Debbie Moore-Black is a nurse who blogs at Do Not Resuscitate.
We were a team. Always had been. Always would be. We defended each other, protected each other—from management, from nurse bullies, from the cruel ICU doctors who thought they ruled the world. Back in the day, we had our own kind of “therapy sessions”—long talks over coffee, unloading the weight of twelve-hour shifts, of lives saved and lost, of the battles fought in the trenches of critical care. But life …
Dear new nurse graduate,
Welcome to a world unlike any other—a world brimming with happiness, sadness, confusion, self-doubt, defeat, and heroism. You’ve just stepped onto the first rung of a ladder that reaches into the unknown. Nursing is not easy, and there will be countless moments when you ask yourself, “What was I thinking?” or “Why did I choose this path?”
But nursing isn’t just a job; it’s a lifelong journey, a …
The sun was out, casting a warm glow over the world as the snow melted into slush. The air was crisp, invigorating, as I leashed up my pups for their morning half-mile walk. Today, I had an extra companion, another pup I was babysitting, turning my duo into a trio.
As we strolled, I couldn’t help but feel grateful. My health—both physical and …
A former ICU nurse and close friend told me tonight that she wanted to start the new year on a positive note. I nodded, trying to absorb her optimism, but deep down, it felt like an impossible belief to hold onto.
Earlier in the evening, I finished watching Selena: The Series on Netflix. Tears streamed down my face, not just for Selena but for all those whose greatness was taken too …
I was on the phone with my sister when I thought I heard a knock at the door. Then another. My dogs barked, and I told her, “Don’t hang up.” My chest tightened. Nightmares of someone coming for me flashed through my mind—a stranger lurking in the dark.
After more than 40 years as a nurse, transitioning from the chaos of the ER to the intensity of the ICU, I thought …
It was that bewitching hour. 0300. Behavioral health unit/behavioral health intensive care unit.
She was a small young woman. Her eyes appeared black as coal, as if her soul had been sucked out repeatedly. There were bruises around her eyes, black and blue punch marks up and down her arms. Several superficial cuts on her forearm—self-destruction. She was quiet, almost invisible. She wanted to sit in the corner of her bed, …
I was raised in the Catholic Church. The solemn, reserved, respectful quiet as the priest whispered out his occasional reverent chants. That’s what I knew. That was the only thing I grew to love of the Catholic faith.
This friend of mine. We met years ago by happenstance. She was a firm believer in God, her husband, her dog, her daughters, and her Christian novels that she read feverishly.
She also loved …
In the ICU, there was an experienced nurse. She was full of information and knew the policies and procedures inside and out. She was proficient in her role as an ICU nurse.
But she was flawed. Something was wrong.
Each day, she came to work wearing a gold bracelet, which she made sure everyone knew was valued at $15,000. She wore two-carat diamond rings. She would arrive, showing off her fancy pocketbook …
Fred was the cool guy.
Back in the 1950s and 60s, smoking cigarettes was considered movie star quality. That circling of smoke in his parked car with the girl of his dreams.
He started smoking at the tender age of 15.
Fred had it figured out. Cigarettes were glamorous. Cigarettes were cool.
Doctors advertised that smoking was good for you. It helped you keep weight off, and it relieved your anxiety.
In 1965, the Surgeon …
(Trigger warning: suicide attempt)
It was dinner time at this hospital’s psychiatric unit. They shuffled into the dining area—slippers, pajamas, disheveled, sad, lonely, depressed … and forgotten.
Head count. All were present except for one: Rita. Faithful Rita. Always at every therapy session, including poetry therapy, art therapy, and bingo night. Always smiling and laughing, cheering up the other patients. Rita was 54 years old and a mother of three. Her husband …
After 45 years as an ICU nurse specializing in surgical trauma ICU and eventually PACU nursing, Marsha wasn’t ready to retire. She was restless and bored and decided to continue her PACU expertise at a freestanding surgical center. While juggling that job and an endoscopy center, she started to notice a recurring theme: time is money.
The endoscopy freestanding clinic performed colonoscopies, EGDs, and sigmoidoscopies—up to 42 procedures a day. More …
I waited in line at the pharmacy, a familiar chain store. The man in front of me waited patiently for the technician to ring up his meds. I overheard her say to him, “$125.00. That includes your insulin.”
The man bowed his head and smiled politely, showing many missing teeth. He was dressed modestly. I did not know his name. I did not know him. I had never met him before. …
I understand it well. You persuade yourself that everything is fine. And then you persuade others that your marriage is perfect.
You’re facing a terminal illness, but you’re the exception because it surely can’t happen to you.
You’re in poor health with unexplained aches and pains, but you avoid visiting your doctors, instead praying to Jesus to alleviate your pain. To heal you of whatever it might be.
Denial. I was a workhorse. …
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My mother. 63 years old. Colon cancer.
She first noticed rectal bleeding. She made excuses. Maybe it’s hemorrhoids.
She put her physician on a pedestal. He said, “You’re too young to die,” and there was no need for further tests.
Her daughters, both RNs (one an ICU nurse, the other an anesthetist), pleaded with her to get a colonoscopy. She refused. We pleaded with her getting a second opinion. She refused. Her once-plump …
My first post-op night after my nephrectomy was a mix of fantastical and almost devastating.
I woke up in the PACU after my surgery, extremely confused and disoriented. I felt like I was trapped inside a video game, desperately trying to escape.
Upon entering my new post-op room on a medical-surgical unit, it had that brand-new, hotel-like decor – shiny and pristine. The nurses, techs, and NPs greeted me with words of …
A small, cliquish bevy of nurses was working their way through orientation in the NICU straight out of nursing school. They were happy and thrilled to be accepted into this specialized nursing unit: the NICU.
Practicing good hygiene, washing hands up to the elbows with soap each time one entered a baby’s cubicle, and gowning and gloving was a standard and mandatory protocol before touching the babies.
These were preemies in the …
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A solid mass silently grew on my kidney. An unwelcome addition. Asymptomatic. Discovered haphazardly during a CT scan of my lungs … And it revealed itself.
At first, I was devastated. Will cancer ever leave me alone? It has already visited me twice before. First, breast cancer, also asymptomatic, detected during my very first mammogram at the age of 42, and then a troublesome mole that tested positive for melanoma.
I seemed …
After 32 years working as an ICU nurse, I believed I had developed a strong capacity to confront death alongside my patients. I had become accustomed to the challenging scenarios: co-morbidities, multi-system organ failure, emergency intubations, ventilators, pressors, central lines, art lines, failure-to-thrive cases, code blues, and the grim sounds of ribs cracking during CPR.
It was not uncommon to witness families desperately shouting, “Do everything,” even when there was little …
25 years ago, at the age of 42, I had my first mammogram, which was part of my routine checkup. I had no symptoms at the time.
I was devastated when the radiologist discovered a shadow in my left breast. To confirm this, a biopsy was scheduled, and indeed, the biopsy confirmed that I had breast cancer.
I consider myself fortunate because we caught it early, and there was no involvement of …
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I like to thrift shop. Aisle after aisle weaves a story of people and their lives. Pieces of trinkets I’ll never need. But I can feel the hidden simple beauty, and then I have to have it. My children can line my gravesite with the thousands of collectible pottery… those awkward, strange gems I know I can’t take with me.
And then …
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