Look at My Boobs, by Alisa Hearl (Nurse Narratives Initiative, ETSU Faculty)

Alisa created her story in a custom digital storytelling workshop facilitated by StoryCollab, and sponsored by Ballad Health, the Tennessee Center for Nursing Advancement, the ETSU College of Nursing, and the ETSU Research Corporation.

Find out more about StoryCollab here: www.StoryCollab.org.

In a heartbreaking yet beautiful tribute, Alisa recounts the unwavering spirit of a her friend battling a relentless illness. The story explores their deep bond, forged through shared laughter, tears, and compassionate care. This powerful narrative reveals a testament to a person's indomitable will, her enduring faith, and the profound impact she had on everyone around her—a legacy of love, strength, and purple scarves.

TRANSCRIPT:

“Can you come now?” She cried out, “I look like a circus freak!” She was right. She said, “My face is… my hair is… my boobs are gone.” And she collapsed, sobbing, in my arms.

So she got new boobs. And her body rejected them. She grew new hair, and we colored it purple, in two shades. I remember going to the hospital to help her bathe. Walking into the room, her husband, Steve, was sitting in the chair. He told me they’d given her pain medicine a little while ago.

I brought some of my homemade lavender soap and some soft washcloths. And I began with her left arm. I bathed her the way we both learned in nursing school. Then I crawled into the bed. When I heard her breathing change, I knew she’d fallen asleep. I got up and walked away.

I laid by her often. We talked, we giggled, and we cried. Steve says she never faltered. She never quit believing. Never stopped trusting. She never gave up.

I answered the phone, and he said, “Come now!” Walking in the room I hear the dispatcher say, “You’re doing great.” I take over, and he stands in the doorway, leaning on the frame, watching. I know she’s gone, but I continue compressions. EMS arrives and asks if I’m ok. “Yes.” And I keep going.

He says her hospice nurse is on the way. EMS says “Wait. Hospice?” and I look at them, and they say, “What do we do?” And HE says, “EVERYTHING!” I know she’s gone, but I look at them, and I say, “Go ahead.” So they drill into the intraosseous space in her shin and deliver epinephrine.

And nothing. I look at him, and I think about the discussions she and I had about their future. Their relationship—the ups and the downs. Their love. Their forever. She would talk about her beautiful girls, the band halftime shows, the gymnastics meets, their future weddings. She had ideas for days.

She made me a scarf in purple because she knew I loved purple. When I got my yoga certification, she made me a pair of earrings with a purple bead specific to yoga. Through all of it she smiled. Even in her worst days she was smiling. Even now, in death, she’s smiling. I remember her lying on the bed. She was smiling.

He says, “What do I do?”

And I say “Stop. Just stop.”

She set the bar high. She conquered each metastasis and she got new boobs. Angela touched people. Not just nurse Angela, but ANGELA.