Happy New Year, and welcome to my first posting in 2012....
This experience, long before I became a nurse, has stayed with me and influenced my fascination with an amazing part of life--the end, as we know it.
First Time
.
“G’mornin’ Doodler. Ready for another day of saving lives?” Dad offered me toast, then the weather
report, fresh from the gray transistor radio on the pine kitchen table. He poured milk in his coffee, “Mostly sunny,
high seventy-two, twenty-percent chance of an afternoon shower. Not bad for October.” I felt guilty that the
one day he could sleep in, he was up to drive me to work. His morning
weather reports, delivered in his quiet, thoughtful manner, were his way to send his four daughters off each day, properly prepared for the outside
world.
I hated
getting up before dawn, especially on weekends. I hoped the eight hour day shift--on four
hours sleep--would be an easy one. Dad
dropped me off under the red canopy at the county hospital as the sun scaled
the treetops. He pointed to the third
floor nursery windows and reminded me I was born there, seventeen years ago.
“Remember
Doodler, if it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.”
“Thank God
for the day shift! It’s been a hell of a
night.” The nurse’s aides, uniforms
stained with blood and vomit, were exhausted and eager to leave. I worked with that group all summer, and then
switched to the day shift when school started.
I knew a bad night on the geriatric unit could lead to a challenging day.
I crossed my fingers.
The kitchen staff
pushed food carts down the wide halls and delivered breakfast—oatmeal and
poached eggs. The housekeeping crew mopped
the tiled floors and banged trash cans together as they emptied them. Nurses and doctors made rounds.
I was sure
everybody wished they were somewhere else.
I wanted to turn the clock back twelve hours and be at the Sky-Hi drive in, fooling around with Don
in the backseat of his ‘66 Chevelle, while Bonnie and Clyde robbed banks, then
died together.
“You’re
going to do special duty today.” The
charge nurse said. “Only one patient.
Just stay with her and try to keep her quiet. She was loud and restless all night. No one near her got enough sleep.”
“Should I bathe
and feed her?” I asked.
“No, she
probably won’t live through the shift. Just
be there with her.” I had never sat with
a dying person before and suddenly I wished I had the typical assignment of six
patients to bathe, feed and exercise. My stomach grumbled as I entered her
room. I longed to be at the breakfast
table with Dad. I reviewed everything the charge nurse told me:
she is actively dying, her family has been called, and she shouldn’t have anything
to eat or drink. Just stay with her and
keep her as quiet as possible.
“Hello. I’m your aide today. Are you comfortable?” No response. What a
stupid question! She’s dying. Of course she is not comfortable. I realized I had no idea what to say or
do.
I did not
want to look at her damp, pale face, with her gray hair matted across her
forehead. The side rails rattled as her small,
frail body thrashed. The sound of her head against the metal made me wince and
feel nauseous. I snatched flannel
blankets from the chair and padded the rails.
She grabbed my hands and clutched them to her chest. I recoiled at her rotten breath and eyes
staring at something only she could see, as she brought my face close to
hers.
“J. E. C. T.
N.E. A.” In a raspy whisper she was telling me something, by spelling it out. Her
dry mouth struggled to produce each sound.
“P.L.E.T.”, she continued to grip
my hands hard. When I managed to pull
away, I turned on the call light to summon help.
The charge
nurse arrived and jokingly asked me if I had seen a ghost. “She’s trying to tell me something. I got scared.” The nurse chuckled and told me
about her early experiences with death.
She checked her pulse and breathing, and whispered, “It won’t be
long. Call me when she’s gone.”
I pulled a
chair close to the bed and began to listen again, this time with a paper towel
in hand to write down the letters as they came.
She grabbed
my hand again, this time with less intensity.
“R. C. O. M.
P.L. E. T. I. O. N.P.R.O.”
I pulled my
hand away and ran to the door. I yelled
for the nurse and stood there shaking, holding the paper towel until she appeared.
We walked together across the room.
She was
curled on her side, with her hand resting on the flannel blanket, where my hand
had been. No thrashing. No pulse. No respirations.
I stood by
the window; outside the sun continued to rise, offering warmth and light. Not
bad for October.
I looked at
the paper towel in my hand and read, PROJECT NEAR COMPLETION.
