Chicken Soup for the Nurse's Soul (27 page)

Arthur Hallam

It was getting close. We all knew it.

“What did the doctor say this morning?” I quietly asked my mom, seated by Dad’s bed as he slept fitfully. It was a daily question yet, before she opened her mouth to speak, I could see by the look in her eyes that the news wasn’t good. She turned her weary face toward me and whispered so as not to disturb him.

“He’s developed pneumonia. One lung showed up completely white on the X rays.” She began to cry softly. My heart sank. I still clung to the childlike hope that if I wished hard enough, it would all go away. The cancer, the drugs, the withering body, the suffering and the waiting. The agonizing waiting. I did not want to watch my father die anymore. And I did not want to watch a part of my mother die right along with him. I didn’t know how much more I could take.

I drew in a deep breath and motioned for her to join me outside of the room. She nodded and rose to leave but paused a moment. Looking into his sunken face, she softly caressed his cheek with her trembling hand. He did not stir from his drug-induced dreams.

“Let’s get some air,” I suggested as I placed my arm around her shoulders. We walked past the nurses’ station, and for a moment I marveled at the men and women I saw there. Dad’s room was just across from the large partitioned area, and I had come to recognize most of the faces over the course of the last month. Warm smiles popped up from behind the desk. That alone amazed me. Smiles. Always smiles. On a floor solely dedicated to the dying and grieving.

Mom and I went for a cup of coffee, and before long, she wanted to return to Dad’s room. She was never away long. In fact, the nurses had set up a cot for her so she could spend her nights as close to her husband as possible. I walked her back and decided to stroll the hallway yet again.

I wasn’t doing well that morning. I hurt. Yet, my own grief seemed so insignificant and unimportant compared to Dad’s and even Mom’s. I fought my tears and assured myself that I would be strong for her.

Later that evening after I had run home for some rest, I returned to the care unit. I noticed one nurse who had been there in the morning and was surprised to see her almost twelve hours later. As I approached I could overhear her discreetly talking with a coworker. I didn’t catch who they were talking about, but I understood that a patient wasn’t expected to make it through the night. I knew it wasn’t my father, yet I felt weakened by this even though death was almost a daily occurrence there.

Another life was ending.

When I walked into Dad’s room, I was happy to see him awake and talkative. Mom was dressed up, her hair was shiny and styled, and she had put on some makeup. Though her deep sorrow and exhaustion could not be masked, she looked so beautiful. Tenderly she peeled back the covers and cradled his swollen foot in one hand and gently spread lotion with the other.

Deeply moved by this display of strength, love and dedication, I listened to the chatter between them. For a brief moment they seemed to forget all they were facing. I excused myself and stepped out of the room. Once the door was closed, I leaned against the hallway wall for support. Pain racked through me in great waves, and I could not deny my own grief any longer.

I didn’t notice the nurse leave the desk and approach me. She was the same woman whom I had seen in the morning. She stood before me, and I looked into her weary face. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around me. I sobbed as she held me and all of my fear, pain and fatigue flooded forth. I grabbed onto the strength and comfort she surrounded me with.

“I . . . I’m so sorry,” I began to say.

“Don’t be. That’s what we’re here for,” she replied tenderly.

I chuckled through my sniffles. “Like, you don’t have enough with the caring of those people who are dying.”

“All pain deserves as much comfort as we can give— including yours.”

So few words, yet so much meaning. She had held me for a few moments more and when we separated, I felt so tired I could have collapsed. But that wasn’t all I felt. Something had shifted within me. The gift she gave me in those moments in the hallway gave me the courage and the strength to face my father’s death two weeks later. It got me through the funeral and the weeks that followed as we all tried to determine what life was, now that he was gone.

Most of all, it gave me the ability to acknowledge that although all pain may not be equal, it all deserves as much comfort as we can give.

Corinne Pratz

The Nurse’s Best Medicine

Nursing has been called a “rewarding profession,” so much so that it’s become something of a cliché. But more than that, nursing tests you, asking more of you than you ever thought you could give. Nurses are generally people who know who they are. We come to that knowledge through our reflection in the eyes of our patients.

It is our patients, more than our colleagues, who have made us what we are, by forcing us to rise to the occasion.

You stand by the side of a young girl named Maria, lying on a stretcher. Maria is very depressed. She doesn’t speak, sleeps very little and has to be spoon-fed. Her doctor has prescribed electroconvulsive therapy. This is Maria’s first treatment and yours, too. You don’t want to be here; they say ECT is scary. The doctor pushes a button and Maria’s body rises from the table as you hold her arm. She begins to convulse and you want to turn your head away. Do they have to treat mental illness this way?

What made me think I wanted to be a nurse?

Six weeks later, Maria’s treatments end. She’s ready for discharge. She’s eating and sleeping normally. She talks. She smiles, too, and laughs a little-girl laugh, calculated to touch the heart. She is beautiful—and well. She approaches you and takes your hand. “Thank you for helping me.” Then you think,
Maybe I am in the right place
after all.

The six-year-old’s head is larger than his entire body. You’ve had a hard time coping with this monster of a disease known as hydrocephalus. You want to run, hide even. Instead, you put your hand under his mammoth head and put a spoon to his mouth. Is there any point in all this? What kind of life does he have? Then, on visiting day, his mother comes. You see the love between parent and child. Then you understand. You’re glad you didn’t run.

Manny is catatonic, a huge man who looks straight ahead, ever motionless. Every day you pull and tug, trying to get him to move. During his shower, you get as wet as he does. His flat expression never changes. He seems completely oblivious. Does he even know you’re here? You can get so frustrated trying to care for a man who offers no help. Would it make any difference if you just turned and walked away?

But then comes that special day with Manny, a day you will remember the rest of your life. You are face-to-face with another man holding a table leg; a man bent on destroying you.

Out of the corner of your eye you see movement. A huge fist stops the man holding the table leg. A massive shoulder crashes into the chest of the one who might have killed you. Weeks later, when Manny is on his way out of your ward, you ask him, “Manny, on that day—why?”

A beefy hand touches your shoulder. Manny smiles. “You helped me—it was time for me to help you.” You spend the rest of the day digesting Manny’s words. Then you say to no one in particular—“I like being a nurse.”

Allan is schizophrenic and self-destructive. You spend hour after hour trying to see into his world. You can’t. It seems so hopeless. Sometimes, it gets so discouraging, you think Allan would be better off dead. But then, wonder of wonders—you connect.

His conversation becomes lucid—he’s talking sense! One of his favorite topics: “You know, Donnie, when I get out of here, I’m going to get me a little puppy.” He nearly drives you crazy with that puppy talk, he just won’t get off it—but at least he’s out of his shadow world.

Two years later, you’re walking on the hospital grounds. A car horn blows. You look up to see a shiny convertible pulling alongside, a huge dog in the back seat. “How do you like my little puppy, Donnie?” Allan laughs, “At least he was a couple of years ago!” You follow Allan’s car with your eyes as it pulls away, and you think,
I almost
gave up on him.

Harry is manic-depressive, a physically powerful, violent man, who spends most of his time in a seclusion room. You’re working nights, sitting at a kitchen table, eating a bowl of Rice Krispies. Harry approaches. A lump forms in your throat. He stares at your bowl of Rice Krispies. “Can I have some?” You get him a bowl, a spoon and push the cereal and milk toward him. He scarfs down the Rice Krispies. It becomes a nightly ritual. No more seclusion, no violence. Harry will have other admissions. Your Rice Krispies are not a cure. But everyone asks, “How come Harry never gives you any trouble?” You smile. How do you explain the power of a bowl of Rice Krispies?

So now you sit, looking back at forty-five years. You’re content, fulfilled; you’ve been “rewarded.” Did you come to this by your own effort entirely? No. So, you say a thank-you: to Maria, to a hydrocephalic child, to Manny who saved your life, to Allan and his puppy, to Harry and his bowl of Rice Krispies.

They were your patients, you the nurse.

Who helped who the most?

Hard to say.

Don Haines

Always a Nurse

Some people credit their decision to become a nurse to a life-changing event. Not me. I just always knew I wanted to become a nurse. From my early years, I used my (sometimes willing, sometimes unwilling) sisters as patients. My dolls were constantly bandaged and dotted with marks from ballpoint pen “shots.”

I loved nursing school and was filled with pride the first time I put on my uniform. I even liked the cap! Graduating from nursing school ranks as one of the happiest days of my life, as does the day I opened the letter announcing I had passed State Boards. At long last, my dream had come true. I was a nurse!

After graduation I worked in a psychiatric hospital, a nursing home, a telemetry unit and doing private duty with sick children. My satisfaction and confidence in doing assessments, starting IVs, learning medications, and relating to patients and their families confirmed my career choice.

When our first child was born, I quit working outside the home. I loved being with my new baby. Then several months ago, I realized it had been almost three years since I had worked as a “real” nurse. Sure, I continued to read nursing journals and attend a nursing workshop occasionally, but the advances and changes in technology, medications and procedures were overwhelming. Could I ever find my place in nursing again?

I began to doubt my career choice. Had it been a mistake to spend so much time, not to mention money, on a career I was going to practice for only a few years? Did what I learned in school so long ago really matter? Could I ever be a “real” nurse again?

A few days later, our three-year-old took a fall down the front steps. With my heart pounding, I assessed him for a potential head injury. His pupils were equal in size, he was alert and annoyed at my assessment, and his motor abilities appeared normal as he chased his little sister across the yard.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and several other events from the last few days popped into my mind. I remembered the phone call from my mom, and my explanation to her what a stroke was and how it might affect her friend.

I thought of the evening before, when I reassured our neighbor, whose husband had just returned home from the hospital after having a serious heart attack. I told her she could call me anytime, and I’d be right over. We hugged, and through her tears she said, “I’m so glad to have a nurse next door!”

And I recalled another day when I counseled my father-in-law on the importance of taking the whole course of antibiotics he’d been prescribed, and not stopping the medication when he felt better.

As I looked back, I realized I don’t have to work in a big hospital or know all the details of the latest high-tech procedure to be a nurse. I use my education every day, and will continue to use it every day of my life. My career choice was the right one.

I am, and always will be, a nurse.

Shelly Burke

A Nurse Named Gloria

H
e deserves paradise who makes his
companions laugh.

The Koran

“It’s a boy,” the doctor said in a weak, agitated voice.