Chicken Soup for the Nurse's Soul (7 page)

“How can you be so uncaring?” I yelled. “It’s bad enough that Jimmy’s beautiful little life is snuffed out, but he didn’t even have a mama to comfort him or to care that he died. And you? Do you care about him or any other little life? No! Just ‘Miss White, go to work. Pretend everything is the same.’ Well, it isn’t the same. I care! I loved that little boy!”

Tears spattered down the front of my uniform.

A handkerchief dropped onto my wet lap. I felt a soft touch on my shoulder. Miss Stickleby stood at my side, teardrops softening her stiff uniform.

“Miss White—Joy,” her voice was a husky whisper. “There are far too many Jimmys in our profession. They can wreck our hearts if we let them. You and I are jelly hearts. We will always be searching for ways to cope. One thing I know for sure is that we must give equal attention to each child. To single out one child can destroy us and can limit our ability to be an effective nurse.”

She blotted her face. “It may give you comfort to know that Jimmy did not die alone. Death took him softly from my arms.”

We sat together for a brief time, the seasoned jelly-hearted teacher and the green jelly-hearted student, crying.

Then we put on our fresh nurse faces and went out to love and care for all the little children in our charges.

Joyce Mueller

Boarder Baby

A
sweet new blossom of humanity, fresh-fallen
from God’s own home, to flower on
earth.

Gerald Massey

I was working as a pharmacist at the hospital in 1969 when Billy was born with Down’s syndrome. His unwed mother intended all along to put the baby up for adoption. When she was told that the child had been born with “problems,” she didn’t even want to see him. She left the hospital during the night, abandoning the baby.

The law stated that in such cases Children’s Services must be contacted. If no immediate placement was available, the baby would be transferred to a municipal hospital to wait for foster care or adoption. Armed with this information, the nurses from the maternity floor and nursery went to the director of nursing.

“Why can’t we keep Billy here until he can be placed?”

The director said, “You know he can’t stay here. It’s against the rules of the Board of Health. We’re not certified to have a boarder baby. We simply can’t keep him here; there is nothing I can do about it.”

“You know he won’t be placed easily,” they persisted. “It’s hard enough to place a baby with no problems, much less a baby like Billy. Please, don’t call Children’s Services yet. Speak to the administrator first, or better still, let him come up and see the baby. Tell him we will take care of Billy and all the expenses. Just let us keep him up in maternity.”

By this time, every employee of the hospital had seen Billy and was aware of the situation. And everybody had fallen in love with him. The administrator, a very religious man, was sympathetic to the pleas of the nursing staff and soon acquiesced.

The problem now was where to keep Billy. He couldn’t stay in the nursery because he might subject the other newborns to germs. He couldn’t be housed in the pediatric ward because the sick children would expose Billy to their infections. It was decided he would stay on the maternity floor.

One of the three isolation nurseries was commandeered as Billy’s private quarters. Through the viewing window Billy could see out, and visitors and nursing staff could see in. Initially he had only a crib, but the employees bought him clothes, a playpen, high chair, toys, a stroller and anything else he needed. The entire hospital staff became his family, constantly showering Billy with affection and attention during breaks, lunchtimes and days off. They took turns taking him outside for walks.

All the maternity and nursery staff mothered him, but no one more than Miss N, who, although she was an excellent nurse, had never shown any maternal instincts. In fact, she was the prototype of a tough army sergeant. Actually, she’d been a captain when she served as an army nurse. Billy’s face lit up whenever she approached him. Her coworkers had never seen Miss N even smile before, so they were astounded to see her cooing and cuddling Billy. He truly melted her heart, and she cared for him zealously. She adored Billy and desperately wanted to adopt him. Unfortunately, during the sixties, unmarried women were not considered good candidates as adoptive mothers. Knowing it was hopeless, Miss N didn’t even try. But Mrs. B, one of the newborn nurses who loved him specially, applied to adopt him.

Meanwhile, Billy was a happy, gurgling boy thriving as a boarder baby in this nurturing, albeit conspiratorial environment. Every member on the staff was in on the secret. No one even mentioned Billy’s name outside the hospital corridors.

One day, the Board of Health came to do an impromptu routine inspection of the hospital. Word of the inspectors’ arrival traveled quickly to the maternity ward. The administrator led the inspection team to the opposite end of the facility where each department head delayed the inspectors as much as possible. Billy was spirited away from the maternity ward and taken to the apartment of one of the nurses across the street. Nurses and other staff members emptied his room, moved the furniture to the basement, covered his window with examining-table paper and locked the door.

The inspector arrived on maternity and inquired about that room. The head nurse explained it was one of the isolation nurseries being remodeled. The hospital passed the inspection, the inspectors left, the room was refurbished, and Billy returned to his home.

When Billy was fifteen months old, Mrs. B’s application for adoption was somehow expedited and approved. We were all overjoyed when Billy became a sibling of her loving brood. Miss N shared a greater joy when she became his godmother.

Staff members sent gifts and had parties for Billy on his birthdays and holidays. Mrs. B and Miss N kept us informed of Billy’s progress with pictures and stories.

And brought him often to visit his family in his “first” home.

Zaphra Reskakis

What Day Is Today?

Sid taught the staff and patients alike that there’s room for life and laughter in a hospice. This wonderful man tried hard to cope with a paralysis that left him highly dependent on his family and the nurses. Though this irritated him immensely, he was a born actor with a wonderful sense of theater. Sid knew exactly how to act out his sense of injustice in the face of his terminal illness. Often he played to the gallery—in this case, the three other patients who shared the same room. His roommates tolerated Sid, although “here-he-goes-again” was a much-used refrain.

But Sid was also very religious. One morning, I was giving out the medication in his room when he hoisted himself onto his elbows, looked soulfully across the room and muttered weakly (but loud enough for all to hear), “What day is it today?”

I answered truthfully, “Palm Sunday.”

Staring up at the ceiling, Sid blurted dramatically, “Then today is a good day to die.” With this he fell back on the bed in such a dramatic fashion, I wondered if he would actually do it then and there! But a few seconds later, he popped opened his eyes, looked at me and sighed.

Later that same week, when I was back in Sid’s room, he decided to give a repeat performance. Lifting himself onto his elbows again, he asked, “What day is it today?”

Again telling the truth, I said, “It’s Good Friday.”

Without looking up from his book, his roommate muttered loudly, “I hope to God he doesn’t die today—he might rise again on Sunday!”

Dennis Sibley
As told to Allen Klein

Fresh Sample

L
aughter is the closest thing to the grace of
God.

Karl Barth

It began as a typical working day. As a registered nurse, I traveled to clients’ homes to complete paramedical health assessments for an insurance company.

As I entered this lady’s neat, attractive home, I smelled the delicious aroma of pies baking. “Umm, sure smells good in here,” I commented.

“I just put a couple of lemon meringue pies in the oven. They’re my husband’s favorite,” my client volunteered.

Returning to the purpose of my visit, we completed the questionnaire quickly. The last section involved collecting a urine sample.

“I collected it earlier and saved it in the refrigerator,” she said. “I’ll get it for you.”

As I emptied the sample into the collection tubes, I noticed the unusual thickness of it. When I tested it with a dip stick, I was shocked at the extremely high protein content.

“Are you sure this is your urine sample?” I questioned. “This almost resembles egg whites.”

“Yes, I distinctly remember placing it in the refrigerator in the bottom right-hand corner. Oh! Oh, no!” She wailed. “I’ve made a terrible mistake. Don’t use that. I’ll get you a fresh sample.”

Not wishing to further embarrass the lady, I asked no more questions. But as I opened the door to leave her home, I heard her removing pies from the oven and the grinding sound of the garbage disposal.

No lemon meringue pie that night!

Donna McDonnall

Reprinted by permission of John Wise, R.N.

Codes for the Holidays

’Twas the night before Christmas and in SICU

All the patients were stirring, the nurses were, too.

Some Levophed hung from an IMED with care

In hopes that a blood pressure soon would be there.

One patient was resting all snug in his bed

While visions—from Versed—danced in his head.

I, in my scrubs, with flowsheet in hand,

Had just settled down to chart the care plan.

Then from room 17 there arose such a clatter

We sprang from the station to see what was the matter.

Away to the bedside we flew like a flash,

Saved the man from falling, with restraints from the stash.

“Do you know where you are?” one nurse asked while tying;

“Of course! I’m in France in a jail, and I’m dying!”

Then what to my wondering eyes should appear?

But a heart rate of 50, the alarm in my ear.

The patient’s face paled, his skin became slick

And he said in a moment, “I’m going to be sick!”

Someone found the Inapsine and injected a port,

Then ran for a basin, as if it were sport.

His heart rhythm quieted back to a sinus,

We soothed him and calmed him with old-fashioned kindness.

And then in a twinkling we hear from room 11

First a plea for assistance, then a swearing to heaven.

As I drew in my breath and was turning around,

Through the unit I hurried to respond to the sound.

“This one’s having chest pain,” the nurse said and then