anesthesia team and OR nurse, grab a full set of vital signs (she's a lit-
tle tachycardic, but that's understandable given the crying) and begin
to cover Susan with toasty warm blankets.
I know a quick report isn't ideal, but my patient needs me. Lots of
data out there tell me this approach was not best, but I push ahead
anyway. I know multiple studies published show a full, uninterrupted
handoff is critical. As I tell her I'm going to get you comfortable, here
are some warm blankets, and tuck her in carefully and compassionate-
ly, she begins to cry harder.
At this point, I have no idea if she's in pain or just experiencing post-
anesthesia emotion. It's not uncommon and is known in the profes-
sion as pathological crying. Research remains mixed on the topic as
there haven't been conclusive studies to determine why this phenome-
non occurs. We don't know much about why this occurs, but all PACU
nurses know it happens quite commonly, especially in the pediatric
population.
'I'm not being a nurse'
I cannot for the life of me figure out why Susan is still crying. She
denies pain or discomfort, and says her knee feels better than it has in
months. At this point I realize I'm not being a nurse. I'm being an
assembly line worker.
In my best efforts, I channel all that I learned in nursing school and
recall Jean Watson's Theory of Human Caring. I now see this as a piv-
otal moment in the interaction with this patient. This is a "Caring
Moment" if I let it be, but I'm exhausted. My best friend who was a
nurse just died tragically in her 30s. How can I give more when I haven't
stopped crying myself? Lord, please help me help Susan, I think to
myself. I turn around, grab a chair and sit down.
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