July 11, 2007

I Can Do That

2007 1519 page31 capo one else wanted to go off the hospital unit that evening, so Beth signed out, and we headed for the sauna.
 
Beth was an inpatient on the locked psychiatric ward in the southern California hospital where I worked as a registered nurse. She was in her mid-20s, tall, fair-skinned, and wore her blond hair short. Bright and intelligent, Beth was a gentle, quiet soul. But she was depressed.
 
Sometimes Beth heard voices telling her she was no good, that she should hurt herself. She was on my unit for several weeks waiting for permanent placement in a residential facility. It was distressing that she was now in such a painful and dependent situation.
 
While Beth soaked in the hot tub, I sat on a wooden bench in the steamy room—and we talked. I asked her about her goals and what she wanted to do with her life. She told me she once wanted to be a language teacher. She added that she had nearly completed graduation requirements at a college in Germany, but it was then she had started to fall apart emotionally and couldn’t finish the school year.
 
2007 1519 page31She started to cry, and between sobs told me she could see nothing but darkness in her future. Talking about her past when she had been able to cope with life’s challenges energetically and enthusiastically was very discouraging to her, she said, “because . . . look at me now!”
 
I was surprised my questions had triggered such a heart-rending and tearful response. Beth sat there, wet and pink-faced, looking up at me, crying, “What can I do? What can I do? There’s nothing I can do!”
 
Hearing her desperate cry and seeing her sitting there alone in that little pool, her chin just above the water, I thought, Beth really does look like one about to drown in sorrow and despair. She needed hope, and she needed it now!
 
I spoke the only words that came to mind: “Listen, Beth! There are two things you can do. You can breathe and you can love. That’s all you need to focus on right now.”
 
I stood up, inhaled a deep breath, slowly let it out—and smiled. Beth closed her eyes tightly, gasped a little as she sucked in a big breath of air, then relaxed as she let it out. She smiled back at me and said, “OK, I can do that!”
 
I was trying to remind Beth she could choose life—one breath at a time. I also wanted her to stop measuring her value by her educational, professional, or financial accomplishments—or lack thereof. She needed to understand that her highest calling was simply a grateful loving response to God just for simple things—for life, for sunshine, for the people around her.
 
And she got the point. During the next few weeks I’d often see Beth in her room journaling or writing letters to friends and family, or sitting in the dayroom chatting and laughing with the other patients. Sometimes she’d come up to me and whisper, “I’m doing it. I’m breathing and loving.” And she’d thank me again.
 
That was three years ago. That was when I was a full-time nurse. That was before I had to quit my job because of a health challenge of my own—one that has interfered with the pursuit of my own dreams. One that has seemingly limited what I can and cannot do. One that often leaves me feeling more like a dependent child than an independent adult.
 
I now find myself groping for the answer to the same question: “What can I do? What can I do?” It’s a question that still hasn’t gone away.
 
But today I remember Beth—and what I believe was the divinely inspired suggestion of her nurse . . .
 
Today I will breathe.
 
Today I will love.
 
I can do that!
 
______________________________
Judy Lowe Thompson writes from Long Beach, California. She is still coping with physical challenges but is now working again part-time as a psychiatric nurse.

Advertisement
Advertisement