Chicken Soup for the Nurse's Soul (10 page)

There was a radio mounted on the wall of the ward. The reception was not good, but a tune came on most days, a catchy melody Nick had not heard before, about a whistling fisherman.

“What’s that tune, Sister?” he finally asked one day.

“It’s ‘Pedro, the Fisherman.’ Comes from
The Lisbon
Story.
I saw it in London just before I came out here. Lovely, isn’t it?” She smiled that smile again. “Now, Soldier, I’ve news for you: You’ll be discharged tomorrow, back to your unit.”

Nick was saddened by this. He knew it was silly but, like so many, he had fallen in love with his nurse. Silly indeed, for she was an officer and he was a trooper. The two could never meet in the strict world of the army. So the next day he packed his kit, held her hand, perhaps a little too tightly, as he said good-bye and went back to the war.

Three years later, Captain Nick Bartlett had been promoted rapidly after fighting in the brutal war in Burma. Now he was stationed in a little coastal town in Malaya, one that had not suffered under Japanese rule. The cafés and shops were open and full of the pre-war goods that had been hoarded by canny Chinese in anticipation of the Japanese defeat. A large dance hall was full every night of the week. A Filipino band played the hit tunes of the war years and slender Chinese girls in cheongsams were employed as dancers. Nick’s regiment was based outside the town, but most nights he drove in, parked his jeep, had a meal in the Café 7, then looked in at the New World for a dance or two with the girls.

One night as he sat at the bar, a crowd of people came in. He did not believe what he saw—a dark-haired girl with deep brown eyes that crinkled as she smiled. Gone was the white uniform; jungle green fatigues had replaced it, but those could not disguise the slim figure of Sister Nichols.

Nick headed across the room to the bandleader he’d come to know quite well. “Chan, do you know ‘Pedro the Fisherman’? It goes like this,” and he whistled a few bars.

“Of course,” smiled Chan. “You want us to play it for you?”

Nick smiled his assent and waited for the music to start.

“Pedro, the fisherman, was always whistling,” sang the Chinese vocalist as Nick walked across the floor.

“May I have this dance?” he asked.

Sister Nichols looked at her escort, a rather paunchy major in the RAMC, who nodded somewhat reluctantly.

Nick took her hand and led her onto the floor. “Remember me?” he asked. She looked at him quizzically. “Should I?”

“Well,” he replied, “you held my hand.”

She smiled at this, that same smile that had captivated him all those years before.

“You and a hundred others,’’ she said.

“Poona, 1943 and ‘Pedro the Fisherman.’”

“Oh, no!” she said.

“Oh, yes,” said Nick. “What about dinner tomorrow night?”

Sister Nichols, or Jane as he soon learned, was with a Field Ambulance Unit only a few miles away. When Jane told the paunchy major she’d be leaving with Nick, he looked somewhat disgruntled. “He’s rather sweet,” Jane explained to Nick, “more a father figure than anything else.”

From that time on, Nick and Jane were inseparable. They had years of experiences to share. The warm, starry nights were never long enough for them. Too soon, Nick was due for repatriation.

As palm fronds rustled above the beach on their final night, he asked, “Marry me?”

“Of course,” she beamed. “As soon as we can.”

“Aldershot?” he laughed.

“No,” she said, “Lincoln Cathedral.”

So it was. And a year later, Jane lay in a hospital bed.

“Position’s reversed,” teased Nick. “Remember Poona?”

“Forever,” said Jane, as she held his hand and looked at the tiny baby beside her.

F. A. Thompson

Love in Its Purest Form

B
eing deeply loved by someone gives you
strength; loving someone deeply gives you
courage.

Lao-tzu

I looked up at the clock with tired eyes.
Six
A
.
M
., one more
hour ’til the shift is over,
I whispered to myself. Then there he was, strolling in, head up high, as he walked toward the nursing station. The other nurses turned their heads and smiled as they recognized that old familiar face.

“You’re always on time,” I commented. He smiled and asked, “Are we ready?”

I nodded my head in reply, and we proceeded to Mrs. Walter’s room. “Did you premedicate her for pain already?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I replied. We knocked at Mrs. Walter’s door to let her know we were coming in to begin the procedure. She was bedridden, barely able to move herself. I sighed as I looked at her swollen legs, ulcerated, from ankles to thighs. The oozing, foul-smelling drainage from her wounds permeated the room. Nevertheless, I smiled. I saw the joy in her eyes as she saw him enter the room with me.

“Just let us know if you feel any pain, so we can be more gentle,” he told Mrs. Walter.

“Okay,” she sighed.

We began the dreaded dressing change. He held her feet off the pillows, so I could undo the old dressings wrapped from her ankles to her thighs. He laid out all the sterile dressings, scissors and tape on the bedside tray in a very organized manner, just as he did yesterday. He was a master at this procedure. He handed me the spray bottle, and I sprayed her wounds to clean them.

“Are you okay?” he asked Mrs. Walter.

She just nodded and bit her lips in pain.

“Hang in there, we’ll be done soon,” he reassured her.

We began with her right leg. It was a difficult task standing there seeing the worst of all wounds. The stench forced me to hold my breath. And yet he stood there, right beside her, brave and strong, keeping his composure.

“Here, let me help you with that,” he said as I struggled to reach over her upper thigh.

Ten minutes had passed and we proceeded with her left leg. It seemed like forever until we were finished.
Thank
goodness,
I whispered to myself. I looked up at the clock and it was 6:30 A.M. Was it only thirty minutes?

“Thank you, Nurse,” Mrs. Walter sighed in relief. She then turned her head to look up at him and whispered, “Thanks a lot, Honey. You know you really didn’t have to come early today to be here, but I’m glad you did.”

And it was my turn to thank him, just as I did yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Walter.”

He didn’t say a word. He just smiled at Mrs. Walter with reassuring eyes and reached out for her hand. I looked at his eyes and saw the meaning of family and true love. I left Mrs. Walter alone with her husband and slowly walked away in silence, overwhelmed to witness love in its purest form.

Maryjo Relampagos Pulmano

A Single Act of Love

T
he hunger for love is much more difficult to
remove than the hunger for bread.

Mother Teresa

His brief but tormented young life was punctuated by recurring visits to hospital emergency rooms for treatment of unexplained, questionable injuries too numerous to count. Despite the unsettled conditions of his family, this small boy always had a smile for everyone.

Only God knows what horrors he was made to endure.

The responsible adults who were supposed to be caring for him and providing love couldn’t control their own anger, impulses and frustrations. The family, friends and social system that was intended to protect this young lad failed him miserably. He shouldn’t have been allowed to slip through the cracks, but somehow, in this imperfect world, he did.

On his last hospital admission, this battered and wounded youngster received exceptional care and experienced perhaps some of the only loving and caring moments of comfort and safety he would know in his abbreviated life.

One evening, the nurse who was taking care of this broken four-year-old boy climbed into his bed, lay down next to him and cuddled him close to her heart. She gently stroked his forehead and sang soft lullabies in his ear until he fell asleep. That night he closed his tiny eyes for the last time.

Those beautiful lullabies were the last sounds he would ever hear.

This little boy passed into the next life surrounded by love—the love that he so desperately needed and deserved in this life. There is a Bible passage that says, “Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, you do unto me.” By her actions, this nurse clearly demonstrated the powerful significance of these words.

A single act of love, performed by one special nurse who opened her heart and soul, made a big difference to this precious little angel.

Laura Hayes Lagana

My Promise

W
hen love and skill work together, expect a
masterpiece.

John Ruskin

I was working as a house supervisor in a small, rural hospital on a bitter cold Midwestern winter in 1992. I wasn’t even supposed to be working the evening shift, but had agreed to swap with a colleague who needed the night off.

Among my many duties was to assist in the emergency room if our lone ER nurse needed help. My pager echoed down the hallway that quiet evening, and I picked up the nearest house phone.

“I need your help now,” Nancy said urgently. “We have an ambulance out on a little boy. Not many details, but it doesn’t sound good. He was found outside in a snow bank, and the first responders have started CPR.”

My heart sank. It was thirty degrees below zero with windchill. The child didn’t have a chance.

I immediately thought of my own little three-year-old boy. It seemed he was always on my mind. He’d been so distant for such a young child, disappearing into his room for hours to read his books. If I tried to sit down and read with him, he threw the book and left the room. I was his mother and loved him more than anything in this world, but he seemed to prefer his silence to my songs. He preferred aloneness to my love.

My attention snapped back as I entered the emergency room. The ambulance was just pulling up, and when the gurney rolled into the ER it was met with dead silence. CPR was in progress. The blond boy lay lifeless and pale, his blue eyes staring vacantly, pupils fixed and dilated. His perfect little hands were frozen so solid, we could not unclench his fists. Because of the circumstances, we were obligated to continue CPR until his core body temperature was raised. I had heard of cases of hypothermia where children were revived, but no one in the room seemed to hold any hope of bringing back this little boy.

The next hour passed quickly as cut-down IVs, chest tubes, peritoneal lavage and urinary catheters all infused warmed saline into his still, frozen body. I stood silently over him, tears running down my cheeks, as I prayed silently for him and his family. I could not even begin to understand the pain his parents were experiencing, and all I could do was bring them periodic reports that we were doing all we could.

He was the same age as my little boy, with the same beautiful blue eyes and blond hair. I thought of how much I loved my son and tried to remember the last time I told him I loved him so. What if he died tonight? Would he die knowing how much I loved him? I realized, watching a group of doctors and nurses desperately trying to do the impossible, that I hadn’t even hugged him before leaving for work. And I deeply regretted that now.

Then a miracle occurred. We gave no medicine; we gave no electrical shocks to the heart. All we did was warm him up. His heart began to beat. Slowly at first and then more steadily. Ten beats a minute. Then twenty. We thought about adrenaline, but the physician decided against it. Within two minutes, we had a pulse. In ten minutes, his color turned a beautiful shade of pink and his pupils became reactive.

Stunned silence permeated the room, and I was in awe knowing I had received a very special invitation to witness a miracle.