The Imprint of a Nurse: ‘A Silhouette in the Dim’
This short essay was inspired by Nurse Chelsea Corson (and the many others at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania, Brigham and Women’s Hospital, and elsewhere), who cared for my wife, Dr. Amy Josephine Reed — as she warred against an iatrogenically advanced cancer and a women’s health disaster.
It’s 2 am. I’m laying on a hard cot in the corner looking at her in that hospital bed — about 30 days into our ordeal, April/May 2017.
I’ve been in this same hospital room hundreds of times as an intern, as a resident, as a chief resident, as a fellow, then as an attending doctor: like a bull in a china shop at 6 am, crashing the door open, turning on the lights — rudely. Maybe a “good morning” grunt to the body in bed, maybe not. Whipping the covers off the patient to check an incision, so I can move on to the next. Insensitive. Unaware. Stupid, in my sense of self importance: A young surgeon. But some of the old ones stay the same — Dumb!
I’m awake. She’s restless, but asleep. Occasionally, writhing — in a pain I wish upon myself, not her.
It’s dim — almost dark. “How did we ever get HERE?” — the unanswerable question that never leaves me.
But, HERE, we are.
Then, a momentary sprinkle of blinding florescent light pours in from the Hallway. But she closes the door quickly, quietly, softly. Her footsteps, barely audible.
There’s her silhouette in the dim — hovering over her hospital bed.
Gently tending. Whispering softly to her. Moving in stealth. Adding the meds, taking down old IVs. Emptying the drains and bags. Making sure she’s covered — not in too much pain.
I’m awake laying there quietly, watching her in my usual daze — the kind of daze you see people in, who’ve been in a car wreck, but physically unharmed.
I’m struck: her movements are gentle and quiet — ever so subtle.
She hardly makes a noise, in all her efficiency — she knows she’s in sacred space. I can feel it in the way she moves.
Finished her work, she adjusts her blanket.
I hear her whisper.
“Thank you, Chelsea”.
“Get some rest, Amy”.
The door opens and shuts — softly. The florescent light pours in — for a split second.
Her Silhouette is gone — it’s dark again.
On she goes — tending the next soul.
She knows I’m awake.
“She’s so soft — like an angel”. She told me.
“Yeah — she is.”
It’s a few minutes past 2am.
I’m hyperaware of my own ignorance: a young surgeon’s insensitive rudeness, mine, in this same sacred space — not so long ago. But some of the old ones stay the same — Dumb!
I blush.
I did not know.
Angels and quiet heroes are real, friend. But, we see them only when our worlds come crashing down.
I am reminded:
“A lady with a lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good,
Heroic womanhood.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
