Rajalakshmi Murugan, RN

I was drifting in the haze of anesthesia following my open-heart surgery at Al Jalila Hospital in Dubai. As I began to wake, still half-asleep in that “rarest of spaces” where humans depend entirely on machines to survive, the first person I saw was Nurse Raja. In that sterile environment, she offered a level of care and comfort that made me forget the supporting machines attached to me.

I remember being consumed by a desperate thirst. I was asking for water. In my semi-conscious state, my English failed me, and I reached for my native tongue. "Wuha," I said—the word for water in Amharic. Without hesitation, she understood. She echoed the word back to me and began to care for me with a passion that made me feel, for the first time, that I wasn't among strangers. I felt like I was home; I felt she was family.

Throughout the night, she remained right in front of me. She moved with a dual purpose: cautiously managing the complex machines that kept me alive while offering the rarest smiles and encouragement to help me liberate myself from them. She constantly adjusted my position, checked my comfort, fed me, cleaned my face, and brushed my teeth. Whenever a machine’s rhythm broke into an alarm, she was there instantly to restore the balance.

She cracked jokes and spoke to me with such warmth that I was motivated to stay strong. I understood her message, though it was difficult to comprehend the language. Care was her language more than Arabic, English, Hindi, or Amharic. In her presence, I gradually forgot my dependence on the monitors. Through her care, she showed me the path back to independence.

I wish I could tell her this directly: We exist because of the care we receive from fellow humans like Nurse Raja. I became a new person after that surgery, and that transformation would have been impossible without her and her care.

I call the ICU "I See Your Care" instead.

Thanks, Ms. Raja.