The things that happened in the 70's, college, dating, marriage etc...used to seem not too long ago but somewhere in the last few years they have started feeling dimmer and less relevant....memories of highschool in central Oregon, nursing school, and even the years as an RN...just a memory now after almost as many years at home and now 12 years in the insurance business.
In my cleaning out last month I ran across a story I wrote in nursing school about 35 years ago. I think I wrote it just as a memoir of that time in my life. Rod said I should share it and he retyped it off of the faint eraseable typing paper it was typed on so I wouldn't have an excuse not to publish it. I called it "698" Here it is.
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“You’d better watch that one in 698 tonight. We took off his restraints because he fought them so, but now he’ll need a close watch to see that he doesn’t climb out of bed.”
This is how I was greeted by the swing shift student who was preparing to give over to my care the noisiest and most boisterous patient of her shift, along with the other fifteen patients on the small east floor. These patients, total strangers to me and from every walk of life, were to become the responsibility of myself and the R.N. for the rest of the long night ahead. They would trust us for the most intimate and personal attention, care, and assistance, if not their very lives. I would be doing most of their physical care and must meet their needs without the slightest attitude of distaste or embarrassment, and above all, approach each one with concern and compassion. Needs would be met, whether it would be emptying a bedpan, or just stopping to listen and trying to understand. This was what I would expect of myself. These were the factors that would set me apart as a professional in the field I had chosen.
Somehow, as I stood there listening to a report of the busy previous shift, already weary from a busy week of clinical work, study, and exams; the bit of a weekend I had enjoyed seemed far from sufficient. I wasn’t at all sure that these people (strangers at that) deserved professional effort. After all, this wasn’t scheduled clinical experience. There would be no C.I. (clinical instructor) evaluating me. This was just weekend work; the one area of nursing that bought my weekly tuna fish and bread.
Such were the thoughts that tumbled recklessly through my brain. Nevertheless, the next thirty minutes found me making rounds. In one hand was a time schedule coordinating various duties such as taking blood pressures, temperatures, and tube feedings; and in the other hand, a flashlight. These tools would help me coordinate bed and body with room number and problem.
Slowly, each patient began to take their place in my mind. My flashlight passed over bodies positioned with pillows, limbs supported and suspended, and drainage tubes leading under covers to unknown sutured areas and cavities.
One after another, they registered in my mind, until stopping on one large white, thermal lump. There was nothing particularly unusual about this patient at first glance, except his size. He appeared larger than the average five foot six inch patient looks in contrast to the long seven foot beds. As my eyes fed my brain the information the number of tubes, coloring, etc, I was forced to pause a bit as the halo of yellow light revealed his face. I think what really caught my attention was the beard. Yes, it was definitely the beard; the snowiest, softest, most grandfather-like beard ever seen. A closer inspection revealed strands of blue-silver woven through it. It hung from eyes, the corners of which bore marks of either laughter or strain. The dimness of the lighting would not distinguish the difference. His cheeks were so ruddy and wind-worn I could not help but wonder what life would cause such a glow of strength to radiate from one’s face. The beard continued to flow softly down to caress bowed lips of similar ruddiness; full and red, with the kind of tenderness that one remembers touching your own forehead somewhere, sometime, long ago.
The hands were browned and toughened by work and sun. Joints were swollen and fingers were curled with stiffness from the years of hard work required of them. Realizing that this old elf was in reality a retired farmer, who’s greatest concern was his goats; I couldn’t help but think that those same stiffened hands had probably caressed and cared for those goats, perhaps helping bring some into the world. What a sad way to repay such hands, with stiffness and soreness. How beautifully those hands bore the scars of service.
This person was 698. In his present resting state, it was hard to see him as the boisterous, troublesome patient described to me earlier. No doubt, when aroused, he would prove true to the symptoms of senility and confusion, and fulfill the role he was to play that night. After such a revelation as I had just experienced or fantasized, I knew that my care for him would indeed include all the patience, concern, and yes, even a little love that makes the difference between real nursing and tuna fish and bread money.
As I was preparing to take down this year's Thanksgiving "door" I was struck by the thought that although we can create and "atomosphere of gratefulness, it does not make us personally grateful or more happy. Just being around grateful people may feel good but we only change as WE determine to become grateful and express it in someway. I enjoy the atmoshere of "collective " gratefulness I feel when I read this year's door....maybe I will leave it up a few more days?
