And so began my visits, at least once or twice a week. Each was a spiritual experience. Joyce and I practiced the same religion and had strong faith. We also loved angels and believed in their presence and guidance. Despite her faith, Joyce struggled with accepting her impending death, determined she would live to see her three children grown.
During one of my visits, I told her that the hospice team would march in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade to advertise the Relay for Life. I told her the Hospice Clowns (of which I am one) would also be there. “I hope you and your family can come and watch,” I coaxed.
With that mischievous twinkle in her eye, she said, “I’ll be marching with you. After all my years of working on that race, I’m not about to just watch it.”
During the ensuing month, though, Joyce started to decline. She became weaker and weaker and, at times, confused. She still insisted she was not going to die and was very frustrated when others tried to be more realistic. Finally, one day she cried out in anguish, “I can’t die! I just can’t!”
I held her bony hand in mine. “Joyce, please put yourself in God’s hands and trust that He will lead you in whichever direction you should go. You can control what you can, and the rest you have to leave up to Him and His angels.”
A remarkable sense of peace came over her and from that day on she seemed to accept her fate. She slept more and more each day until finally I received a call from her friend, Linda, asking me to come. Joyce was not responding and the family was unsure what to do.
“I’m in my car only about a mile from Joyce’s house,” I told Linda. “But I’m dressed as a clown because I was headed for the parade.” I asked her to prepare the family for my appearance at this heart-wrenching time.
I arrived to find Joyce in a coma and knew by her symptoms that death was near. As the tears rolled down my face, I said, “Joyce, you’re still in control; you couldn’t get to the parade so you brought the parade to you.” I made sure she was comfortable, then told the family, “I need to walk the parade—for Joyce.” Privately I told Linda, “Page me if she dies before I get back.”
Halfway through the parade my pager rang. Ironically, I was again about one mile from her home. I removed my wig, wiped at my makeup, and went back to Joyce’s to give the pronouncement and console her family.
As I drove home and the tears continued to flow, I had an overwhelming sense that Joyce had joined God and His angels in controlling the events of the day. They sent in a clown.
Flo LeClair
The Tale of the Sale
Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier.
Mother Teresa
As nurses we are trained to be aware of not only people, but circumstances, so we can make good assessments with great outcomes.
This one all started when I promised my family I would have another garage sale so we could trade our trash for cash. Included in the sale were some “interesting” flowered draperies that my son had taken off the windows of his newly purchased town home. During the heat of the sale I heard a woman exclaim to her husband, “Oh, what lovely draperies!” I immediately was drawn to this lady.
“We are missionaries just back from Thailand, and we don’t have any drapes on our windows. The padding on the back of these would keep out the cold.” Her sweet spirit was so apparent as she looked at the drapes. I told her she could have them for half price. Thrilled, she gathered them up with a lovely smile of gratitude, and left with her husband.
The next day as I was putting leftover items into boxes to donate, I saw the missionary husband coming up the driveway with a young teenager. The boy was a handsome young man who greeted us with a smile and warm hello, revealing an obvious cleft palate.
The older man explained that he had seen a golf bag the day before that he thought his adopted son from Bulgaria would love. The young man said he worked as a golf caddy at a local golf course. His eyes lit up as he explored the bag closely. “How much is it?” he asked.
“Three dollars,” his dad answered as he read the sticker. The young man then asked his dad if he could have his allowance early, to which his dad agreed, pulling out three one-dollar bills. The youngster started to hand me the three dollars when I clasped his hand and said, “Just keep it and get yourself something else.”
His expression turned to joy as he started down our driveway, almost dancing and with a huge smile on his face. He repeated, “Thank you, lady, thank you so much!”
I called out to him, “You can have anything else you want before we pack up!”
The father also called out to his son, “Rosen! Rosen!” then repeated my offer, but the boy didn’t hear either of us. His dad sighed and smiled broadly, explaining that his son was so overjoyed with the new golf bag that he couldn’t think about anything else.
It really struck me how genuinely grateful this young man was for something as simple as a used golf bag. He was content with what he had received, and desired nothing else.
That night as I lay in bed I kept thinking about how grateful Rosen had been. God seemed to whisper in my ear how much he loved the people who serve Him so unselfishly and expect little in return—like this missionary family. I drifted off to sleep thinking about how great it would be if Rosen had his mouth fixed.
My thoughts continued as I visited my dentist, Dr. Kyle Edlund, the next week. I told him the garage sale story and asked him if he had ever partnered in helping out people with limited resources. He looked at me intently, paused for just a moment, and then said with a smile, “If you can find him, I will treat him.”
My heart leapt with joy thinking of how this young teenager’s self-esteem and future could be impacted.
I contacted the caddy master at the golf course asking if he had a caddy there with a cleft palate. The man acted very protective, asking why I wanted to know. I told him the garage sale story and how a few of us felt led to help this young man. The manager softened immediately as he affirmed what a beautiful thing that would be. He shared that Rosen had been named “Caddy of the Year” that past year because of his excellent attitude going that extra mile in service to others.
When I called Rosen’s number, his adopted mother answered. I told her I was the “garage-sale drape lady,” and explained our plan to help repair Rosen’s cleft palate. She had tears in her voice as she shared that the timing was certainly the Lord’s. Two days earlier Rosen had had three teeth pulled at a university hospital where students get experience by performing procedures, at no charge, for people with lower incomes. The university had called about three hours after the surgery saying they had pulled a wrong tooth and wanted Rosen to come back so they could try to put it back in. The tooth was reinserted, but Rosen was so discouraged and in so much pain that he said he had decided to trust God with his mouth instead of dentists! She went on to explain that he had been an orphan until the age of twelve when they adopted him. Ostracized because of his facial deformity, he had eaten only rice a couple of times a day and occasionally ate birds to survive. It took a little encouragement, but Rosen agreed to see Dr. Edlund.
My generous dentist not only examined, cleaned, and x-rayed Rosen’s teeth, but also consulted with an orthodontist and an oral surgeon. Before Christmas that year, Rosen not only had his cleft palate repaired, but received a full set of braces along with ongoing care from true professionals.
Today Rosen is with Youth with a Mission in a ministry to help street children.
With the help of others, my initial nursing assessment resulted in a great outcome!
Kathy Brown
6
LESSONS
Have you learned the lessons only of those who admired you, and were tender with you, and stood aside for you? Have you not learned great lessons from those who braced themselves against you, and disputed passage with you?
Walt Whitman
The Creepy Visitor
Judge not, that you be not judged.
Matthew 7:1
A chill ran u
p my spine as I sensed his presence. He was lurking in the shadows, near the medicine cart. In an instant, the giant of a man was looming over me.
Tattoos covered his shaved head. A skull inked on his skull had a snake slithering from the eye socket. Skeletons, swords, and scrolls covered every inch of his scalp. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans and boots draped in clanging chains. Fear gripped me as I realized I was alone, trapped inside the dimly lit nurses’ station.
In my best authoritarian voice I asked, “May I help you?”
The man straightened up and said, “Yes, Ma’am, I’m Billy. The hospital people said they sent my mother here. They said there is nothing else they can do for her. I know it’s late but I’ve got to see her.”
I hoped he didn’t notice the obvious relief on my face or my shaky hand as I pointed to his mother’s room.
The next night he was back, with a seven-year-old boy in tow. His son had a lightning bolt etched into his hair. The kid wore black clothes and combat boots with silver chains on them. Oh great, I thought, another generation of freaks.
The boy balked in the doorway and stared at all the medical equipment. He scrunched up his nose at the faint, but unmistakable, odor of death. The man gave his son a little nudge but the child hid behind his father and would not budge. The huge man stooped down to eye level and held the boy by the shoulders. “You’re not going to let a bunch of stupid wires and tubes scare you away from seeing your grandma, are you?” he challenged.
The little boy stood solemnly, then wiped his face on his sleeve, puffed out his chest, and strode across the threshold. His grandmother patted a spot next to her and he tentatively climbed up on her bed. Within seconds they were snuggling and giggling.
In the weeks that followed, the child became accustomed to being around sick people. His father reminded him to say “Excuse me,” whenever he walked in front of the other patient’s TV set. He showed him how to get ice for the grandmother. The kid loved the clatter of the ice going down the chute and refilled her cup every chance he got.
One day the boy passed the therapy room and wanted to know why they were making Grandma’s roommate work so hard. His father explained that P.T. (physical therapy) was like P.E. (physical education). The dad asked, “You know that it can be real hard, but it makes you stronger, right?”
“Right!” said the boy, flexing his imaginary muscles.
After that, whenever the patient’s roommate returned from therapy, the youngster said, “Good job!”
“How come old Miss Mary gets to go to P.T. and Grandma always has to take naps?” the boy asked his father. Billy couldn’t tell his son that Grandma, who was only in her late forties, was dying and that old Miss Mary was getting better.
Miss Mary, who had outlived her family and friends, began looking forward to their visits. She saved gelatin cups and graham crackers from her lunch tray for the little visitor.
Over the next six weeks, the strange appearance of the father and son faded from my mind. I only saw two people who we remaking two of my patients’ last days worth living.
Billy’s biggest fear was that his mother would die alone. He told me to call him when the end was near so he could be with her. I warned him, “Only God knows exactly when someone is going to die; we can’t always predict it.” But I promised to call immediately if I saw any indications.
The evening came when I had to make that call. His mother’s breathing had suddenly become labored. “I’m sorry, but it looks like the end is near,” I told him.
He choked out, “I’m coming. Tell her to hang on, I’m coming.”
When I returned to her room, she was fading much faster than expected.
“Billy is on his way. He is just down the street; he will be here in a few minutes. Hang on,” I pleaded.
Even though she had been comatose for days, I knew she heard me. Her furrowed brow softened and her ragged breathing eased.
Moments later, Billy ran down the hallway and into my waiting arms. I braced the pale, shaken, hulk of a man as we entered the room. He held one of her hands and I held the other. As we waited, he reached over and held my hand too. She stopped struggling for breath the moment he arrived. Her breathing simply became slower and slower . . . until it finally stopped altogether. Billy and I hugged each other. Then we quickly turned away so neither could see the other crying.
We never saw each other again.
Today I still occasionally judge a book by its cover, but now I keep on reading until I get to the heart of the story.
Joyce Seabolt
Janet
Time cools, time clarifies; no mood can be maintained quite unaltered through the course of hours.
Mark Twain
“Dave, Channel 9 News is in the lobby,” the hospital receptionist called to inform me, rather matter-of-factly. I grabbed a pen and small notepad and bolted out of my office.
This is it! I told myself, as I made my way down the hospital hall and into the elevator. Just one week on the job, this was my first real encounter with the press. It was 1988 and at twenty-three years old, I was one of the youngest people ever hired as press liaison for the city’s level-one trauma center, Denver General Hospital. My heart was pounding.
What could it be? I asked myself. A stabbing, shooting, or multicar accident? Maybe it’s a hostage situation and the SWAT team has taken out some crazed lunatic.
Either way, I was to assess the situation, gather the pertinent information, glean the relevant facts, and disseminate them to the news media in the most cohesive, articulate, and professional manner. Take a deep breath, Buddy. It’s showtime.
As the elevator doors opened, I stepped into the hospital lobby and was taken aback. Instead of a television camera and a reporter, there was a large group of people milling about in the hospital lobby, many wearing the “9 News” insignia. Speaking in hushed tones, there was concern on their faces as they hugged and consoled each other.
I approached a young woman in the group, identified myself as the public relations representative of the hospital, and asked if I could be of assistance.
“Yes please,” she implored. “Our friend and coworker was just in a bad accident and we just need to know how she is.”
Clearly needing to just talk to someone, she told me of this wonderful woman named Sandy who was one of the best-loved administrative assistants at the news station. An older woman and longtime married, Sandy was going on a rare “girls only” vacation with her best friends. As she drove to the airport, she was in a terrible accident and was badly injured.
As the minutes passed, the crowd of concerned supporters grew until the lobby was overflowing with friends, family, and other 9 News staffers.
“We’re just so worried about her,” one said through her tears. “We just haven’t heard anything for a while and I wonder if you could get us some kind of update.”
“Let me go check and see where things are,” I told her, not really knowing what to do or even who to ask—I was so new on the job. Most of my time had been spent learning about the hospital and preparing for news media encounters—but not like this one.
As the major trauma center, Denver General (DG) had long been known as the “Knife and Gun Club.” Significant injuries were not uncommon at DG—nor were the crowds of worried families and friends. But all of this was new to me. Moreover, it was about 4:15 PM on a Friday afternoon. Many others had gone home for the weekend and there was no one to turn to for guidance.
What is my role here, if any? I asked myself. Was my job at DG merely to act as liaison for news stories about injured patients? Was it to act as hospital spokesman in times of crisis or public inquiry?
Here was a lobby filled with despondent, anxious people—many of them with very familiar faces—yet I was at a loss. It was Friday night. I was single and had planned to meet up with some friends. What am I supposed to do?
I decided that, with no direction available, all I could do was what I could. So I stayed.
As
I turned to make my way to the double doors leading to the operating room, a nurse approached the group and was met with silence as the group surrounded her. “I know how concerned you all are,” began Janet. “Sandy was hurt very, very badly. She is in the operating room right now and just know that the doctors are doing all they can. Please be patient and we’ll give you updates as soon as we know anything more.”
With that she turned away. The group turned in on itself, drawing strength from each other.
Over the next several hours I made shuttle trips to the cafeteria to get food to the group, and acted as a “gopher” for anything else they needed. As the lone house-phone was constantly in use, I gave the very large group access to an adjacent office to make phone calls, as this was in the days prior to cell phones. Mostly, I did what I could.
As the evening wore on, the hourly updates from Janet became more frequent. Late in the evening, Janet returned with an always professional, but more concerned demeanor.
“I have to be honest,” she began. “The doctors are having a very difficult time. The injuries are very serious, but she is fighting hard. The doctors have commented several times how amazed they are at her will and her spirit.” That comment was met with smiles and nods from her supporters. “She wants to live,” Janet continued, “but the injuries are very, very serious. I’ll be back soon with some more information.”
As she turned to leave, I followed her into the holding area outside the OR and asked what I could do to help.
“Just be there to provide whatever they need,” she said, looking me straight in the eyes. “The next hour is going to be very busy and very challenging for them.”
The following hour was marked by more frequent visits by Janet, each reporting more grave news than the next.