What Does Writing for Wellness Mean to Me?

Time of death: 1459

No one prepares you for how you will feel when you witness your first code blue. Not the anxiety that you will feel before, the adrenaline charging through the room during, or the crash afterwards. All I could think of the rest of my shift was, “I really need to journal about this later. I just need to get it out.” Writing it down makes it feel permanent. That man is permanently dead and there was nothing EMS, the LUCAS machine, the doctors, nurses, respiratory therapy, or I could have done to bring him back to life. As I stood in the corner, backed into it by the flood of people who came to see the chaos, I observed the organization of the team. The recorder yelled out when it was time for a new medication, the doctor called out orders, the nurse administered the medications through an IO, anesthesia gave the patient an artificial airway while the respiratory therapist put air into his lungs, and another nurse manned the AED. No one wants to talk about it after—he came in already dead, there is nothing to talk about, nothing we could have changed. I tried to take it all in, memorize the scene. I wanted to be able to write it just like it happened, maybe I would find where it went wrong. No, he was already dead. There was nothing we could do. It was hard to convince myself of that. Even though I played no part, I felt somehow responsible for the outcome of this patient. I tried to put on a happy face to greet the next patient like nothing had just happened next door. I have no one to talk to about this. So I write. Pages and pages looking for the instance that changed the code, only to come up with nothing. It was not anyone’s’ fault, that man was no longer living when he entered the emergency department. Now, the shift is over. Where do I go from here? I turn to the reflection, to the wellness that we preach. I have to take this day and get it out, make it permanent. I get to take the day and turn it into a story that is told in the way I want to tell it. Writing for wellness means I can use creativity to spin events into poetry, to turn difficult days into a song. 

Thinking back to when my mom died, it was a very different scene. There was no chaos, no yelling, no movement in the room. We did not have any medical staff there to monitor what was happening, we just took each minute as it came. We knew she was nearing the end of her life when we put her on hospice care, we just did not know how long we would have. It was the end of April, a month and a half into Covid. We chose to do in-home hospice because of the restrictions in health-care facilities. My mom thrived in community and was her best when she was bringing people together, so we did not want to take that away from her in her last week. The hospital bed was set up in my grandpa’s living room, right when you walked in the front door. There was a massive window along the front of the house that we put the bed next to, my mom loved spending time outside and especially loved the sunshine, so we wanted easy access. Our family is really good at gathering together—there is always an excess of food, laughter, and board games, however, this time was different. The food piled up—no one had an appetite—the talking was hushed and the laughter was scarce. Instead, we showed my mom love in the way that we knew how, by sitting with her, holding her hand, sleeping on the floor next to her, and telling her all the things we loved about her.

People came from all over the Midwest to share their love. Friends from high school, college, and even strangers that knew we needed support. On her 45th birthday, and her 3rd day in hospice care, my grandpa’s church did a drive-by birthday song for her. People respected the social distancing rules and stayed in their vehicles while tossing toilet paper rolls outside their windows, which was definitely appreciated in those early days of Covid. Someone sang happy birthday, someone said a prayer, and the tears couldn’t help but fall. The next day, on my birthday, we fired up the computer and held a zoom call with our Haiti community that couldn’t be together in person. Our friend, Joel, played my mom’s favorite worship music while we all sang along, showering her in the love that was so evident. Towards the 5th day, it felt like we could stay in hospice forever. Logically I knew that there would be an end, but in my head I believed that she could be okay if we lived in this liminal state forever. As the days went on, it became evident that the end was drawing nearer. 

She stopped waking up as much, her sleep became more often and more restless, but it still felt peaceful. It still lacked the chaos of the code. Her breaths became increasingly spaced out and grew shallower and shallower as the evening went on, and soon we gathered around to say goodbye for the last time. There was no yelling, no lifesaving interventions. We just held each other tightly and choked out some “I love you’s” for the last time. In contrast to the code though, we did want to talk about it. It was just a short six weeks from her first symptom and there was still a feeling of disbelief that it had been so quick. We rehashed decisions, questioned treatments, tried to come up with a different outcome. But like the code, we knew that there was nothing else that could have delayed the inevitable. Like the man at the hospital, there were no good options. Brain cancer invades and there is no cure and suddenly you’re left as a 20-year-old, birthday candles unlit, navigating the world by yourself for the first time, with no mom to call.

In an article published in treble hook titled “Maintaining Mental Wellness: Stop Negative Thoughts”, Dr. Seema Sehgal says, “I like to remind people that good mental health is not just the absence of mental illness.”  Good mental health doesn't mean that you happen to be that lucky person who does not have to fight for themselves. It means that you put in the work to ensure that you maintain your good mental health status. For me, this begins with writing for wellness. When I finally started writing again after my mom died, she was all I could write about. I had three years worth of thoughts building up and when my heart finally gave permission to my brain, I couldn’t stop the waterfall of words that escaped my pen every time I put it to a page. Writing about her brings her alive in my stories again, even if she's not here with me anymore. Writing for wellness is not just the negative things that happen, though. More often than not, I end up reflecting on the way that grief and joy intertwine through the years. Missing her will not ever go away, however, the joy opens up a new world of thankfulness for the life she lived.

Nursing is a weird career. Years from now, I will be able to look back on my early reflections as a student nurse with more horrors under my belt than I can even dream of right now. With that though, comes growth. I already look forward to reading my journals from nursing school years after graduation. To see the anxiety and the unknown from a perspective of understanding and maturation, knowing what it took to get to that point. There are times that your spirit will be crushed by the cruelness of the world, but no one really understands unless they have been there themselves. So I will write, I will be that person for myself and for others. I will look back at my senior year self and understand the emotions I felt that day when I watched my first code, with no good options.

About Christa Lotz

Christa Lotz is a senior finishing up her last year of nursing school with a minor in writing. She is vice president of the SGA on campus and works in the theatre during the week. In her free time, Christa loves being outside and hiking big mountains.