Chicken Soup for the Nurse's Soul (18 page)

O
bstacles cannot crush me; every obstacle
yields stern resolve.

Leonardo da Vinci

Now We’re Talkin’

I
love these little people; and it is not a slight
thing when they, who are so fresh from God,
love us.

Charles Dickens

It was late at night when they brought him up from the emergency department to the pediatric ICU. He’d been playing outside when he was run over by a car and dragged down the street—by one of his parents, in a tragic accident. I felt intensely sad for parents I did not know.

He was bruised and bandaged and his four-year-old body seemed nearly lost on the adult-size gurney. And he was alone. The horror and guilt of the accident had distanced the parents; they’d gone home. I wanted to pick him up, hug him and assure him everything would all be okay. But instead I held his dirty, uninjured left hand in mine and said a prayer.

For the next two weeks he endured bandage changes and wound debridements on every limb of his body, except the left arm. That one was reserved for all the pokes and pricks necessary for the many treatments he could not comprehend.

And he was still alone. The social worker explained his distraught parents were separated, barely coping. They just couldn’t come. No wonder he hadn’t spoken a word since admission. Doctors found no “medical” explanation for his silence, yet no one could get him to talk.

Adding to our worries, his fifth birthday was the next day. Would his parents show up? Thankfully, a young resident overheard our concerns. He said he would buy the little guy a present, and we’d all celebrate together tomorrow night.

But why, for heaven’s sake, would he buy him a high-powered water gun? We should have left the gift buying to a female. Nice try, but this toy wasn’t something practical the child could play with in the ICU. Or was it?

I filled the squirt gun with water and handed it to my little friend. “Any time you say a word, any word, you can squirt me.”

He smiled, but rolled over and went to sleep—on his fifth birthday—alone.

At 5:00 A.M. I started the morning routines. Baths, blood draws, linen and bandage changes.

When I went into his room, he woke easily.

Then, “Hi!” he shouted, and blasted me in the face with water. At first, I didn’t know whether to be glad or mad.

I sputtered, “What’s your name?”

“Jason!” A spray of water soaked my hair.

“How old are you?”

“I’m five now!” He drenched my shirt. “What else do you want to know?”

I grabbed a towel and mopped my face. Now we’re talkin’.

Denise Casaubon

THE FAMILY CIRCUS©

By Bill Keane

“The school nurse looked through everybody’s hair to make sure we don’t have any headlights.”

Reprinted with permission from Bil Keane.

You Can Do Anything!

L
et me tell you the secret that has led me to my
goal: My strength lies solely in my tenacity.

Louis Pasteur

I was a twenty-year-old nursing student in 1968, preparing for a rotation through the pediatric unit. Compared to cardiac units or the operating room, how hard would this be? After all, I’d always cared for and played with children. This rotation would be a snap. I’d breeze right through it and be one step closer to graduation.

Chris was an eight-year-old bundle of energy who excelled in every sport he played. Disobeying his parents’ instructions, he explored a neighbor’s construction site, climbed a ladder and fell. His broken arm was casted too tightly, leading to infection, sepsis and gangrene. Sadly, his condition required amputation.

I was assigned as his postoperative nurse.

The first few days passed quickly. I provided Chris’s physical care with forced cheerfulness. His parents stayed with him around the clock.

As his need for medication decreased, his level of awareness increased, as did his moodiness. When I saw how alert he seemed as he watched me bring in supplies for a sponge bath, I offered him the washcloth and suggested he take over. He washed his face and neck, then quit. I finished.

The next day, I announced he’d be in charge of his whole bath. He balked. I insisted. He was more than halfway through when he slumped down and said, “I’m too tired.”

“You won’t be in the hospital much longer,” I urged gently. “You need to learn to take care of yourself.”

“Well, I can’t,” he scowled. “How can I do anything with just one hand?”

Putting on my brightest face, I groped for a silver lining. Finally I said, “Sure you can do it, Chris. At least you have your right hand.”

He turned his face away and muttered, “I’m left-handed. At least I used to be.” He glared at me. “Now what?”

Suddenly, I didn’t feel so snappy. I felt phony and insincere, and not very helpful. How could I have taken right-handedness for granted? It seemed he and I both had a lot to learn.

The next morning I greeted Chris with a big smile and a rubber band. He looked at me suspiciously. Wrapping the rubber band loosely around my wrist, I said, “You’re left-handed and I’m right-handed. I am going to put my right hand behind my back and keep it there by winding the rubber band around my uniform buttons. Every time I ask you to do something with your right hand, I will do it first, with my left hand. And I promise not to practice before I see you. What should we try first?”

“I just woke up,” he grumbled. “I need to brush my teeth.”

I managed to screw the top off the toothpaste, then placed his toothbrush on the overbed table. Awkwardly, I tried to squirt toothpaste onto the wobbly toothbrush. The harder I struggled, the more interested he became. After almost ten minutes, and a lot of wasted toothpaste, I succeeded.

“I can do it faster than that!” Chris declared. And when he did, his triumphant grin was just as real as mine.

The next two weeks passed quickly. We tackled his daily activities with enthusiasm and a competitive spirit. We buttoned his shirts, buttered his bread and never really mastered tying his shoes. Despite our age difference, we were playing a game as equal competitors.

By the time my rotation ended, he was almost ready for discharge, and ready to face the world with more confidence. We hugged each other good-bye with sincere friendship and tears.

More than thirty years have passed since our time together. I’ve encountered some ups and downs in my life, but I’ve never let a physical challenge pass without thinking of Chris and wondering how he would cope. Sometimes I put a hand behind my back, hook my thumb in my belt and give it a try.

And anytime I feel sorry for myself, for some petty grievance or another, I take myself into the bathroom and try once again to brush my teeth with my left hand.

Susan M. Goldberg

“I Am,” I Said

V
ision is the world’s most desperate need.
There are no hopeless situations, only people
who think hopelessly.

Winifred Newman

The young physical-therapy aide at the rehabilitation center chattered endlessly while we prepared for my session. I’m embarrassed to admit I was too caught up in my troubles to listen to her. As I watched the other patients struggling with their crutches and wheelchairs, my spirit was overcome by a sense of loss.

So much had changed. Only weeks had passed since bone cancer stole my left leg. Recently healed from surgery, I could barely sit in a chair for an hour at a time. Now I faced the difficult task of learning to walk with a prosthetic limb, a process complicated by an old back injury. The slightest activity sent scalding “phantom” pain into my nonexistent foot. As if that weren’t enough, chemotherapy had robbed me of my hair and my strength. A wide range of emotions drained my remaining energy: fear, anger and grief, topped off by a huge dollop of self-pity. Worst, though, I was unable to care for my father who had Alzheimer’s disease. I had no choice but to place him in a nursing facility and leave with a load of guilt.

When faced with overwhelming problems, we often escape by focusing on minor ones. People are funny in that way. In this instance, I fretted over the loss of my nursing career and the income it provided. Thankfully, my husband handled the finances. Every time the huge bills arrived, we thanked God that our insurance was adequate. Nevertheless, I missed the rapport with my patients and my colleagues. I’d always enjoyed the teaching aspect of nursing and loved seeing the glow of relief when a patient was able to understand his or her illness. It was such fun when the couples in my childbirth classes proudly showed me their new babies, gushing, “Shirley, it happened just like you said it would.”

How I longed to believe I would someday return to nursing. The yearning left me feeling ashamed of my selfishness.

I argued, first with myself, then with God. There were so many reasons for gratitude. Countless people had prayed for me. I was still alive, still a child of God, a wife, a mother and a grandmother. I tried to keep a sense of perspective by telling myself that nursing was only a career; it wasn’t my identity. “But, Lord, you led me into nursing and gave me a love for it. It’s my calling, and I feel the loss deeply. Why have you taken it from me?”

I paid scant attention to the aide’s words as I watched an elderly stroke victim attempting to operate a can opener. Nearby, a middle-aged man recovering from knee surgery drooped in despair. Across the room, a handsome airline pilot practiced walking again, following a severe spinal-cord injury. His cheerfulness puzzled me. I wondered what determined a patient’s response to loss. What spurred some on when others were easily defeated? Was it merely an inborn character trait, like a strong personality or a deep-seated tenacity? Was it faith? Whatever it was, I wanted it myself.

I’d like to think I fashioned a prayer that touched God’s heart. But in truth, I muddled through a jumble of emotions and came up with nothing but a scrambled plea that meant, “Lord, I need help.” I expected no reply.

The aide, still valiantly trying to cheer me up, said, “I understand you used to be a nurse.”

A fresh load of anger welled up inside my chest.
Used to
be?
I felt like asking her what she thought I was now. Before my mind could form a sarcastic response, words came from my mouth. “Yes, I am a nurse.” Somehow I felt different, stronger, but I wasn’t sure why.

Later, still feeling insulted, I mentally conducted a onesided quarrel with the aide who had reminded me of who I “used to be.”
Wait a minute. I’m everything I’ve ever been. I
have one less leg, but I still have my brain and my heart. I’m not
a has-been! God doesn’t have any has-beens.

I carried that thought in my head until the day a familiar scripture came to mind. I located it in my Bible concordance, then turned to Acts 17:28 and read aloud. “In him we live, and move, and have our being.” Three words stood out from the rest: “live,” “move” and “have.” It didn’t say that we
had
our being; we
have
it. My life isn’t in past tense. I still am.
I am!