Her Name is Nicole

 Her name is Nicole.

Her name is Nicole, and she’s a critical care nurse at UNMC.  This is what I know:  on November 16, 2020 she worked the 7 a.m. - 7 p.m. shift on the 5th floor Medical ICU of the Nebraska Medicine Medical Center in Omaha, Nebraska.    I don’t know her last name. I don’t know what her hair looks like beneath her PPE cap. I never saw the bottom half of her face under her N95 mask and plastic shield. I know she graduated from Bellevue East High School and she is young. So young. She took care of my husband in room 5340 in his last hours of consciousness.

Jim’s children and I were able to spend time with him the afternoon of the 16th, and I was able to stay with Jimmy in the end in the ICU. Nicole arranged for all the superfluous machines to be removed from the room and directed me to where I could grab something to eat before resuming my vigil.  When I returned, she had arranged for a recliner and warm blankets for me so I could be comfortable by Jim’s side.  We hoped he would hold steady through the night and we could move him home for hospice care, his ardent wish.  Suddenly, exhausted, alone, covered in PPE myself, my mind raced uncontrollably over everything that had happened in the last 24 hours, the decisions he, I, the family had made. Soon I was literally wringing my hands, pacing, on the verge of fainting and then finally wailing, prostrate across his hospital bed.  Words fail here, but anyone who has experienced this understands this complete, abject despair.

Nicole came in and I emotion vomited all my fears, failings and anxiety at her.  

She held my gaze and spoke to me with brutal honesty and compassion.  She relayed what she was seeing routinely in the unit, about the patients who didn’t  survive intubations, who languished for days or weeks on ventilators, alone, until their deaths.  She spoke of Jim’s poor prognosis on arrival and the young people for whom she had also cared, to no avail.  And then she characterized what she saw in our room with me, Jim and his kids that afternoon as nothing short of “beautiful,” that she witnessed it, that she felt “uplifted” by it, the laughter and love.  “This is the way it should be,” full of love and surrounded by light, she said.  She relayed her own loss sitting with her grandmother earlier this year as she passed from Covid. I expressed my increasing concern for her and all the frontline healthcare workers and my worry about the long term effects that surely these months, this year will have on all of them.  She demurred and turned her attention back to me and my situation.  Somehow, some how, she was able to reframe what I was experiencing with honesty, authority, compassion, and clarity.   

As she spoke, her eyes never wavering from me, I felt calm.  My breathing slowed, my crying ceased, and I could center, take it all in, and finally turn back with strength to Jim and our final hours together ahead.

Eventually, Nicole excused herself because, well, she was busy.  These professionals are stretched physically, emotionally, mentally beyond anything normal, and every day the numbers grow.  She expertly stripped her PPE in the room for the innumerable time that day, to move swiftly down the hall out of my sight to don it all again before entering another patient’s room and do all over again what she does shift after shift. 

Later, when her shift was over, I saw her leaving; she caught my eye through the window and gave me a little wave.  I hope she could see my eyes smiling as I waved back.  I’m certain she left having no idea of the pure gift she gave that night.  She doesn’t know how many times I have already revisited the moments together when I have felt the panic rising.  

My family’s loss is immeasurable, so when I compound that grief for the more than a quarter-million souls lost in our country as of Thanksgiving Day 2020, I can hardly bear it.   We struggle every day, but we are so grateful for the life of James John McGrath and all that it entailed.

Today I am thankful for all the incredible doctors, techs, RTs, and nurses at UNMC that cared for Jimmy, especially his nurse on November 16.  Her name is Nicole.

If I'd known

This is for all the teachers, like me, who are retiring this year and ending their careers in an unimaginable way due to the Covid-19 pandemic.  We are the ultimate seniors missing our own special good-byes:

If I had known I would never get to teach Romeo and Juliet again, never again guide students through this literary rite of passage rather than preparing them packets, I never would have retired this year.

If I'd know I wouldn't get those last two chances to teach composition and get it "right" before retiring, I never would have put my paperwork in.

If I'd known I wouldn't get a proper goodbye--to a full class, to bustling halls, to my friends, long-time colleagues, my homeroom kids, the bells, to room B219, to my building, the center of my life for (nearly) 33 years, I would have stayed another year.

If I'd thought for a minute that I couldn't sit just one more time with RPS faculty and staff at graduation and watch those kids walk across the stage, I certainly would have planned for another year.

If I had known that when I said, "Have a great weekend" on March 12 that what I really meant was "I hope you have a wonderful life," I wouldn't have taken the last term for granted.  I would not have spent these last months looking ahead toward a finish line.  I would have savored all the moments.  All of them: the funny, the annoying, the joyful, the infuriating.  Every single one.  I would have said to my students, my colleagues--young and old--my bosses, my friends, my department, "Thank you for making this last year great.  Thank you for everything always."

If I'd known, I'd have made sure to say "I love you guys."