Chicken Soup for the Nurse's Soul: Second Dose

by Jack Canfield

  Miss Benjamin was a real sport about our teenage antics and she supported our clandestine encounters. Each morning, she walked me to the window, tugged it open, then tiptoed back as I greeted my friends.My hospital confinement was often excruciating, but the rooftop visits took my mind off my recovery and made my days exciting.

  On the morning I was to be dismissed from the hospital and head home to Florida, I awoke early to the sound of pebbles hitting glass. I leaned out over the windowsill and looked up at the two handsome smiles beaming down from the roof. Miss Benjamin came into the room and put her arm around me. It would be the last time my special nurse and the two boys crouched on the roof would be part of my life

  “Since you’re checking out today,” Tommy announced with a twinkle in his eye, “Don and I made something for you. Something that will remind you about what you loved most here.”

  My two faithful visitors carefully lowered their gift.

  I stared in disbelief at the papier-mâché likeness the boys had crafted. The face was brown with beautiful, gentle features. A black wig adorned the top of the head.

  “We know how much you love Miss Benjamin,” Don called down from the rooftop. “Now she will always be with you.” And she is.

  Miriam Hill

  The Day “Doc” Goss Became a Nurse

  One of the things that has helped me as much as any other, is not how long I am going to live, but how much I can do while living.

  George Washington Carver

  In March 1969, shortly after graduating from the United States Navy’s corpsman school, Jim Goss received his orders to report to Alpha Company, First Battalion 7th Marine Regiment of the First Marine Division.

  Jim became a navy sailor attached to the Fleet Marine Force. Normally this would be a nightmare, given the 200 years of rivalry between these two services, but Jim was a corpsman and they were special. Upon arriving in Vietnam, marine green was the color for all. The young marines, as well as the older noncoms and officers, were now “his boys” in the field and he was “Doc.”

  Jim’s nineteen weeks in corpsman school, however, could not have prepared him for the carnage that awaited him in Southeast Asia’s jungles. He witnessed and treated wounds that experienced emergency room physicians in this country never dreamed of seeing. And he treated those men while under fire.

  In late 1969, North Vietnamese regulars overran the firebase where Jim was just outside of Da Nang. During that firefight, Jim held compresses with one hand and his .45 automatic pistol with the other. He covered wounded bodies with his own trying to keep them alive. With adrenaline running through his veins, Jim did not know how bad the shrapnel from an RPG (rocket-propelled grenade) had wounded him until hours later when he took a shower.

  For his valor, Jim Goss received the Bronze Star, and for his wounds he received the Purple Heart. And from his “boys” he received their undying love and thanks.

  When Jim returned home from his military service he went to work as a parts manager at an automobile dealership for five years. But his passion for caring called him and he went to nursing school and graduated with an associate degree. “Doc” Goss had become a nurse. He worked in the emergency rooms of several hospitals and also managed a paramedic unit.

  Then his passion for caring called him further—full circle. He went to work for the U.S. Veterans Hospital in Coatsville, Pennsylvania, working in the post-traumatic stress disorder unit that he heads today.

  He eventually earned a bachelor of science degree in nursing, but nothing has really changed with Jim as he takes care of “his boys.”

  Though he is their charge nurse, they still call him “Doc.”

  Patrick Mendoza

  Goodnight, Harry

  Therefore, comfort each other and edify one another, just as you are doing.

  1 Thessalonians 5:11

  My name is Harry. When I was forty-two, I was dynamic and distinguished, independent in life as I worked or traveled. Travel was my passion. By the time I was forty-five, I looked sixty. And now, at age forty-seven, I look ninety.

  What robbed me of vitality, dignity, and very life was AIDS and several of its henchmen—the worst of which is an aggressive cancerlike disease named Kaposi’s sarcoma.

  My travels are now limited to being rolled on my side, and back to the other side, while lying in bed in an inpatient hospice. I have come here to die and will oblige fate by doing so.

  Kind, gentle hands care for me, but unfortunately their kindness cannot stop the pain of wood-hard legs, rotting from within from the sarcoma. Being turned is now a major agony, even with the narcotics I’m given.

  Often I am uncertain of who is caring for me, even though through the medicinal haze the voices are familiar and sometimes I can connect them fleetingly to a name of a friend or a nurse or an aide. Two weeks ago, I joked with them all.

  Now I would trade my life for a moment of laughter and relief.

  “Harry. Harry. How are you tonight?”

  I recognize the voice as that of a woman who works the evening shift, although I could not have told you until a second ago if it was day or night. Her name comes and goes with an ebb and surge of pain.

  I try to respond to her question, but all that I can manage is a low sound. I am not sure myself if it is the greeting I meant to say, or a low moan. Even though it is of my creation, I do not recognize the sound.

  I know she is going to pat me on my shoulder, like always. And she does. And I smile what must be an internal smile.

  I can hear the stretching of latex as she gloves her hands and the low click of the pump that pushes steady but now not-so-small doses of morphine into my welcoming veins. I can feel the pressure of her fingers as she checks the IV site in my right arm, and all the while she talks to me softly.

  Suddenly what attention I can muster is filled with the image of fruit, the smell of fruit; probably her scented shampoo because they discourage perfume here. The smell of berries is subtle, distant, yet pleasing, comforting.

  There is a pause. I know she is clasping the head of the stethoscope in her hand to warm it. I know this because she always does this. She is both methodical and kind. It comforts me and I begin to drift.

  Then an almost shocking damp coolness is against my face. I turn my head away because of the surprise of the sensation. I should have remembered. She always gently wipes my face with a cool washcloth. How could I forget something that feels so good?

  The changing of the bandages on my legs is the opposite. It sends pain shooting up my calves, thighs, and throughout my body. No amount of morphine helps. No amount of gentleness helps. It is always an agony. I am sure it is horrible for her, too, because there are times when I can smell the rotting flesh. Still, she performs this mutually horrible task, not because she is paid to, but because she cares.

  I can hear the sounds of instruments being placed in a tray, plastic bags opened and tied shut, and all the while she continues to talk softly. I am not lucid enough to understand all that she says, but the words and her tone comfort me as the intense pain from my legs subsides slightly.

  There is another snap of latex and the running of water as she washes her hands across the room. And then, once again, a calm, quiet, reassuring voice comes to me above the dullness of my senses.

  “Goodnight, Harry.” I feel a pat on the shoulder and the softest of kisses on my forehead. I try to discern which side of life and death derived that kiss. There is an angel there. I know.

  Harry J. as told to Daniel James

  Comforter

  Of one thing I am certain, the body is not the measure of healing—peace is the measure.

  George Melton

  “My baby, I want my baby!” I sobbed when my first pregnancy ended at thirteen weeks in a miscarriage. Numbly, I’d nodded while my doctor scheduled a D&C surgery. My husband’s worried eyes were the last thing I saw before the anesthesia took effect and swept me into a dreamless sleep.

  As I woke from my drugged-induced
slumber, I felt the finality of my loss. I cried for the child who was so wanted, yet inexplicably gone.

  I felt soft tissues dab my cheeks as someone gently dried my tears.

  “I want my baby,” I whispered.

  “Oh Cindy, I know you do,” a kind voice murmured.

  It was a nurse in the post-op room. I couldn’t see her clearly without my glasses and through my tears. But I thought she must be beautiful because she didn’t shush me, she just kept mopping my tears. The anesthetic numbed my body, yet left my emotions raw, and I was unable to suppress the grief that seemed to swell from my empty womb.

  When my sobs subsided the nurse leaned down very close to me and said, “Cindy, I lost my husband three months ago, and he loved babies. I know that he has welcomed your child in heaven and I know that he’ll watch over him.”

  My eyes cleared and I saw that she was young—just a few years older than me, in fact.

  Her words gave me much-needed peace. Soon, I was wheeled into the recovery room, and I never saw her again. But I’ve not forgotten her. Out of her own grief her words wove a blanket of comfort that warmed and soothed my aching soul.

  That morning when my pain was most fresh and raw, she let me grieve. If I could have seen her more clearly, I think I would’ve seen the traces of her own tears and the mark of her own loss, so cruel and new.

  Nurses are trained to heal the body, but I was blessed with one who helped heal my heart.

  Cindy Hval

  3

  LOVE

  One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: that word is love.

  Sophocles

  Perfect Child

  Every child born into this world is a new thought of God, an ever-fresh and radiant possibility.

  Kate Douglas Wiggin

  I was working in the special care nursery as night charge nurse. After I scrubbed in, I entered the unit and glanced around. There was only one new baby since yesterday— a good-sized newborn, away from the others, wrapped in a blanket that concealed half his face. The powder blue knit blanket indicated his gender. There was no name on his Isolette.

  I peeked into the warmer. What a gorgeous baby. He had thick, wavy blond hair, and his big blue eyes followed my gaze. He seemed more alert and observant than most newborns. His eyelashes were long and expressive.

  I pulled the blanket away from his face. Then I breathed deeply. Oh no. Cleft lip. I tilted his head back a little and peered inside his mouth. Cleft palate, too. Poor baby. There’re surgeries ahead for you. I stroked his cheek and smiled down at him.

  In the report room the day charge nurse was edgy. I could tell she had had a rough shift. She quickly updated us on the babies who were there the night before, then the blond newborn. He was born that morning to a sixteen-year-old unwed mother who was planning on an open adoption with a thirtyish professional couple. The couple had paid all her medical expenses, had even accompanied her on doctor’s visits. They were selected from three couples that the teenager had interviewed. Now the adoptive parents wanted their money back. Their lawyer had pointed out that prenatally all medical tests were negative for aberrations. The ultrasound was read as normal.

  “Do they realize it’s just superficial?” I interjected.

  “Tell me about it,” the day charge nurse said tersely. “It’s not the horror of some birth defects. His brain, vital organs, body, and movements are normal. He’s got a dynamite personality—you can tell by those expressive eyes.”

  “Everybody wants the perfect child,” one of my colleagues said with a sigh.

  “Did the doctor tell the adoptive parents that his condition is mostly cosmetic? That after a series of operations and possibly speech therapy, that these kids are normal, and live healthy and productive lives?”

  “Yes, but the couple made it clear they want a perfect child now, not later,” the day charge nurse said wearily. “To them that baby is defective merchandise.”

  “But that’s the adoptive parents’ right,” another colleague said. “They expected a perfect child and the perfect child was not delivered.”

  I groaned. “Geez. Rejected solely because of looks. What is his name?”

  The day nurse looked toward me with sad eyes. “He hasn’t got one. The teenager doesn’t want him, never bonded during pregnancy. Poor girl actively detached knowing he was going up for adoption. Says she wishes she had aborted and saved herself and her family a lot of pain and suffering. Now her parents are trying to come up with the money to reimburse the intended adoptive parents so they won’t be sued. The baby has no one. To me, he looks like a Scotty.”

  That was good enough for me. I wrote down his name. “What about the other two couples?”

  “They will be visiting tomorrow,” the charge nurse said. “But the doctor reported that neither couple is keen on a special needs child.”

  I shook my head. “Hardly a special needs. Surgeons are so good at it now that a cosmetic repair is barely noticeable.”

  Even though Scotty had a healthy appetite and tried his hardest to suck on a specially designed nipple, he failed. Sloppy sucking left him vulnerable to pulmonary aspiration and choking, so he had to be gavage-fed. A thin flexible tube was placed from mouth to stomach, for formula feedings.

  Day two of life, Scotty was moved to a crib. He was also rejected by a second couple. Twenty-four hours later, the third couple decided against adopting Scotty, too.

  The day charge nurse purchased a front-pack infant carrier and we carried and cuddled Scotty during rounds. Though his time with us would be short, we wanted to convey to this tiny spirit that not everyone rejected him.

  On day three of his life, his teenage birth mother went home. The next day, Scotty would be going to a foster home. A plastic surgeon visited and suggested that Scotty’s lip be closed in a month or so, when he reached ten pounds. The palate would be fused later, between eighteen and thirty-six months of age. He asked if Scotty had become a ward of the state, and who he should bill for the surgeries.

  “I don’t know,” I said, hugging Scotty against my chest. Then I prayed for this little bundle from God.

  About midnight on day three, as I was gavage-feeding a growing preemie, I heard someone scrubbing in at the sink near the nursery entrance. I turned to see a nurse in a white uniform slipping on a protective gown over her clothes. She didn’t look familiar.

  “Can I help you?” I asked. No outside personnel are allowed in the nursery without permission or notice—any nurse knows that. I was on heightened alert.

  “I’m looking for—oh there he is!” she said, walking straight over to Scotty’s crib. She picked him up, kissed him on the forehead, and cradled him in her arms. “Here’s my boy. I have been waiting so long for you!”

  “I’m sorry,” I began, “but I haven’t been given notice of you coming. I’ll have to call security . . . ”

  “Please don’t,” she said with a nasal tone to her voice. Then she looked up at me and smiled a crooked smile. I immediately saw the telltale marks of restorative surgery for cleft lip. The tone of her speech suggested cleft palate repair as well. “You see, I dreamed of a blond son with beautiful blue eyes and clefts . . . but my girl and boy were born normal.”

  “How did you know about Scotty?” I asked.

  “The whole hospital knows about Scotty,” she said softly. “After I heard yesterday, I went home and had the same dream again. Then, I talked to my husband and he agreed for me to visit. Now that I hold him, I know—we’re going to adopt Scotty. And I think we’ll keep his name. “ I washed my hands in silence.

  “Is he able to suck from a bottle?”

  I shook my head.

  “That’s okay,” the nurse said, her eyes fixed on Scotty’s. “My whole family knows how to gavage. My mom, your grandma, did it to me for months. Just wait until she sees you!” she told him.

  Then she looked at her watch. “Oh, I have to get back to the ICU. I’ll be back at the end of the shift. I’ll talk to the day c
harge nurse and get my husband and lawyer in here. I’m so excited! Molly and Paul will be thrilled to have a baby brother.”

  I watched as she kissed Scotty once more and then gently placed him back in the crib. She pulled off her protective gown and headed to the nursery door. “God sent him to me,” she said with a beaming smile.

  “Yes,” I said softly in agreement. “And He sent you for Scotty.”

  A perfect child for the perfect mother.

  Diana M. Amadeo

  Child’s Therapy

  Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord.

  Psalm 127:3

  Beth holds the door open for her five-year-old daughter, Haley, so she can maneuver her tiny red walker into the brightly decorated lobby of the children’s clinic. It is a place far too familiar to Haley. She is well known to the staff. Today is a good day for Haley. Her energy level is uncharacteristically high, as she grips the handles of the walker with her small hands and guides its tiny wheels in the direction of the waiting room. Care Bears dance on her bright pink sweatsuit and blond curls bounce around her shoulders. Her twinkling blue eyes complement the big smile that is on her face.

  While her mommy signs her in at the desk, Haley, ever the independent one, looks over the group of children and adults in the room. In a corner a young boy about twelve sits alone, head down, face obscured by his dark blue baseball cap. Haley slowly approaches him. Beth follows her and takes a seat nearby on a couch next to a woman who turns out to be the boy’s mother.

  The child’s name is Timmy and his mom and Beth watch as Haley moves closer to him, trying to get his attention. Soon she stands near his chair, smiling at him even as he continues to ignore her. The other children are laughing and playing across the room in the play area, their parents appearing to be unaware of the disfigured boy and the crippled girl. Timmy’s mom tells Beth that he was tragically burned over two years ago when he tried to fill a cigarette lighter with fluid, thinking he was helping his dad. He did not realize he had spilled some of the fluid onto his pajamas and when he flicked the lighter to see if it worked, the pj’s caught on fire. Since that time, the once outgoing, happy little boy had become withdrawn and keenly aware of his disfigurement. There was much scarring on his neck and hands. He always wore the cap to try to hide the ugly, bright pink ridges climbing up to his face, and he wore long-sleeved clothing to cover his rough, scarred hands.