7,799 Steps

On a typical shift In the Neuro ICU, between assisting nurses with daily cares for critically-ill patients, transporting patients to scans, and running un-tubeable labs like TEGs and Covid swabs to the lab two buildings away, I walk between 12,000 to 20,000 steps.

I look forward to these shifts because the work is challenging, the camaraderie is inspiring, I am always learning something new, and I get to move my body and work on my feet. I end the shift happily exhausted; I may have not been able to get my yoga class or outdoor run in, but the day’s events made it feel like one long, satisfying workout. 

However, not all days are the same. And, as you may have noticed [here you will not because the photo of my Garmin watch step-count did not want to translate], the steps of this particular day fell well below my expected average: I walked just 7,799 steps. This is because on this particular Sunday, while doing my morning CHG wipes and oral cares, my charge informed me that I was next in line to float and sent me to the step-down unit that was understaffed to sit for a patient who needed constant supervision. 

I love Sunday shifts on my unit and so was not terribly thrilled to go but, of course, accepted the assignment and headed off, unsure of what to expect. Sitting with a patient can mean any number of things, from keeping them safe during seizures to making sure they do not fall out of bed to being nearby to help quickly with acute and impulsive needs. 

This man was going through alcohol withdrawal. He was on day two and was anxious and unable to rest and kept fidgeting and trying to stand. He was slightly confused and more than unhappy with the quality of the beds. He was a very severe fall risk with his tremors, dizziness, agitation and could not remember to use the call light. But while the hospital wanted me there to make sure he stayed safe in bed and did not launch himself out, I learned quickly that my most important task of the day was going to be to listen to this man and offer a compassionate presence. 

More than a body suffering the aggressive and painful clutches of withdrawal, this was a human who suffered a life of sorrow and sadness. He simply wanted someone to help him bathe, to have a warm blanket placed over him when he could finally find patches of sleep to tuck into, and to have a listening ear when he needed to cry and mourn the situation he found himself in. 

So I sat. I seated myself in a chair next to his bed, kept him company, assured him he was safe and not alone, and that someone cared about how he felt. And in this humbling, vulnerable moment, I was reminded why, if we want to be true healers, we must know when to sit and be still and hold space for others. 

I could work out tomorrow.