Of Nurses and Comets
Very few professions foster the kind of close relationships with peers that nursing does. Nurses typically spend more time and have more intensely personal interactions with patients and coworkers than they do with their own families. In the emotionally charged environment of most medical facilities, nursing professionals work side by side, day in and day out, providing care and comfort to sick and dying patients as well as support to their distressed loved ones, inevitably sharing more than just the clinical aspects of the job. As a team they tackle difficult situations, and share their frustrations, losses, and triumphs. To relieve the unrelenting stress of dealing daily with human suffering and myriad other challenges of the profession, such as chronic understaffing and shift work, they talk with and tease one another. And when the pressures of balancing a personal life and a demanding professional life seem like too much to handle, they’re there to lend their comrades a helping hand, a shoulder to cry on, or a 'you-can-do-it pep' talk.
Not surprisingly, then, nurses often form strong bonds and close friendships with their fellow nurses, many lasting a lifetime. Such was the case for me throughout my thirty-four year nursing career. One of my most memorable and enduring working relationships was with Joy.
For five years, Joy and I worked as RNs in the Medical unit of a sixty bed hospital. We were team mates on the same grueling rotation: twelve-hour days one week, twelve-hour nights the next. Whenever a new patient was admitted to our unit, Joy and I always tried to greet the newcomer together. After welcoming the patient by name, I’d announce, "Your nurses this shift are Comfort and Joy." In response to which the patient would either stare at me in bewilderment or ask, "Who did you say was working?" And I’d say, "Comfort and Joy. … She’s Joy. I’m Comfort." That usually brought a chuckle or a smile to the patient. It didn’t take long before the staff started referring to us as Comfort and Joy, too.
Joy was tall, slim, and willowy, with blond hair reaching down to her waist, usually worn in a long braid. I, on the other hand was dark-haired, fuller figured, and older than Joy by ten years. Joy was timid about expressing her opinion, I was sometimes too opinionated. Joy was born and raised in the town we lived in and her family was a farm family, whereas my background as a Newfoundlander was that of fishing and the sea. Our diverse backgrounds allowed us to teach each other and share the differences between us. We also shared similarities. Both of us were the oldest of five children, we both had long, stable marriages, we each had children and those children were a boy and a girl. We lived in a little Nova Scotia village just across the river from the town where our hospital was located. Very rarely did we socialize outside of the workplace, other than at staff parties or hospital functions. We would laugh at the different lifestyles we lived, and the fact that I could be somewhat of an independent person, enjoying time alone while Joy had her family living all around her on the farmland her family owned. My family was far away in another province. Joy's husband was a professional photographer, mine was in law enforcement, Joy loved china and silver, I love pottery and an outdoor lifestyle. Though my children were considerably older than Joy’s, we had plenty of things to commiserate and celebrate with one another—all of the usual hassles, dreams, joys, and tears of running a household and raising kids, along with the unique impact that our shared profession had on our personal lives. We even sometimes nursed one another through our own illnesses.
Joy and I worked exceptionally well together, and there was never a cross word between us. We knew each others’ work habits, and we respected and trusted one another’s clinical skill and professional integrity. Together, we made for one heck of an efficient nursing tag team. We loved working together, and we loved our work.
But neither of us liked the twelve-hour night shifts. The hours between 7:00 p.m. and 7:00 a.m. seemed to drag on and on. One of our rare breaks from the monotony was an evening maintenance man who, from time to time, would make his rounds on a bicycle, sending us into gales of laughter. One night as Stewart pedaled by on his bike, he mentioned that a comet was visible that night because the sky was exceptionally clear. Joy and I looked at each other with matching expressions of glee and determination. We put our heads together and conspired to slip outside later to search the night sky for the comet. Rounds first, organize the shift, check out the comet: that was our plan.
Around 3:00 a.m., Joy came striding toward me with her cup of tea in hand. "C’mon, let’s go gaze at the heavens."
The time was right: The patients were all asleep, the LPNs were there to monitor things, and the sky was still dark and crystal clear. We did a thorough check of the cardiac monitors, took one last glance around the unit to make sure all was well, left instructions with the LPNs to come fetch us if anything went awry. Then we headed outside.
The hospital was built around a center courtyard, with the first-level walls surrounding the courtyard made almost entirely of glass. Not far from our nursing station, a set of patio doors opened into the courtyard; from there, Joy and I could look for the comet and still be within sight and shouting range of our unit. A cool August breeze ruffled our hair, and the night sky was magnificent, even without a comet. The twinkling stars looked like a scattering of diamonds against a deep blue velvet background, providing a perfect backdrop for the full moon. It was very still out there, no beepers, phones, buzzers, or alarms to distract us from astrological quest. We stood quietly, side by side, gazing upward, occasionally remarking in a whisper about this and that.
Suddenly, Joy pointed upward and said, "Make a wish, Bon."
I looked in the direction she was pointing in time to see a shooting star, which was immediately followed by another and then another one.
Then I spotted it: the comet, bright and beautiful, with its tail a streak of white sparkling light, like something straight out of a movie. We stood in awe, silent, engrossed in our own thoughts as we gazed with wonder at heaven’s display, soaking it in. It was a powerful spiritual moment that transcended time and space. Joy and I both felt it, and we were humbled by it.
As we slowly made our way back to our nurses’ station, Joy said, "How could anyone see something like that and not believe there is a Power greater than us?" I could only nod in agreement.
We knew how sick some of the people in our care were that night; we knew some of them might not make it to morning. We had needed the spiritual renewal of that celestial moment to help us cope with whatever the rest of the night might bring. Just as we needed the comfort and joy of our friendship to sustain us in our jobs and in our lives.Bonnie J-Lowe
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