.
I had been instrumental in helping the woman becoming pregnant, ( something I am sure that you would never have believed ) but you have to remember that the patient involved had a severe traumatic paralysis and that I was the nurse working with the couple in the fertility clinic at that time.
The patient, who I will call James, was only in his twenties at the time. He had dived into the sea on his first holiday in Spain and had struck his head on the sand at a shallow spot.
This had resulted in a fracture of his fifth vertebrae,and an immediate and devastating paralysis from his chest down.
He never recovered.
I remembered James well. I remember him being nursed flat for twelve weeks with his neck in traction. I remembered his wife, a pragmatic Nolfolk countrywoman who could only visit on weekends and I remember him never complaining about his lot, even when faced with the overwhelming sadness of loosing every physical thing you ever held dear.
James just dealt with the brickbats.
His mantra was "let's get on with it!"
The generic email from James' wife remained typically simple.
It said " we are sorry to report that following a short illness James died peacefully at home surrounded by his friends and family and with his loyal dog Judy at his side.
He was a much loved son, brother, cousin, uncle, husband and father and was an inspiration to everyone who met him"
I last saw James at that fertility clinic appointment twenty years ago. He remained resolutely upbeat about his life with disability, that is until I was involved with the intimate and very private moment that fertility patients have to endure, only then did he break down and cried silent tears in the worried hope that all would be well.
I remember wiping away those tears for him, for he was not even able to do that for himself, and he cried long and hard for much of the consultation as the fooodgates opened after years and years of coping without complaint.
James' son was born healthy and happy the following spring. I believe he is now a student at The University of Suffolk.
