I see you

I see you. I see you sat on your bedroom floor. You are hurt and you are angry. You have the weight of the world on your shoulders. You are scared. Scared of what tomorrow holds. I see your scars, both physical and emotional. I see the pain in your eyes as you force a smile. I see you.

You see me. Standing in my too tight uniform awkwardly wondering what I should be doing on my first day of placement. You see me hanging around the office scared to ask for instructions. You take my hand and you tell me your story. One you have probably had to tell a million and one times before to hundreds of professionals but you want me to understand so you tell it anyway. You teach me how to listen. You see me.

I see you cry out for it all to stop, I see you scream and break down because it has all got too much. I see you shed quiet tears hoping nobody notices. I see you turn away help because too many people have let you down before. I see you scared. Scared to trust others, scared to become too close to people in case you get hurt again. I see you.

You see me want to learn, to understand. You urge me to not make the mistakes you did. Your voice breaks as you explain how your family deserted you when you turned to the welcoming escape of illicit substances to gain some relief from the turmoil of a tortured childhood. You make me promise that I will never give up on anyone who needs help. You see me.

I see you. I see you when I want to walk away. I see you after a difficult shift when I just can't do it anymore. I see you when I am on cloud 9. I see you when I don't give up on someone because of that first story you told me. I see you in the stories others tell. I see you in the advice I give and the criticism I receive. I see you when I make mistakes, I see you when I laugh, cry and smile. I see you.

You see me. A first year student adjusting the bright white tunic not knowing where to look or what to do. The eager smile that hides an overwhelming fear of messing up on that first day. You see me transform from a first year to a third year, you see me build confidence and challenge insecurities. You see me fall down 7 times and stand up 8 times. You see my dismay as I fall at the last hurdle, but you see me try again, because that is what I have told you to do so many times. You see me defeated and you see me conquer. You see me thinking of the past and looking forward to the future. You see me step out of that now less white uniform in to the dark blue. You see me.

And I remember you. I remember your face every day. I meet new patients and I remember how you taught me to listen. I remember how you taught me that communication isn't always about talking it is about listening to stories, spending time in silence. It is about sitting with you when you feel vulnerable and alone. I remember how you taught me to accept unconditionally and that everyone has a past, but they also have a future. I remember you.

I want to tell you that I was changed by you. The day you opened up you lit a fire inside me. A passion for a career that was never going to be just a job. You sparked compassion and did more than I could ever thank you for. I don't know what happened to you, whether you are still working on things, whether you ever got back in contact with your family or if you have started a whole new life, but your honesty commenced a whirlwind of emotion that compelled me to make the world a better place. So as I begin my next chapter, I need you to know that I saw you and you saw me, and that day began the rest of my life.

Dear Sophie

Dear Sophie,

I miss you. I wish those three words could sum up how much, but they don't. No words ever will. No words could describe the hole that has been in my heart since you left this earth. 

Sophie, it's been 10 years. 10 years, how crazy is that? At the tender age of 11 I was thrown into the grieving process. We should've spent the past 10 years together. I haven't visited you much, and for that I am sorry. I should be talking to you face to face right now, but instead I am writing, I am writing you a letter to tell you what I should've said. 

I wish I had told you this when you were here. 

I should've told you that you made me a better person. That your smile was infectious and when your eyes lit up so did mine. I should tell you that you gave me the push to go into nursing and help others. I should've told you that my life is better for knowing you, despite the short time we spent together. 

We never got the chance to say goodbye properly and I will always regret that. When they told me you had gone I didn't believe them, you would've laughed at my reaction! They said I could go home, a whole day off school! But that didn't seem right, so I sat in your garden that we sat in so often together and remembered the time that we spent with each other. But although there was nothing official about it, the days that followed were enough to say goodbye. We talked about you as a school, we sang songs, looked at photos, shared memories, we even did our walk to Budleigh and wrote messages on pebbles to you. 

Sophie, I have cried. I have cried enough to fill an ocean. But now I smile, I smile remembering the times we ate lunch together, I smile remembering the time we were both the star in the Christmas play. I smile remembering the games we played, the times we shared and the love that you bought to my life. I smile thinking about how you are no longer confined to a wheelchair, you are free to run and skip and play with no pain. I smile remembering the pink smarties we ate at your funeral, I ate so much that I was nearly sick, but pink was your favourite and I still smile when I see anything pink that you would like. 

So Sophie I want to say thank you. Thank you for loving me unconditionally, thank you for being my best friend, thank you for listening to me, smiling with me and reminding me to push myself out of my comfort zone. Thank you for making me a better person and thank you for bringing out the best in me. Thank you for watching over me in the difficult times, thank you for being my shining star looking out for me, thank you for sprinkling a little angel dust when I need it most.

Sophie, this was never goodbye. You are alive in our memories and you forever will be. We have parted until we meet again...so see you later, beautiful girl

All my love 

Sarah 

This uniform

As another placement draws to a close, the 4:30am alarm is turned off and I hang up my uniform until the next placement, I sit for a while and think. My tunic now has a grey tinge after 3 years of ward based placements, the cracked and faded university logo looks tired after constant washing and faded ink marks cover what was a bright white fabric. It looks worn and exhausted. Like it cannot continue to stay together.

This uniform has seen so much.

It has been a comforter for rolling tears. Patients have buried their head deep in to the shoulder, soaking the soft material with cries of anguish because an illness has torn apart their life. It has soaked up my tears after a difficult shift, sitting in my car silently crying and wondering if I can make it as a nurse. It has absorbed the tears of colleagues, too tired and burnt out to carry on working. It has contained tears of happiness when someone is discharged from their section, it has been part of a recovery movement, and has embraced a team when someone we have worked so hard with is discharged.

These scrubs have heard stories of hope and of recovery. They have heard the screams of patients when they are severely unwell, and the song of patients well on their way to recovery. They have heard stories of abuse, of pain and of sorrow. They have heard tales of incredible staff, amazing patients and beautiful families. They have heard voices that carry stories of love and acceptance.

This tunic, it has seen mothers cry over their children, a father’s disbelief at another relapse, and siblings pine for their family to be together again. This tunic has seen team work like no other, a team who don’t give up on one another, even when times get tough. It would need a telescope to see how far staff go for patients; it has seen supervision and persistence when every option tried isn’t having the desired effect.

It has held people in empathy and love. It has comforted everyone who has walked through those doors, carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. It has reassured people that they are safe, safe from the abuse, the hurt, the pain and the wish for their life to be over. It has seen you scream out that you just don’t want your medication; it has seen us have to give it to you anyway because we don’t want to see you more distressed.

These scrubs, they have been spat on, bled on and vomited over. They have had every bodily fluid possible on. They have held you when you are so distressed with your own thoughts that we need to keep you safe. They have seen injections, medication and blood being drawn. They have found self-inflicted wounds and done their best to stop you losing blood. They have seen a team fight for your life.

This uniform, it has seen families say goodbye

These scrubs, they have held you tight as you cry enough to fill an ocean

This tunic, it has heard stories that would shake anyone to the core

And suddenly I understand, I understand why the bright white has turned to grey. I understand why this uniform that has seen so much is exhausted.

But it is still going.