Goodbye to a Nurse of the Highest Caliber

On September 15 I posted to this blog the sad story of my beloved sister-in-law’s recent cancer diagnosis. The worst case survival scenario was five months—the best, a year with good response to treatment. We, her family, have been steeling ourselves for the long haul, dreading that she would have to endure all that comes with such a diagnosis and that we would be witnessing her slow deterioration—painful prospects for all of us.

But, the arduous journey we apprehensively anticipated came to a rapid end on October 5, just short of seven weeks from the date of her diagnosis. Not one of us considers the outcome anything but merciful but we had hoped for several months of stabilization and relative well-being, just to tie up loose ends and say all that each of us needed to say. That was not to be.

The suddenness of her death has been the most difficult for us to wrap our minds around. She packed a suitcase one evening, got up early the next morning, dressed and got into a car with her husband and two sons for the 12-hour drive to a renowned cancer center in another state. The next day began as usual but by evening her condition took a sudden downturn, requiring a trip to the ER, from which she was admitted to the hospital. Several hours later she was transferred to ICU. Early the next day the results of scans showed dramatic metastasis to her brain and she was told that, practically speaking, there was nothing that could be done medically. She asked to return home and that was accomplished via ambulance.

To have seen her leave her house ambulatory and conversing as usual, only to see her four days later in a far different condition was almost surreal. She had one more day of awareness, knowing her entire family was with her, giving us the opportunity to say we love you and goodbye, before passing peacefully the next.

Most nurses are made, not born—but Nancy was born to be a nurse. She may have had a genetic tendency, as her grandmother was also an RN. She was sweet and compassionate from the time she could talk—perhaps even before. She was always concerned about the comfort and well being of others and had the softest heart around. She was also smart and capable, a skilled anesthetist who was highly valued by the surgeons with whom she worked.

Florence Nightingale is known as the Lady with the Lamp, a title bestowed upon her because of her vigilant nighttime rounds, checking on wounded soldiers during the Crimean War. Throughout nursing school tiny images of her lamp were everywhere—printed on ceremony programs, used in the school’s official seal and appearing as small lapel pins to wear on our collars. At capping ceremonies we carried candles to represent Ms. Nightingale’s lamp. In tribute to Nancy, I say that with her death the light of one very special lamp has been extinguished and our profession has lost one of our very best.