Faith in the ICU

Confronted with the pain of others every day as a nurse in a hospital intensive care unit, how do you cope? Jac Cooke, a nurse, tells her secret.

I’ve worked as an intensive- care nurse for about five years. I’ve nursed the dying—some made it back to life, and many didn’t. Nursing in an intensive- care unit (ICU) is never easy; what do you say to the dying? To their relatives? But it is easier if you have a belief system that supports you and that, as appropriate, you can share with others. For example, I remember the night I brushed the hair from Vanessa’s* young face. Although chagrined at her situation—she was medically brain dead—I remained at peace. It was 2 am. I welcomed the quiet of night duty, free from relatives and daytime bustle. Is there any chance You could save this girl? I asked God.

Vanessa had been driving home from a late-night TAFE class when, just a few hundred metres from home, she crashed into a light pole. She’d arrived in the ICU with severe brain injury. Twenty-four hours had seen her deteriorate into brain death. In the morning, Vanessa’s parents would be asked to agree to organ donation. As the ECG waveforms blinked fluidly across the screen, I struggled with the contrast between it and the abrupt finality of death.

Dear God, I prayed desperately, it’s not fair. Why? I reached for the only hand that was strong enough to reassure me. Answers aren’t what you need right now, He replied gently. Know for now that I am here.

The knot in my stomach eased a little as I realised who was in control. This voice spoke of safety, stability and trustworthiness. I knew this Voice. This Voice cared! Being in touch with Him has always helped me.

More recently, I nursed Caren, just days after what initially appeared to be a successful bonemarrow transplant. The leukaemia diagnosis came as a shock to the 40-year-old mother, but outcomes looked promising until, quite suddenly, she contracted pneumonia.

This rapidly deteriorated into multisystem organ failure.

Anguish and despair filled the room, thick as a fog. I gently wiped her flushed face and bald scalp as a ventilator supported her breathing. Here was a patient teetering on the edge of life. But her elderly Italian mother wasn’t ready for it.

The tiny woman clutched a rosary to her breast and pleaded, “You can’t let her die; not my Caren. I have only Caren left. My husband died three weeks ago. I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . .” She gazed into my eyes, fervently repentant of some forgotten misdeed. “I’m being punished,” she wept. “God is punishing me. For what I don’t know.” It’s just such a time that one’s faith should make a difference. But what can you say in the face of such raw grief? I held her gaze, my hands warm over her gnarled quivering fingers.

“It’s all right,” I soothed, putting my arms around her. “You poor little thing.

It’s all right.” My inadequate response embarrassed me. Oh give me the right words to say! I silently cried to God. What can I do here? I saw tears whelling, and said to the grieving woman, “God, too, must be weeping right now.” “Oh?” she said, startled. “You are a Christian?” I nodded, smiling reassuringly.

Her eyes watered again, “I have such little faith,” she breathed.

A moment later, a nun who had come to visit Caren took me aside and said quietly, “Bless you, nurse. You are ministering to that woman. A little comfort can mean so much more when it is reinforced with spirituality.”

As she left, I looked at my environment with a clearer vision of the people in pain needing answers, comfort and peace— people in desperate need of God. I silently thanked Him for the faith He’d given me and asked for His strength and the insight to share it with whoever needed it. Many times, He’s all that’s kept me going.

* All names have been changed.

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