Graduation was very special for our family. I graduated from BYU's College of Nursing. Jason graduated with his Biology degree. My mom walked after completing her independent study degree that she had worked for seven years to finish. She got her Bachelor of General Studies degree with an emphasis in Family Life (couldn't be more fitting for her :)). And my older brother, Ryan, graduated from his Master's program with a Master's degree in Neuroscience. Four graduates. Four degrees. All from one family. So we referred to it as the four degrees of glory all weekend.
The best part of the whole thing was that we all got to walk together at the College of Nursing Convocation ceremony. This is especially great because the ceremony is over in less than 90 minutes because there are only 64 students in the College of Nursing *chest bump for short graduation ceremonies*
I was asked to speak at graduation, which was such an honor. I was asked to speak about "Things That Matter Most." I worked on my speech for weeks, and with the help of my mom and sister Emily, it came together (with some late-night editing the night before the ceremony. You're the best, Em). I think it would be neat for my children and grandchildren to read my speech, so I'll post it below. That is the purpose of this blog--preserving memories so our posterity can get a glimpse into our lives when we were in our prime ;)
First I would like to recognize and thank the professors, deans, faculty and staff in the nursing program who have been instrumental in shaping our futures and who have provided us with the tools we will need to be successful nurses in our new careers. And on behalf of all the nursing students express gratitude for family members and friends, who have provided support and encouragement throughout our nursing program journey.
Of the many meaningful experiences I’ve had over the past four years, there are a few that rise to the top in poignancy - that have found weight in my heart and mind. These experiences that have come to matter so much to me, have also been extremely instructive about what matters most as nurses and human beings.
The first is an experience I had with death -- more specifically, watching a young woman who I could very much identify with leave this earth. After suffering from HIV for ten years, she lay in her hospital bed, taking her final breaths against the pneumonia that would shortly end her life. She gasped for air as she waited for her family to fly in from another state so they could be with her when she passed away. I watched as her parents wished they could trade places with her - that they could die so she could live. I watched as her brother, her best friend, gently held her hand as they reminisced about trips to europe, backpacking adventures, and other happy memories they shared together. It was painful to care for a patient who was so close to death, but still cognitively sharp. I watched in admiration as she spent her last moments focused on the needs of others. she remained optimistic and strong until she took her last breath.
In her passing I saw that the connections we make with other people matter most. The only things that mattered at all in the final moments of my patient’s life were the people in her room, and the way they felt about one another. Watching their loving family interactions was one of the most spiritual, life-shaking experiences of my life.
I have seen this same truth played out in the lives of two others I’ve had the honor of working for and giving care to over the past year. For the purposes of this speech, I will call them Henry and Nancy.
Four evenings a week, I walk into Henry and Nancy’s house and before Nancy can even see me, she yells, “Oh, hi!” It is a happy greeting every time. She suffered a ruptured cerebral aneurysm 30 years ago, which put her in the hospital for 6 months and changed her life from that moment on. Nancy can’t move the right side of her body anymore, so I help her brush her teeth, go to the bathroom, and get ready for bed at night. Though many of her former abilities and characteristics were lost with the aneurysm, Nancy still loves to sing, so we sing popcorn popping, love one another, and abide with me as we put on her pajamas. With a recent diagnosis of dementia, she doesn’t remember much anymore, but she remembers those songs. When I watch her dear husband, Henry, kiss her on the forehead after tucking her in, I understand more clearly that love matters most.
Henry has cared for Nancy every single day for over 30 years, putting her needs before his, and being patient and understanding of her difficult circumstance. He loads her up in their white Cadillac and takes her for drives on sunny days so she can get out of the house. He picks out her clothes each day and completes the outfit with a matching necklace and lipstick so she feels lovely. And, several years ago when she was living in a local rehab facility, she was losing weight and was unhappy, so Henry took her home, knowing that he would be taking care of her and doing all the work himself. In their tenderness and devotion I have learned unconditional love. I learned that love matters most.
Being present and giving care in each of these scenarios prepared me for an experience I did not expect to have, a diagnosis I did not expect to receive - especially not as a twenty one year old co-ed.
When i was a teenager, i had really thick hair. I used three of these rubber bands to hold my hair in a ponytail. i don’t know if you can see from where you’re sitting, but now I can pull all my hair back into an orthodontic size rubber band. During my first years of college, I began to notice that my hair was thinning. I made appointments with various doctors to figure out what was going on--women’s health specialists, endocrinologists, natural healers, dermatologists. I took Biotin supplements. Thought maybe I needed some hormone therapy or a thyroid regulating medication. I finally got some answers this past November, after three years of searching. I lay on the exam room table as the doctor stitched up my scalp after removing some skin for a biopsy. I felt scared, confused, and worried about what he would tell me when the results came back. After years of watching others experience great vulnerability in these types of situations, I was now the vulnerable one. During the weeks following my appointment, I wanted to know what was wrong so I could have some peace of mind. On the other hand, I didn’t want to hear any hard news. When I received the call from the doctor, he told me that the biopsy showed that I had a rare autoimmune disorder where my immune system attacks the hair follicles on my scalp and replaces them with scar tissue, meaning eventually my hair will permanently fall out. This was not the news I hoped for. I hoped there would be a pill or a cream, some sort of hormone therapy that could bring back my thick hair. I did some googling and a lot of crying as I came to terms with the diagnosis. Even now, when I get my hair cut, or on fragile days, I have a good cry about losing my hair. I know my worth isn’t attached to my scalp, but it is still hard to detach my self esteem from my physical appearance.
As I continue to accept the reality of the diagnosis and what will likely happen in the future, I am gaining better perspective. I realize that my load could be so much worse. I remind myself of all the things I do have, instead of feeling cheated over what I don’t. I can see the sun and smell the rain and hear the wind and climb a mountain on strong legs and breathe the morning air with healthy lungs. I can call my mom for reassurance, kiss my husband goodnight, stay up late with dear friends. My heart is full of gratitude and humility when I realize that the thirty year old HIV patient and Nancy and dozens of other people that I have helped care for over the past few years would happily hand over their hair to have what I have.
My experiences with the weeping, the mourning, the ailing, the newly-diagnosed, the recently born and barely alive, have helped give me the proper context to accept this trial.
In a general conference address entitled “Encircled About in the Arms of His Love,” Neal A. Maxwell said, “Regarding trials, including of our faith and patience, there are no exemptions—only variations “ So the question is not if...only what and when. And most importantly, how will we respond? Whether it is terminal illness or thinning hair or loneliness or failure or whatever the diagnosis may be, we would be wise to choose to focus on virtues like love, gratitude, forgiveness, kindness, and happiness--because I have seen that even in matters of life and death -- these are the things that matter most. In fact, these are the only things that matter at all.
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| "Nancy" and Me |
