The hospital is no place to spend Christmas. That business about death taking a holiday is strictly for the movies. The truth is death has a genuine affinity for the holidays. Who doesn’t have an aunt or a cousin sent to eternity by some guy full of holiday cheer? On the rare occasion when death does step out for a stroll, he always leaves a friend behind to mind the store. Cancer and stroke are always willing to step to do an extra shift and get the ball rolling. That’s why I’m spending this Christmas traipsing up and down the halls of Memorial Hospital.
I don’t mind; not really. I don’t have kids or a tree to trim. If you ask me, Christmas has gotten way too commercialized. I’d spend the day with friends, but most of them are either away with family or right here working. What else am I going to do? I’m not complaining mind you; I’ve been a nurse too long for that.
If you must feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for the people behind these doors. Like Bea Callahan, the lady in 604, the cancer in her belly has likely robbed her of the chance to see a new year. The tumor eating away at her has finally tunneled its way from her colon to her bladder. She’s been peeing stool for a week. There’s an evil smell underneath the unpleasant aroma in the catheter bag. Dogs aren’t the only ones who can smell cancer; nurses do a fair job of it too.
While you’re at it save a little sympathy for the man in Room 612, his name is Rich Blaylock. He can’t tell you that himself; not anymore. The bleeding in his brain turned him into a drooling parsnip months ago. Happy Christmas, right? His family would probably pay old death to stop by for a visit tonight.
Compared to these two and their families I have a worry-free existence. My biggest headache these days is that pit bull, Linda, they call a charge nurse. She can’t seem to leave well enough alone. She’s forever going behind me; checking my work; prattling on about evidence based practices or computerized charts. She thinks I’m too old to cut it, but come morning, I’ll still be going while her backside is dragging.
Excuse me a moment.
“Hey Clara, where are you going in such a hurry?”
“Call light’s on in 604.”
That Clara walks like the wind.Come on; let’s try to keep up. No running; nurses don’t run. Take my hand.Here we are 604. Sorry, for the rush; take some deep breaths and let’s see what’s going on.
“Look at her Flo.”
That’s the first time in two days Bea’s eyes have been open. Look in her eyes; that subtle mixture of relief and anticipation; it’s almost like a sigh, don’t you think? It’s moments like this that make nursing worthwhile.
“I like your lamp.”
“Why thank you Bea. I’ve had it a long time.”
“What Mama? Did you say something?”
Oh, didn’t see her there, did you? That’s Emily, by the way. She’s Bea’s only daughter. She’s been here every night. She must have been kneeling down beside the bed. I wonder how long she’s been down there tonight. Emily’s a real prayer warrior. Well, she was here at the right time tonight. That doesn’t always happen, you know. But it’s nice when it does.
“Look Em, the lady with the lamp. She’s beautiful.”
“Huh? Who? My God, Mama! Nurse! Nurse!”
Hold your ears; it’s going to get real noisy. I really don’t see the need for that god-awful din. That’s modern medicine for you. Every time we help someone out of bed bells, whistles and squawking buzzers begin screaming. No wonder the families cry.
Oh, you might want to step clear of the door way, Linda’s going to come bursting into the room any second now. See, told you. Right on cue; that Linda’s punctual if nothing else. Look at her. She acts like we aren’t even here; that’s very unprofessional as far as I’m concerned.
“Hello Bea, come over and meet everybody.”
“Will Emily be okay?”
“Of course she will, won’t she Clara?”
“Your daughter will be fine.”
We’ll let Linda handle things in here.Why don’t you and Clara show Bea the gardens. They’re lovely this time of year and the air will do you all good.
“I’d like that,” Bea said. “I’m a nurse, you know.”
“I know, that’s why we’re here,” Clara told her. “There’s a shortage.Well, there is on earth anyway.”
“No shortage of nurses in heaven though. Clara, after the garden, take these two on their orientation tour. I’ll catch up to you later. Bea, did you have a question?”
“Are you really Florence Nightingale?”
“Oh, just call me Flo. Everybody does.”
What’s that, you thought dead men tell no tales? Well, they don’t—at least not to the living. Maybe I’d better let check your pulse again.
I don’t mind; not really. I don’t have kids or a tree to trim. If you ask me, Christmas has gotten way too commercialized. I’d spend the day with friends, but most of them are either away with family or right here working. What else am I going to do? I’m not complaining mind you; I’ve been a nurse too long for that.
If you must feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for the people behind these doors. Like Bea Callahan, the lady in 604, the cancer in her belly has likely robbed her of the chance to see a new year. The tumor eating away at her has finally tunneled its way from her colon to her bladder. She’s been peeing stool for a week. There’s an evil smell underneath the unpleasant aroma in the catheter bag. Dogs aren’t the only ones who can smell cancer; nurses do a fair job of it too.
While you’re at it save a little sympathy for the man in Room 612, his name is Rich Blaylock. He can’t tell you that himself; not anymore. The bleeding in his brain turned him into a drooling parsnip months ago. Happy Christmas, right? His family would probably pay old death to stop by for a visit tonight.
Compared to these two and their families I have a worry-free existence. My biggest headache these days is that pit bull, Linda, they call a charge nurse. She can’t seem to leave well enough alone. She’s forever going behind me; checking my work; prattling on about evidence based practices or computerized charts. She thinks I’m too old to cut it, but come morning, I’ll still be going while her backside is dragging.
Excuse me a moment.
“Hey Clara, where are you going in such a hurry?”
“Call light’s on in 604.”
That Clara walks like the wind.Come on; let’s try to keep up. No running; nurses don’t run. Take my hand.Here we are 604. Sorry, for the rush; take some deep breaths and let’s see what’s going on.
“Look at her Flo.”
That’s the first time in two days Bea’s eyes have been open. Look in her eyes; that subtle mixture of relief and anticipation; it’s almost like a sigh, don’t you think? It’s moments like this that make nursing worthwhile.
“I like your lamp.”
“Why thank you Bea. I’ve had it a long time.”
“What Mama? Did you say something?”
Oh, didn’t see her there, did you? That’s Emily, by the way. She’s Bea’s only daughter. She’s been here every night. She must have been kneeling down beside the bed. I wonder how long she’s been down there tonight. Emily’s a real prayer warrior. Well, she was here at the right time tonight. That doesn’t always happen, you know. But it’s nice when it does.
“Look Em, the lady with the lamp. She’s beautiful.”
“Huh? Who? My God, Mama! Nurse! Nurse!”
Hold your ears; it’s going to get real noisy. I really don’t see the need for that god-awful din. That’s modern medicine for you. Every time we help someone out of bed bells, whistles and squawking buzzers begin screaming. No wonder the families cry.
Oh, you might want to step clear of the door way, Linda’s going to come bursting into the room any second now. See, told you. Right on cue; that Linda’s punctual if nothing else. Look at her. She acts like we aren’t even here; that’s very unprofessional as far as I’m concerned.
“Hello Bea, come over and meet everybody.”
“Will Emily be okay?”
“Of course she will, won’t she Clara?”
“Your daughter will be fine.”
We’ll let Linda handle things in here.Why don’t you and Clara show Bea the gardens. They’re lovely this time of year and the air will do you all good.
“I’d like that,” Bea said. “I’m a nurse, you know.”
“I know, that’s why we’re here,” Clara told her. “There’s a shortage.Well, there is on earth anyway.”
“No shortage of nurses in heaven though. Clara, after the garden, take these two on their orientation tour. I’ll catch up to you later. Bea, did you have a question?”
“Are you really Florence Nightingale?”
“Oh, just call me Flo. Everybody does.”
What’s that, you thought dead men tell no tales? Well, they don’t—at least not to the living. Maybe I’d better let check your pulse again.
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