within the limits of reason alone

One thing I love about Enlightenment Thought is the pervading idea that rationality and reason can provide a meaningful framework for human existence.

And the other thing I Iove about Englightenment Thought is that when its proponets argued for rationality and reason as the sine qua non of human reality, what those philosophers actually ended up proving was no more than the very limits of their beloved belief in rationality and reason.

Ironically, their staunch belief in the power of reason often underscored the extreme paucity of human intellect when it comes the certain domains of human existence that were once considered--and maybe still are regarded as such--Grand Concepts, like Fear and Hope; Love and Death. Things, in other words, that are wild and untamable and mysterious to most human beings, except maybe kids, who seem to intuit secrets about life that their grown-up counterparts spend large sums of money and time on doctoral education arduously researching to no avail.

Philosophy does me jack as a nurse, because I seem to be thrown into all kinds of situations that seem to resist neat Venn diagrams and the kinds of conditional sentences that Enlightenment thinkers liked to try to impose upon them, and therefore, my undergrad and grad training in Useless Big Thoughts does nothing but torture me with the moral implications of my chosen profession.

Incidentally, the one thing that keeps me from chucking it all in after a bad day at work is my solace in my belief that Kierkegaard and his leap of faith has it right, and a philosopher like Kant has it really, really wrong. (And even Kant seems to disagree with himself on the limits of rational thought and reason, but who doesn't have some internal logical inconsistencies when one writes in German and frequently uses six paragraph sentences to explain that which a more succint writer could write in a perfectly parsable ten word declaration).

In a related noted I think one of my recent, favorite patients of all time died today, and I'm afraid to have that confirmed, because a small selfish part of me wanted to be there when he died, so I could say good bye properly.

I probably sound like an evil bitch, but I'm hoping if it was him that coded on the floor today, that he kicked the bucket and stayed down for the count, and that we didn't intubate him and ship him to the unit all ER style, just for him to die over there a few hours later.

The last night I was there, I wasn't his primary nurse, but was passing his room, and noticed he looked askance in the bed. I went in to help him, and he grabbed onto my hand, and didn't want to let go. He couldn't talk, but there was this horrible fear and desperation in his eyes. I've seen it before in patients when they finally realize they are going to die.

It's not fear of death, exactly. Most people, when they are that sick, actually wish for death. So the death part doesn't scare them. No, it's not death. It's dying that scares the shit out of them. Or, more specifically, it's fear of dying like this; that is, stuck in a hospital bed, half naked, tubes shoved in practically every one of your orifices, in the midst of a room full of strangers who mean absolutely nothing to you, with the weird noises and smells and excruciating pain permeating every last moment of your existence.

So even though he couldn't vocalize all this fear, I knew what he was saying.

He was saying, "Please let me die. I don't want this shit any more. I trust you; you listened to me before. You'll tell them I don't want this life anymore, won't you?"

My response was lame; I told him I'd be back in thirty seconds, mumbling that I had to get his nurse to help straighten him out, and tried to let go of his hand, even though my instinct was just to sit there and hold his hand. I tried to let go again, but he grabbed on to my hand again, and squeezed it tightly, and stared at me soundlessly, mouthing silent words like a gasping fish.

I held his hand some more, ashamed that we couldn't do more for him.

I couldn't tell him the terrible, ugly truth: that we were going to leave him there to die, slowly, without any real comfort or help at all.

Eventually, I had to let go of his hand, and walk away. I hated myself for it.

God help me. How long do I have to go on doing this shit and calling it my life's work?