Bedside faith

It made no sense to me. Why would the local ambulance service bring a patient to my home in the middle of the night instead of speeding them to the hospital for care?

I mean, yes, I’m a nurse—but for less than three years. And yes, the hospital was full. But there had to be a better, safer, more legal option. Right? I mean, I had no emergency meds, no equipment, no doctor here. And the last time they brought a patient to my home, I totally forgot the poor man existed until my children found him days later lying alone in our backyard, soiled, dehydrated, and barely conscious.

Regardless, here they came. My heart raced and my stomach churned as I jumped out of bed to put on my uniform. “No, no, no. God help me, help me, help me,” I begged.

Such were my dreams for the year and a half that I worked nights as a nurse in my local hospital’s emergency room. Twice my husband found me, confused, in our closet in the middle of the night putting on my scrubs, and once (in my dream—or rather, nightmare) a patient ended up beside me in bed. Skin flakes and all!

I went to Google (like a good nurse does) and gave myself three diagnoses: impostor syndrome, exhaustion disorder, and anxiety.

But I felt like less of a “snowflake” when I remembered Biblical “heroes” who struggled similarly:

Paul dealt with “weakness, fear, and much trembling” when it came to his calling (1 Corinthians 2). Solomon, when anointed as king, felt quite the impostor: “I am but a little child. I know not how to go out or come in” (1 Kings 3). Gideon: “Please, Lord, how can I save Israel? Behold, my clan is the weakest in Manasseh, and I am the least in my father’s house” (Judges 6). And Moses, too: “Who am I …? I am not eloquent … I am slow of speech and of tongue. … Please send someone else” (Exodus 3–4).

Even Jesus—fully man, though nowhere near an impostor—exhibited signs of stress and exhaustion in the Garden. The Bible says He fell on the ground in sweaty agony the night before His crucifixion and prayed, “Abba, Father, all things are possible for you. Remove this cup from me” (Mark 14).

Thankfully, the Lord did remove the emergency department night shift nurse “cup” from me before it (and I) completely shattered. In August I transitioned into day shift hospice nursing.

“So you’re going to give the death shot?” a loved one asked in all seriousness when I announced my job change.

Hard no. Hospice care helps people at the end of life. It doesn’t help them to end their lives. But hard? Yes, at times.

Like when a 65-year-old patient, and now friend, shares through panicked tears that she’s scared to go to sleep because she fears she won’t wake up: “I don’t want to die, Whitney. I want to live!” Or when, alternatively, a patient has lost all will to live and yet continues to linger in a broken body that renders him completely dependent on others. Or when caregivers sacrifice themselves day and night to care for a confused loved one who is just plain mean in return.

I listen, holding a hand—or at one patient’s house, a playful pit bull!—and think: “Who am I to help this person, Lord, being a fairly new nurse? Who am I to encourage this person when I’m not eloquent and instead my speech often stutters out like Porky Pig’s? Who am I, when I’ve never been in their position or felt their particular pain? Please send someone else.”

And yet, because God did not remove Jesus’ cup of suffering and allowed Him to bear the full weight of our sin, He says to me, and to my patients, to their family members and caregivers, and to all who acknowledge their neediness during difficult times:

“I will be with you” (Exodus 3:12); “I will help you speak and will teach you what to say” (Exodus 4:12); “I will make a way in the wilderness” (Isaiah 43:19); “I will strengthen you, … I will uphold you” (Isaiah 41:10); “I will supply all your needs” (Philippians 4:19); “I will fight for you” (Exodus 14:14); “I will rescue you” (Jeremiah 1:8); “I will restore you to health and heal your wounds” (Jeremiah 30:17); “I am a shield to you” (Genesis 15:1); “I will restore to you the years that the locust has eaten” (Joel 2:25); “I will not leave you as orphans” (John 14:18); “I will not fail you” (Joshua 1:5); “I will never leave you nor forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5).

Nor will He leave you, His child, lying alone in some figurative backyard, soiled, dehydrated, and barely conscious. Only in my wildest dreams.