Nursing

My Condolences

imageOne of the hardest parts of  being a nurse is comforting and supporting the bereaved family at the time of death.  Normally, family members are heartbroken, grieving at the death.  On a few occasions, I witnessed something different.  Mr. Jones, an elderly patient owned a successful insurance agency. Every morning, he donned freshly laundered silk pajamas.  When discharged,  He wore a fine finest suit, shirt, shoes, and hat and took great pride in being noticed.  He bragged of buying a new Cadillac every year, dining at the most prestigious restaurants, and enjoying a membership at The Country Club.

His son, Junior Jones was in his late fifties and had always worked for Daddy.  It appeared Mr. Jones was none to generous nor kind to Junior.  Junior dressed in cheap clothes and drove an ancient compact car.  It must have been miserable since he was so tall he had to fold up like a jackknife to fit in it.  When Junior came to the hospital to consult with Daddy about the business, Daddy was condescending, snide, and critical, never showing Junior the least respect.

One the morning Daddy died, we’d called to notify Junior his father’s death appeared imminent.  Junior came streaking into his father’s room just moments before Mr. Jones’ death.  I offered my condolences.  Junior ignored me, opened the drawer of the bedside table, dug out the keys to his father’s Cadillac, his father’s checkbook and left the room without speaking.  A nursing assistant who was a friend of the family walked him out to the parking garage.  He handed her the keys to his small car and drove off in his father’s big, black Cadillac.  That was different!  I guess he’d had enough.

I Want It! I Want It!

imageI was an acute hemodialysis nurse for thirty years, caring for thousands of patients over that time.  The most important thing I learned was listen to your patient.  I’d cared for Miss Ann for many years, through numerous hospitalizations, surgeries, and procedures.  Prior to this admission, she’d told her husband, “I don’t ever want any more surgery.”

Unfortunately, this time she was in ICU on a ventilator and couldn’t speak for herself.  She appeared to be unaware of what the doctor was explaining to her, so he asked her husband for surgical consent.  Sadly, her husband refused, citing Miss Ann’s intention not to have surgery again.  Meanwhile, behind the two of them, Miss Ann was frantically waving her arms trying to get their attention.  She wanted surgery.

Miss Ann got her surgery, recovered, and did well for quite a while after that.

Some Things Won’t Be Forgiven

A harried mother came to the urgent care center where I was working. Her five-year old-boy was wearing nothing but a sheet and a scowl. He was obviously unhappy with his mother and in distress. I assessed him and asked him the problem. 

“I’ve got this big hard piece of tape stuck on the end of my pecker and it won’t come off.  She’s had me sitting in the bathtub all morning, and it ain’t come off yet!”  With this he shot her a murderous look.  She explained he’d had a circumcision recently and the dressing was still clinging stubbornly.

He broke back in furiously, “I told you I didn’t want no surgery!  Ever’thin’ was workin’ just fine till you hired somebody to whittle on my pecker.”

I wasn’t getting in that family fight!

 

Pilonidal Abcess Excision

One of my earlier and most impressive experiences as a new nurse was when a man came into the ER complaining of a boil on his backside. I got him in a gown in preparation for the doctor’s exam. He was obviously in tremendous pain as he paced the room.

I came with the doctor knowing I’d be needed to assist. Upon exam, the doctor lost his usual aplomb and exclaimed “$?:@!: Damn! Your ass is all swole up!”

At that, I had to see. The poor man had a golf-ball sized abscess at the base of his spine between his buttocks. It was a brilliant reddish purple and so pressured it seemed to be pulsatile.

Anticipating possible contamination, the doctor and I garbed in protective gear including full facemasks and visors. The doctor had the poor man lie on his belly with his buttocks hiked up in the air. If that hadn’t been humiliating enough, he took four inch wide elastic tape and stretched the poor man’s buttocks as wide as he could.

After a good scrub, the doctor scrubbed the abscess gently. The abscess was like a volcano ready to blow. The instant the scalpel touched the bulge, it blew a huge lump of pus on the wall over the doctor’s head. As the doctor continued to compress the abscess, copious amounts of blood and pus exited. Finally. All that remained was a gaping hole that the doctor packed with iodine gauze. The poor man got an antibiotic shot. a prescription. And instructions to return for follow up care the next day. That room was so contaminated we had to shut it down till housekeeping could do a complete clean.

I wouldn’t have wanted to be that poor man that day!

Public Speaking

Have you ever performed on stage or given a speech?

I was a nurse educator for many years as well as a member of a nurses association. Public speaking was a large part of my job. I got totally comfortable with it since I was totally knowledgeable about my subject matter. After a few years I got involved politically on the national level advocating for nephrology nurses and patients. I visited Washington DC. Several times to speak to lawmakers. Nutses can do a lot politically.

Remembering the Care: A Nurse’s Reflection

Dear Patient,

You probably don’t remember me,but I was your nurse.  I took care of you when you had your baby, took care of your sick child, comforted you when you were in pain.  I worked extra shifts on holidays and weekends because you needed me.  I rejoiced when you got better.  Cried with you when you needed a friend and tried to help you find the answers.  I visited with yoy when no visitors came. I sang and talked to you when you seemed unresponsive because I knew you were in there.  I brought Easter baskets for your children so they wouldn’t be disappointed when they came to see you on Easter.  I hugged you and your family. I inderstood and didn’t get mad when you were angry or mean when you were in pain. I talked to you about things outside the hospital to give you something else to think about, trying to bring you a story that would interest you everyday, unless you just needed me to be quiet with you.  I was there for your miracle and to hold your hand when you died talking to Mama.  I never corrected you, knowing it was her hand you were holding. I talked about death with you if you wanted to.

Nursing was my job, but taking care of you was my privilege.  Thank you for letting me be a part of your life.

My Condolences

imageOne of the hardest parts of  being a nurse is comforting and supporting the bereaved family at the time of death.  Normally, family members are heartbroken, grieving at the death.  On a few occasions, I witnessed something different.  Mr. Jones, an elderly patient owned a successful insurance agency. Every morning, he donned freshly laundered silk pajamas.  When discharged,  He wore a fine finest suit, shirt, shoes, and hat and took great pride in being noticed.  He bragged of buying a new Cadillac every year, dining at the most prestigious restaurants, and enjoying a membership at The Country Club.

His son, Junior Jones was in his late fifties and had always worked for Daddy.  It appeared Mr. Jones was none to generous nor kind to Junior.  Junior dressed in cheap clothes and drove an ancient compact car.  It must have been miserable since he was so tall he had to fold up like a jackknife to fit in it.  When Junior came to the hospital to consult with Daddy about the business, Daddy was condescending, snide, and critical, never showing Junior the least respect.

One the morning Daddy died, we’d called to notify Junior his father’s death appeared imminent.  Junior came streaking into his father’s room just moments before Mr. Jones’ death.  I offered my condolences.  Junior ignored me, opened the drawer of the bedside table, dug out the keys to his father’s Cadillac, his father’s checkbook and left the room without speaking.  A nursing assistant who was a friend of the family walked him out to the parking garage.  He handed her the keys to his small car and drove off in his father’s big, black Cadillac.  That was different!  I guess he’d had enough.

Nurses’s Hands

Nurse’s hands are not known for their beauty. More than likely, they are dry, being washed dozens of times a day. Frequent use of lotion can not keep these skilled hands supple and dewy. Nails are most often short, since longer nails interfere with the sensitive touch necessary to perform care. Longer nails are a detriment to gloves essential to protect both nurse, patient, and the environment.

Here you see a man’s strong hands that have cared for so many critically ill patients. Their strength gives no hint of the arthritis he endures daily as he cares for patients. His patients never know os of pain.

This is my hand with its square palm and short ringless fingers. Even though I’ve been retired for years, I find longer nails interfere with my daily tasks. My hands cared for countless patients and charted thousands of words.

This young nurse’s hands are remarkable for their youth and beauty, showing her recent manicure. Nevertheless, as I watched her at work, I was grateful to see her compliance with gloving and handwashing. She professionally and expertly administered my immunizations.

A compassionate nurse comforts an aged patient here. That may be the strongest medicine she has to offer. Many times I sang or talked to my comatose patients, not knowing whether or not I was heard. Numerous times, I’ve had a dying patient call me “Mama.” I never corrected them, thinking perhaps they were seeing Mama.

Mrs. Johnson Copes

During my dialysis nurse days, I became very fond of Mrs. Johnson, an elderly lady who was a frequent admit to the hospital. She remained matter-of-fact, even when very sick. I expect Mrs. Johnson had had occasion to learn complaints availed her nothing.

Her father had married her off to Mr. Johnson, a man in his thirties, when she was only thirteen. Over the years she gave birth to twenty-one children. “It wasn’t so bad,” she explained. “I was only pregnant nineteen times. I had two sets of twins.”

“Mr. Johnson beat me all the time.” She said.”I was so glad when he had a stroke an’ I could beat him. I beat him ever’day after that.” .

I surmised Mrs. Johnson suffered in relationships with her children as she was careful to bring her purse with her to dialysis. “I don’t nobody gitten’ my money. I got a bunch of wuthless kids.” She also used that enormous black purse to hide away her snuff. For those of you who don’t know, snuff is smokeless tobacco to be tucked in the cheek, then spat into a cup, not swallowed. It’s a nasty habit I made a point to ignore, inferring Mrs. Johnson’s life had held too little pleasure.

Though I made a point not to acknowledge the bulge in Mrs. Johnson’s cheek nor her spitting, I made sure I knew I always had a pocket full of gloves and knew where that spit cup was at all times.