A mother's love, a nurse's heart
by Vanessa Hyland, District Nurse Team Leader
I still remember the sound of the ambulances. My son Christopher had borrowed my car that day in 2008 – it was filled with my nursing kit. That sinking feeling came instantly, but nothing prepares you for the knock at the door, the way time stands still when you get the news you hope you never have to hear.
He was just 18 when the accident happened. A confident boy who was full of life. He had started an apprenticeship in cabinet making so he was a creative person, but his real skills were with people. He was always chatting to the older generation, soaking up their stories.
We’d had a birthday party not long before for my mum who was in her late 70s and Christopher sat around the table talking away to all of her elderly friends, like he was one of them. He had a way of making people feel at ease, like they could share anything with him.
Losing him shattered me. I’d seen death and comforted the bereaved, but nothing prepared me for losing my boy. I didn’t want to be here. I couldn’t leave the house, which became a shrine to him, spending hours in his room just crying. I lost my marri age and pieces of myself.
But through the darkness, I still had nursing.
After a few months in a fog of grief, my very supportive manager stepped in and arranged for me to transfer to a rural team. It was a time away from the world’s eyes and judgement, but a method of slowly, carefully allowing me to continue doing what I loved to do.
There was never another career choice for me than nursing. Back in 1974, newly qualified I put on a long black raincoat and hopped on an old policeman’s bike to visit patients in high-rise flats in West London. This early taste of district nursing life was the start of the rest of my career.
Over the years, I rose through the ranks to become a team leader, sister and mentor. Throughout it all, I discovered a passion for teaching. The joy of watching young nurses grow and thrive in their careers has been one of the most fulfilling parts of the job. But when Christopher died, all of these feelings had gone.
What saved me was the kindness of colleagues. The manager who took me in and listened when I was having difficulties. My colleague who helped me back into work gently, took me to the GP when I was hit down with stress and illness and my team who stood by me, who understood when I crumbled without warning.
It took many years but soon glimmers of the nurse I had been, returned. At KCHFT, I have spent that last nine to ten years working somewhere that I felt truly respected and cared for by my team mates. During my time here I have taught and mentored countless student nurses, leading my example.
I retired earlier this year, a surprise semi-centenary celebration surrounded by cake and colleagues that mean the world to me. I can’t keep away, still sneaking in shifts on the staff bank.
One of my students who I had mentored, Jane Ham, wrote in a news piece about my retirement that I was ‘kind, caring and supportive.’ That I could ‘talk to a patient and get them on board, every time.’ The words are humbling, but I think when you’ve been through what I have, you can open your heart to others, much more easily.
Where I live, I am still forced to drive past the spot where we lost Christopher, every day. It never gets easier. Every time, a part of me is transported back to that to that moment – the sirens ringing in my ears.
Reflecting back on my life and career two things are certain - I’m still, and always will be, Christopher’s mum. And, even as I retire, I’m still and always will be a nurse.
To mark International Nurses Day which is coming up soon, I am opening up to you all, to help us all remember that behind every nurse’s uniform is a story. We carry our own pain even as we care for others through theirs so we must treat each other – and ourselves – with kindness.
