Little Joe.
God puts us in places to do special things, and we may not always agree, but we better be obedient.
Beverly Houseman
“Sorry about the mix-up, Mr. Bixford.
We’ll be moving you to a semi-private room shortly.”
CLOSE TO HOME © John McPherson. Reprinted with permission of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. All rights reserved.
A Visit from an Angel
A patient came into my office this week to have a physical exam and to get a refill on high-blood-pressure medicine. My heart filled with great pity as she undressed, revealing a frail, stooped body. Every joint was deformed from years of arthritis. Her thinning hair was gray and lifeless; her brown eyes were clouded by cataracts.
As I asked her the usual questions, every answer she gave surprised me.
“No, I don’t hurt much.”
“Yes, I still cook and clean my little house.”
“No, I don’t sleep much, but that gives me more time to read my Bible.”
I proceeded to talk to her about getting her cataracts removed and to accept a referral to an arthritis specialist. I pleaded with her to join the senior citizens group for companionship. As I knelt down to help her tie her worn, frayed shoes, I stressed how concerned I was about her living alone in the shape she was in. She took my hand in her crippled grasp.
“My little nurse,” she said, “don’t you believe in God?”
“Oh yes, Ma’am, I do.”
“Well, believe in him a little harder and you won’t worry about me so.”
She limped out of my office with her paper sack for a purse, and for a moment I thought I saw angel wings on her back.
Sarah Webb Johnson
New Job
If you think about what you ought to do for other people, your character will take care of itself.
Woodrow Wilson
Finding a new job when I moved to another state proved to be more daunting than I’d anticipated. At the hospital closest to my home, there were no immediate openings. The nurse recruiter suggested I try the new adjoining continuing care facility. “They’re always hard up for nurses,” she mumbled under her breath as I left the office.
I’ll bet, I thought to myself. In reality, it was a nursing home. Being called by another name didn’t erase my dismal image about such places. I wasn’t eager to “step down” to that type of nursing. However, I felt I owed the recruiter the courtesy of at least touring the place she’d offered.
A young woman from the office took me to the third floor. She explained that the residents were waiting to go to the dining room for their noon meal. I was appalled by what I saw. The hallway seemed endless and dark as a train tunnel. Wheelchairs containing the harnessed flesh of old people lined the walls. Heads bobbed, arms flailed and legs hung limply or kicked at random. Foreign sounds filled the air: grunts, groans, mutters, mumbles, sniffles and sobs.
Dejected faces stared into space. Pairs of eyes filled with loneliness followed us as we walked down the corridor. My tour guide cheerfully greeted each resident. Most responded with a timid smile. I was overwhelmed.
4
ON TEACHING
AND
LEARNING
True teaching is only achieved by example.
Plato
Reprinted by permission of Benita Epstein.
Diabetic Teaching
No tempting form of error is without some latent charm derived from truth.
Sir Arthur Keith
As a part of the discharge teaching, the newly diagnosed diabetic patient was taught how to give his own insulin. The nurse who had been giving him the injections during his hospital stay instructed him on preparing the insulin syringe, then gave him the equipment and an orange to use to practice the technique. She also instructed him about diet, activity and monitoring his blood sugar, as well as what to do if his blood sugar was too high or too low. He had no questions when he was discharged and said he felt confident in administering his own insulin.
At his next doctor’s appointment, his blood sugar was very high. The doctor asked him if he took his insulin every day as instructed and if he followed his prescribed diet. The patient said he knew, from the diet teaching he received from the nurse in the hospital, that the juice of the orange was important in controlling his blood sugar. Then he proudly described his insulin administration technique: He drew up the insulin, injected it into an orange every morning and ate the orange.
Johanna Tracy
“That’s not the sliding scale I ordered!”
© 1998 Carl L. Shrader. Reprinted with permission of Medlaff.com.
First Injection
He who laughs, lasts.
Norwegian Proverb
From the time I was four years old, I announced to anyone who asked, “When I grow up, I’m going to be a nurse.” My parents tried to nurture this dream. They would surprise me with little nurse’s kits. Contained in a small plastic case latched at the top was all the equipment needed to be a nurse: a thermometer permanently marked to 98.6, a pill bottle filled with candy (which would be gone in two hours), a stethoscope that didn’t work and, best of all, a syringe.
I loved that syringe. I would spend hours filling it up with water and “injecting” my little sister. I would “inject” the family dog and a very reluctant cat. No other single function represented nursing to me as well as giving injections. To me, giving shots was the epitome of what nurses do.
You can imagine my excitement, therefore, when we reached the part of my nurses’ training where we learned injections. I studied the techniques carefully and practiced on peaches. I practiced so much that the fruit at my house had little water blisters all over that looked like scabies. I participated in the “return demonstration” with my fellow nursing students. I always claimed that my partner’s injection was painless so that she would make a similar claim when it was my turn.
The following week, I began my emergency room rotation at Penrose Hospital in Colorado Springs. One day, a handsome, tanned construction worker was admitted with a large laceration on his right arm. About six feet, five inches tall, 250 pounds, he had huge muscles and a grin to match. “I just sliced this a little with some sheet metal, Ma’am,” he reported. He lay on the exam table while the doctor sutured him with a dozen stitches. He listened intently while the doctor gave instructions for wound care.
And then the magical moment occurred. The doctor turned to me and said, “Nurse Bartlein, would you please give this gentleman a tetanus shot?” My big chance! A real injection on a real patient. I practically floated on air as I scrambled to the refrigerator and took out the tetanus vaccine. I carefully drew up the prescribed amount and returned to the patient. I meticulously swabbed the site with an alcohol wipe and then expertly darted that needle deep into the deltoid muscle. I aspirated as taught and slowly injected the vaccine.
With a grin, the construction worker said, “Thank you, Ma’am” and stood up. I winked at him, and he winked at me. He stood there for a minute and promptly crumpled to the floor unconscious. Oh, my God, I killed him! My first injection and I killed the patient. My impulse was to run out the door as far into the mountains as possible. Forget about being a nurse, forget about injections, I’ll live off the land. No one will ever find me.
Everyone else came running and slowly helped the patient to his feet. The doctor could see that I was quite shaken. He reassured me with a smile and said, “Don’t worry, he’s fine. The big ones always faint!”
Barbara Bartlein
“Dr. Bigford is trying out a new inoculation method he found out about when he was traveling in Borneo.”
CLOSE TO HOME © John McPherson. Reprinted with permission of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. All rights reserved.
Peppy
Happiness is a warm puppy.
Charles M. Schulz
I was a new graduate nurse, on probation in my first job, when I met Mrs. Oldman, a charming lady of about eighty who’d nev
er been ill or in a hospital.
One day, I saw her staring outside with tears in her eyes.
“Are you in pain?” I asked.
She looked up, startled, and shook her head. Smiling, she apologized. “No, I’m just silly. I’m lonesome for Peppy. I must be getting senile to cry for a little dog, but he’s always around me at home. I forget he’s not human. I talk so much to him, and somehow he gives me the impression that he understands me.” She wiped her eyes and looked helplessly up at me. “Do you think I’m silly?”
“Not at all,” I assured her.
“I’d do anything if I could see and hold him for a moment.” She questioned me with her eyes. Reading the hopelessness in my response, she said tonelessly, “No, I guess it’s impossible.”
“Some people are allergic to dogs,” I tried to explain, visualizing a dozen dogs, cats and heaven-knows-what other pets chasing each other under the beds during visiting hours.
She nodded sadly. “Of course.”
After that crying spell, she favored me with stories about Peppy. Her neighbor, Mrs. Freund, was taking care of him and claimed he knew she’d been in the hospital. Wasn’t that smart? Then she said sadly, “Yes, Peppy, he misses me. I miss him.”
She grew despondent as the days passed. I tried everything to draw her out and cheer her, but to no avail. Even the other ladies in the ward noticed my efforts and Mrs. Oldman’s silence. They offered snacks, refreshments and suggested they play cards with her. She thanked them gratefully, but her eyes had that lost expression and she politely refused everything. Patients came and went every day, and soon Mrs. Oldman was an old-timer, and one who’d grown dear to me. I’d often been told that a person could die if he or she lost the will to live. I feared Mrs. Oldman would give up and die if I didn’t find something to give her life meaning, a reason to live. It was then I thought of Peppy. Taking my camera, I went to Mrs. Freund’s house to take a picture of him. Surely that would cheer her.
Peppy sat demurely as he was photographed. No doubt the little, black, fuzzy fellow had once been lively in his youth, but now he sat with his head on his paws staring out into nowhere.
“Poor guy,” Mrs. Freund said, “he is so lonesome he could die. He hardly eats or drinks. He sits and stares out the window and whines softly for her.” She looked at me beseechingly. “It would help them both if he could visit Mrs. Oldman.” I shook my head. Mrs. Freund tried again. “How about just taking him to the courtyard so she can see him from her window?”
“Let’s try it,” I said enthusiastically. “Come between three and four tomorrow. All the head nurses will be at a meeting and I’ll be in charge.”
I told her to put Peppy in a shopping bag to pass the attendants at the entrance. Mrs. Freund was delighted. “Aren’t we glad she doesn’t own a Great Dane or a St. Bernard?”
The next day I could hardly wait for Mrs. Green to leave for the meeting. Visitors ambled into the ward. Everyone had company but Mrs. Oldman.
“Want me to pull your curtains around your bed so you have some privacy?” I suggested, knowing how she felt about the pitying stares from visitors.
“Yes,” she muttered.
I closed the curtain, wondering if our plan would succeed and if Mrs. Freund would manage to keep Peppy quiet in her bag while passing by the two attendants at the main entrance. I had not dared to tell Mrs. Oldman of our plan, fearing it might fail.
My heart lifted when I saw the door of the courtyard open and Mrs. Freund lugging her shopping bag. She ambled casually around the flower border, looking right and left with a mischievous expression, as if violating some holy laws. Mrs. Oldman didn’t seem to notice I’d blocked her view from the window. Mrs. Freund tapped the window lightly then reached into her shopping bag. I stood back to watch Mrs. Oldman’s face. Never in my life will I forget that moment. At once she rose up, her face reddened, her eyes sparkled, and her voice broke as she cried, “Peppy! Peppy!”
“Shush—shush.” I tried to keep her quiet. Outside the window Peppy jumped and whined and, before realizing what I was doing, I opened the window and lifted the little dog out of the bag and into her outstretched arms. Mrs. Freund stood with her shopping bag wide open, beaming as if she’d seen a miracle, or rather, created one.
But then my heart bunched up in alarm for I heard the voice of Mrs. Green. No doubt she was looking for me.
“Quick, he has to go now.” I wrestled the struggling dog back into the shopping bag outside the window.
I could hear Mrs. Green’s firm step and voice as she shouted, “What do I hear? Is there a dog on the ward?”
Quickly, I grabbed Mrs. Oldman’s bedpan and stepped outside the curtain, trying to look busy and professional as I walked past Mrs. Green. “Back so soon?” I asked cheerfully.
“I thought I heard a dog,” she muttered, as if questioning me.
I answered with studied indifference. “Maybe a stray dog in the courtyard.”
Without a word she followed me out of the ward and into the utility room. I stopped short. The bedpan was empty. I hesitated. Mrs. Green waited. I didn’t know for what. I dared not show that the bedpan was empty for fear of blowing my cover. The silence grew, and my thoughts raced. Would I be reported to the director of nursing for breaking the law? I was still in my probation months. My mouth and throat felt so dry, I thought I might choke.
Mrs. Green didn’t look at me as she spoke. “Rules and regulations in a hospital are made for a reason. There are exceptions, though, and while I am against secrecy and breaking rules, there are times that it proves a better policy.”
I nodded sheepishly. When a patient’s call light sounded, I jumped. Mrs. Green said, “Take your bedpan. Mrs. Oldman likely needs it.”
She opened the door for me, and I hurried out into the ward, utterly perplexed. Mrs. Oldman had already bubbled joyfully to all about Peppy’s visit and how smart he was. I begged the other patients to keep his visit a secret, lest I lose my job. They all kept their solemn bond and that secret made them special friends with Mrs. Oldman. She thrived under their affection. She regained her interest and confidence in the future. She exercised with such eagerness and determination, it shamed people half her age.
Finally, she left the hospital, welcomed by a joyfully dancing and yelping Peppy.
Mrs. Green never mentioned the dog’s visit to me, but when I occasionally had to break rules for the sake of a patient, she was always mysteriously absent.
Lini R. Grol
“In obedience school he learned to HEAL.”
Reprinted by permission of Benita Epstein.
A Healing Truth
God offers to every mind its choice between truth and repose. Take which you please; you can never have both.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
I was seventeen years old, in my first year of nursing school, and moonlighting evening shifts as an emergency-room assistant. When the ER supervisor said, “Virginia! Take a gurney out to the chopper, STAT,” I jumped and shook like an aspen leaf. I had never retrieved a patient from a helicopter before. Four of us rushed two gurneys out to the waiting helicopter.
My head spun as the wind and noise of the whirring blades drowned out orders shouted by the nurses and paramedics. Two piles of oily black rags were placed on the gurneys, and we raced back to the ER as fast as the rough asphalt would allow.
Still in a daze, I slowly realized the black rags were two burn victims, a mother and her nine-year-old daughter. They had been driving through the canyon when an oil tanker jackknifed in front of them and burst into flames, turning the canyon into a fiery inferno. The two had managed to crawl through flames up the side of the canyon where the helicopter rescued them some time later.
These were the first burn victims I’d ever seen. The little girl’s left ear was partially burned away. She looked like a horrid pink and black plastic doll. Sickened by the smell of burnt flesh and hair, I initially wanted to just get away from the horror. But by the time we sent them to ICU, I was e
ven more determined to be a nurse.
On another assignment a few weeks later, I was called to special duty to care for an unmanageable pediatric patient in four-point restraints. The charge nurse told me the child was spitting, swearing and biting anyone who came near her. Her family was at their wits’ end, yet asked that sedation be used sparingly, since it made her so groggy. The young girl hadn’t been bathed for two days.
With a sinking heart, I followed the charge nurse down a corridor that echoed with the child’s curses. I opened the door timidly and was struck in the face with spittle hurled by a matted, naked creature hissing under a canvas restraining jacket. The jacket was tangled under her chin and armpits, exposing her defiant kicking and thrashing. A wrinkled dressing partially covered her left ear. In shocked dismay, I realized this haunted creature was the little burn victim I had retrieved from the helicopter.
The charge nurse told me the child had recovered with only a shriveling of her left ear, but her mother had died after three days in the ICU.
“Whatever you do, don’t tell her that her mother is dead,” she ordered as she handed me the chart in the hall.
“Her family is trying to break the news to her gently, but she won’t listen.”
As I entered the room, the child screamed, “Get out! Don’t touch me!” Then, “Mama, Mama, Mama!” began her litany, interspersed between obscenities. Terrified, I began doing a miserable job of caring for this wounded, furious little animal.