Those of us who work with people with HIV and other immune disorders understand the concept of "immune reconstitution", when the patient's treatment of the virus eventually begins to restore the immune system. There are positive and negative aspects of this process, but the overall returning of immune function is a good thing in the end.
Just as immune systems must reconstitute, so do nervous systems, especially the nervous systems of stressed nurses whose lives seem to have gotten the better of them. Sometimes Nervous System Reconstitution entails taking time off to relax, be at home, and practice good basic self-care. Sometimes it means increasing exercise, sweating out the toxins and stress, working tired muscles into shape. At other times, food and drink is the answer, vital elements from nature literally feeding the cells, nourishing the tissues. Drinking water is important for cleansing cortisol, a stress hormone, from the body, and exercise also helps in this regard.
The prudent nurse or healthcare professional will decide to do what it takes to nurture the nurturer, prevent stress-based illness, and bring balance to the mind, body and soul. Many other modalities of Nervous System Reconstitution are there for the taking: friendship; creative pursuits; enjoyment of the arts; sports; taking care of one's responsibilities at home; pets; cleaning and organizing to decrease the stress of disorganization; time with children (or not!); meditation and other spiritual practices; yoga; massage; cooking; the pursuit of hobbies; gardening; the list is endless.
How can we as healthcare professionals, burnt out and crisp around the edges, hope to foster and encourage healthy living in our patients when we are walking on the edge of personal oblivion? How can we be so disingenuous as to expect our patients to follow our advice when our poor example is written in the lines of stress on our faces, in our hollow and fatigued eyes sunken with lost sleep and overwork, our short tempers, our obvious burn-out?
I have had a patient with a diagnosed thought disorder look at me and say, "You look really tired." I've had other patients look concerned and ask, "Did you eat lunch today?" Whether the patient is mentally ill or physically ill, our stress is perceived, and although we think that the world at work will fall apart without us, we eventually learn that the clock at work travels from 9 to 5 (or 3 to 11, or 11 to 7) whether we're there or not, and our well-meaning colleagues are entirely capable of covering for us when we're gone. We can make ourselves indispensable in the big picture, but that little picture yearns for a time out, and if we don't give it its due, it will come back to haunt us with a vengeance, bringing illness and unhappiness along for the ride.
Healthcare providers are notorious for being bad patients, often eschewing timely self-care because "there's not enough time". How many nurses are overdue for mammograms, dental cleanings, PAP smears, prostate exams? How many doctors ignore symptoms for which they would advise patients to seek attention? How often do we go to work sick, coughing on our patients because the office would never survive without us? When will we learn? When will we get it?
I'm guilty. I'm as bad as the rest. Luckily I have a spouse who can spot my stress in a heartbeat, who can see the signs, read the tea leaves, and threaten divorce if I don't call in sick. She will cajole and coerce, determined to convince me that caring for myself is also an act of caring for others, allowing myself to reconstitute and return, refreshed and available to begin again, providing better quality care because I have cared for my own needs. How many colds has she helped me to avoid? How many moments of spiritual torture have I side-stepped by simply taking a few days to myself? To calculate the value of self-care would need a calculator not yet invented, with circuitry which recognizes inner peace, balance, and a body and mind at ease.
For now my inner calculator will need to suffice, that barometer in my mind which tells me when I am walking a fine line between health and illness. Keeping that barometer in check should be a prime focus, a measure of contentment and balance. If I lose sight of that marker, if I let myself go to that edge too often, the consequences are just not worth the paltry rewards. No one loves a martyr, and I'll stake my future on the fact that my health will take me anywhere I want to go, but its demise will take me to only one place---an early grave---and I'm in no hurry to arrive at that final destination.
Here's to health.