I’m feeling a little sour this morning.
Came to work after six blessedly restful days off only to find a clot of nurses talking in low excitement at the Charge Desk. Clots of nurses taking in low excitement can only mean trouble, and so it was: not one, not two, but three Emergency Department marriages officially Crashed and Burned on my days off, wreckage and debris everywhere, including one so spectacularly awful and humiliating that it takes my breath away a little to think about it. Some stories you need to be this tall to hear. I’m afraid that I will never be that big, though I am an encrusted old emergency nurse who’s heard a fair allotment of human stupidity and grief, and also am (practically) old enough to have grandchildren.
I’m friendly towards, yet not friends with, this last particular nurse, if you understand the distinction. I am a bit unsure of what I can do to offer support. Well-meaning and unsolicited but intrusive (and dare I say it, insensitive and unhelpful) advice is already being offered from all quarters, and of course, the departmental feeding frenzy has just started on the carcase of the marriage. My inclination is to write a short note, offering a standing invitation to dinner, and leave it at that — sometimes the offer of support is enough, I think.