By Cynthia Long, RN, Ph.D.
It was two in the morning when I was called back into the OR. The surgical team had been summoned for an emergent case that was coming in soon. My assignment was to relieve the team that had just completed an organ procurement.
When I arrived, I went straight to OR 2, without much anticipation – just focused on the task ahead. On the operating table lay a six-year-old girl, her small frame motionless beneath the bright lights. The procurement teams had already left. My responsibility was to gently clean her body, prepare her and escort her to the morgue.
At first, I felt composed. I had scrubbed and circulated through many organ procurements before. Why should this one feel any different? Then it struck me – this was my first pediatric case. As I was briefed on her story, my thoughts began to unravel. Her mother’s boyfriend had physically abused her. A head injury ended her young life.
I began washing her tiny, lifeless body. She looked like an angel. When I turned her over to clean her back, the sight took my breath away – her delicate skin was marked by countless cigarette burns.
My composure crumbled. In that moment, it was just me, my little angel, and my God. Tears came freely as I whispered, How could this happen?
I finished my work, prepared her gently and took her to the morgue.
When I returned home, the silence felt deafening. I crawled into bed and wept again.
I know grief. I lost my best friend, my husband and the father of our two children in 2008. But that night, the weight of my sorrow felt heavier because my confidant – the one who would have comforted me through this pain – was gone.
I have been an end-of-life coach since 2010. As I reflect on the many individuals I’ve guided through the process and understanding of grief, I am deeply moved by the nurses who face loss and grief in their professional lives. Unfortunately, it comes with the calling.
Nurses serve with compassion and dedication – to care, to comfort, to bring healing. Yet, with this sacred responsibility also comes the burden of witnessing suffering, loss and death. They give so much of themselves to others, but often have little space to tend to their own grief.
In my book, “The Power of Goodbye: How Final Conversations Shape the Journey of Grief,” I write about what I call “the emotional bunker.” When we experience loss, our natural instinct is to protect ourselves from overwhelming pain. We often store our emotions in what feels like a safe place – a kind of internal bunker – where grief can be contained until we are ready to face it.
The emotional bunker serves a temporary purpose; it allows us to function and carry on. But true healing begins when we find the courage to open that space – to have honest conversations about our loss, our feelings of hopelessness and the weight we carry. Speaking our grief aloud helps release what was once hidden and transforms isolation into connection.
The most vital step in healing is creating healthy conversations about grief – finding a confidant, a trusted support group, and the courage to speak our pain aloud. Without these supportive outlets, many professionals – not only nurses – may turn to unhealthy coping mechanisms such as alcohol, food or drugs to numb the ache that words might otherwise heal.
It’s unfortunate that many nurses have no one to share their sorrows with. I’ve known nurses who’ve said, “My husband doesn’t understand what my job as a nurse entails,” or, “I don’t want to stress out my family by talking about work.” And so, they carry their grief alone – without an outlet to tend to their wounded hearts.
I remember the last hospital where I worked, a pediatric facility. When trauma or unexpected deaths occurred, a social worker or therapist would come and meet with the nurses and certified scrub technicians. I attended several of these group sessions, and they reaffirmed what I deeply believe: when we have a safe space to speak openly about our experiences, healing begins.
We sat together and shared our feelings honestly. It was, to say the least, cathartic. In those moments, we became each other’s confidants and support system – holding space for one another in the quiet understanding only those who serve can truly know.
As a musician, I recently discovered a song that speaks deeply to my heart – and to the hearts of so many nurses who carry invisible battle wounds. We hold so much inside, keeping our emotions neatly tucked away, until one day we simply can’t hide them anymore. The grief we carry from work often finds its way into our personal lives – touching our relationships with our spouses, partners, children, and even our aging parents.
The song “Truth Be Told” by Matthew West captures this reality so powerfully:
But truth be told,
The truth is rarely told …
I say, “I’m fine, yeah, I’m fine, oh, I’m fine, hey, I’m fine”
But I’m not, I’m broken.
And when it’s out of control, I say it’s under control,
But it’s not, and You know it.
I don’t know why it’s so hard to admit it,
When being honest is the only way to fix it.
These lyrics remind us that healing begins when we tell the truth – when we allow ourselves to be vulnerable, to speak our pain and to let others in.
Find your safe place for open conversations, and may you discover peace and healing in your grief. And if you are in a leadership or management role, consider creating opportunities for healthy group sessions for those on the front lines of loss. They need it – and they deserve it.
– Cynthia Long, RN, Ph.D., is an end-of-life and grief coach.
