That day each team member felt they were a part of implementing God’s will on this Earth.
Jo Stickley
Reprinted by permission of Benita Epstein.
Forgiven
Humanity is never so beautiful as when praying for forgiveness, or else forgiving another.
Jean Paul Richter
The real power of healing is not about curing diseases. This was revealed to me by a male nurse who spent a lot of time with a woman in a nursing home who hadn’t been able to walk for six years. Edward lifted her in and out of her chair or into the bed, depending on her schedule.
She always wanted to talk about God and forgiveness. Because Edward had had a near-death experience, he felt comfortable doing this.
One night it was so late that Edward slipped out without being the one to put her to bed. He was heading for his car in the parking lot when he heard her call, “Edward!” He snuck back inside and into her room.
“Are you sure God forgives us for everything?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m sure, from my own experience,” he said. “You know the gospel song that tells us, ‘He knows every lie that you and I have told, and though it makes him very sad to see the way we live, he’ll always say “I forgive.”’”
She sighed. “When I was a young woman I stole my parents’ silver and sold it so I would have enough money to get married. I’ve never told anyone and no one ever found out. Will God forgive me?”
“Yes,” Edward reassured her. “God will forgive you.
Good night.”
When Edward arrived back at work the next morning, he was told to see the administrator who asked what he had told the woman the night before.
“As usual,” Edward explained, “we talked about God and forgiveness. Why?”
“At 3:00 A.M. the woman came out of her room and, with no help, walked the entire length of the nursing home, put her Bible and teeth on the nurse’s desk and said, ‘I don’t need these any more.’ Then she turned and walked back to her room, laid down and died.”
This is what the soul of nursing is all about, the reason God created a world where we can all be nurses by showing our compassion and empathy for the wounded.
Bernie Siegel
Afraid of the Night
Death is not a failure of medical science but the last act of life.
Patch Adams, M.D.
Death came to call most often in the early morning hours. Sometimes peacefully, taking my patient as he dreamed. Sometimes violently, with a rattle deep in the throat. Sometimes Death came like a refreshing breeze and carried away my long-suffering patient like a buoyant kite cut loose in the wind, leaving her pain behind. Sometimes it was only after much pumping and pounding and fluids and medications and electrical shocking that we allowed Death to come. But, for whatever rationale, it was my personal observation that Death came to call most frequently in the early morning hours, and for that solitary reason I came to dread the night shift.
Until Olga.
Olga was a terminal-cancer patient whose family could no longer endure the hardship of caring for her at home. It was the family decision, with this strong matriarch leading the family, to place her in one of the beds our tiny hospital designated for long-term, palliative care. Olga firmly insisted they pay only for thirty days because she had chosen the fourth of July to be her “freedom day”— her chosen day to die. Her doctor, on the other hand, stated his expectations. Although she was terminal, she would probably live three to six months, and her demise would be a slow and probably very painful process. He gave orders to provide comfort measures and allow complete freedom for family visitation.
The family came faithfully every day, often staying for hours talking or just sitting with Olga and listening to the radio perpetually playing the Christian music she loved. When the song “I Give You Love” would play, Olga smiled broadly and announced, “That’s my favorite song. That’s the last song I want to hear when I die.”
On the night of July third, I came on duty as charge nurse for the night shift. According to report, Olga’s family had been in to see her that evening and left instructions for the nurses not to call them if “it happened,” as they had all said their good-byes. “Please allow Reverend Steve to sit with her,” they said. “He wants to accompany her in her passage.” With the warped humor only nurses understand, the evening shift joked, “Olga’s vital signs are stable and there’s nothing physiologically to indicate her death is imminent. Lucky you. You’re going to have to deal with Olga in the morning, and boy is she going to be mad that she’s still here!”
But, things are different at night. Night is when we are closer to ourselves, and closer to our cardinal truths and ideas. I checked on Olga and, pulling her covers up around her shoulders, whispered, “Good night, beautiful lady.”
Olga smiled and whispered back, “Good night and good-bye. You know, tomorrow is my freedom day.” A warm sense of calm settled about my shoulders—a strong but strangely comforting awareness that she might be right, even though it went against logic, reason and educated predications. Though her vital signs were unchanged, I left the room feeling Olga was very much in control of her destiny.
Throughout the night, Mary, the other nurse on duty, and I turned Olga and provided care. Reverend Steve sat holding her hand, and together they listened as the radio softly played one song after another. When we returned to her room mid-shift, Olga did not arouse as we gently repositioned her.
At 6:00 A.M., just as the sun cast a warm rosy glow through the windows, Mary and I returned to her room. Reverend Steve requested we wait just a few minutes as he felt Olga was “almost through her passage.” As I stood at the foot of her bed watching this young minister accompanying Olga to her journey’s door, I was filled with awe and a sense of envy of the mastery this strong and beautiful woman had over her life. Out of habit, I checked my watch and began counting her respirations, one—two—three. At that moment, a song began on the radio and a smile spread over Olga’s sleeping face. “I Give You Love”—four—five—six. . . .
Olga accomplished not one, but two of her last life goals. The Fourth of July was her day of freedom from the pain of her disease. And the last song she ever heard was her favorite.
I have often remembered that night over the years and felt that Olga’s story should be told. Because this strong and beautiful woman chose not to “rage against the dying of the light,” but to accept it—even welcome it—as entry into the light. Because of Olga I have a much deeper appreciation for endings and beginnings, for the cycles of life and death.
And, because of Olga, I no longer fear the night.
Nancy Harless
And the Angels Sang
We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“You have an admission that has to be done early. The patient’s name is Mr. Flood, and you’ll need to get him admitted in time to give his ten o’clock intravenous antibiotic,” said the weekend supervisor at our home-care agency.
It was my on-call weekend, and I had prayed for a quiet one. My favorite musical group was in town and scheduled to sing at my church that morning. They were personal friends with whom I had sung years before. I really wanted to see and hear them again.
I had called the supervisor at 8:00 A.M., hoping there were no calls. To my dismay, there were two other calls besides this admission. And Mr. Flood’s wife and daughters wanted me there immediately. I reviewed his orders to admit him, administer the IV antibiotic, do wound care. Then I was to teach the family about his pain medication and how to provide for his general comfort and personal hygiene. He had been diagnosed with cancer. Surgery, chemotherapy and radiation were unsuccessful, so he had chosen to go home to spend his last days with his family.
Hoping to finish this admission visit in less than the usual two hours and still make it to church, I pocketed a tape recorder to record the inte
rview and do most of the paperwork later. I’d see the other two patients in the afternoon and spend more time with Mr. Flood on the next visit.
I set out for the patient’s house, feeling more annoyed with each mile. Swearing at the devil for interfering with my plans, I asked God to help me get finished in time to see my friends. I arrived at the house and sat in the car long enough to suppress my resentment and summon up the professional bearing I had mastered in my thirty years of nursing. Controlled and smiling, I pressed the doorbell.
Mrs. Flood opened the door and immediately collapsed in my arms in tears. “I can’t do this!” she sobbed. “I’ve never had to take care of anything before. I can’t do it! You’ve got to help me!”
Still crying, she led me into the bedroom where her husband lay quietly in bed, exuding great dignity and self-control in spite of the pain I knew he must be experiencing.
The hospital summary said Mr. Flood was aware death was imminent. He had accepted his fate with a quiet and confident faith. His wife and daughters, on the other hand, were filled with fearful denial. They had refused the hospice referral. Accepting that would mean accepting the fact that their husband and father was dying. They wanted someone who could bring about a miraculous healing. His sister, a former nurse, had come to help with his personal needs, but the family expected greater things from the home-care nurses, who, at this point, could do no more than provide some measure of comfort.
I went into the bathroom to wash my hands before beginning and told myself to be gracious and compassionate. I also reminded God that I needed to get finished quickly, the music, you know.
The required admission paperwork, questions and signatures clearly frustrated Mrs. Flood. Her unstated cry was, “Never mind all that, save him for me now! I can’t get along without him!” I acknowledged her distress, recognizing it as fear and denial, both normal aspects of the grieving process, and dealt with her interruptions and tears while trying to interview and treat my patient. Mr. Flood, too, attempted to soothe her as he signed the required papers and responded to my many questions.
The tape recorder remained off. Mr. Flood cooperated with my efforts to keep the focus on him, and finally, after four grueling hours, the initial assessment was done.
I went to wash my hands again before continuing his treatments. Alone in the bathroom, I reminded God that I had missed seeing my dear friends and had no idea when I’d have another chance. I was frustrated at Mrs. Flood’s weakness in the face of her husband’s need and steeped in self-pity over having missed a blessing because of the time spent in offering answers she refused to accept.
Five hours after my arrival, I was finally through. As I packed up my equipment Mr. Flood asked, “Do you always work on Sundays?”
I explained the weekend on-call rotation, telling him that I usually went to church on Sunday mornings, but that today was different.
He said, “I thought so.”
Then, though it had never happened with any patient before, I asked if he would like us to pray before I left. He nodded and closed his eyes, waiting for me to start. I said a brief but sincere prayer for comfort, strength and peace for himself and his family.
As I prepared to go, his wife persisted with questions and pleas, crying out for help in a situation she could not bear. Mr. Flood said to her, “Honey, stop that now, and let me say something.” Taking my hand he spoke, with tears in his eyes as they sought my own, “I’m glad they sent you today. Not just any nurse, but you, especially. I don’t know you, but I feel like Jesus has been here this morning.”
I stood face to face with the indignation I had felt in having missed the morning’s music. A stillness passed over me, fixing me to the spot as I suddenly realized what had just happened. Rather than granting me the blessing I had asked for, God had chosen to provide, through me, a blessing for someone who needed it much more than I. I realized a far greater gift had been waiting for me through this dying man, and I had almost missed it.
In my car I accepted the fact that this was the service God had in mind for me that day. Backing out of the driveway I fancied I heard the angels begin to sing. Setting off toward the next patient’s house, I burst into joyful song in unison with them and let the passing motorists wonder why I was singing, smiling and crying all at the same time.
Mary Saxon Wilburn
A Cherished Angel
The heart of the giver makes the gift dear and precious.
Martin Luther
Cherished is the word I’d use to describe Grandma Madge. Her loving generosity poured out to every friend and family member needing help. Madge was always the first person to take a home-cooked meal to someone who was sick. The treasured time she spent with them surpassed even the healing benefit of her famous German dumplings.
That’s why it seemed sadly ironic that friends and family now came to sit at her bedside. When Madge had learned about her fatal illness, she’d insisted on remaining at home. “To be surrounded by my angel collection,” she beamed.
Madge’s colossal collection of angels—fifteen hundred, to be exact—had started with just a few Christmas tree ornaments and an occasional figurine she’d picked up at souvenir shops or garage sales. But, it didn’t take long for her sons to discover that contributions to Madge’s menagerie were the perfect solution to the “what to get Mom” dilemma. Soon every friend, neighbor, grandchild and in-law bought her an angel for every holiday, birthday and anniversary. It wasn’t long before her tiny cottage overflowed with a host of heavenly beings. She proudly displayed many of them year-round on shelves, the coffee table, end tables and on top of the TV. Her choir of angels assembled in the teeny guest room, reserved for musical figurines only. There, hundreds more singing, twirling, dancing angels crowded antique shelves, hutches and bedside stands.
Each November first, Madge began the month-long process of bringing out the rest of her collection. Angels graced her Christmas tree and the floor beneath it, then cascaded everywhere, from the buffet, to the mantel, to the back of the toilet and top of the refrigerator! To Madge, each angel was a reminder of a person who loved her. She inscribed the name of the giver on the bottom of each, along with the date she had received it. She gave explicit directions. “When I pass through the Pearly Gates, make sure every angel goes back to the person who gave it to me.”
Now, with a caring hospice nurse and Madge’s two sisters staying with her, that loving task seemed imminent. Late one afternoon, her grandson Troy stopped to spend some precious time. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he tenderly caressed her hand. “You’ve been an angel to us all, Grandma, a true gift from God.”
A few hours later, Grandma Madge ascended through those Pearly Gates.
Her sisters, Rene and Gladys, and the hospice nurse, gathered in the living room marveling at how Madge had died with the same dignity, courage and grace with which she had lived. A faint melody interrupted their testimony. Bewildered, they turned their heads, trying to discover the source of the music. Rene and Gladys followed the hospice nurse to the guest bedroom while the tune grew louder. There on a table, one lone angel played the song “Cherish” from beginning to end. Then it stopped. With trembling hands, Gladys picked it up and read, “From Troy, 1992.”
Gladys held the figurine to her chest. “Thanks, Madge, for letting us know you’ve joined God’s heavenly collection of angels.”
“Your angel,” whispered the hospice nurse, “has returned to the Giver.”
Margie Seyfer
As told to LeAnn Thieman
Lori’s Wish
Lori came to the hospital with a great attitude. She was such a spunky twelve-year-old you almost forgot to notice her frail little body and blue lips and nail beds. Lori saw this heart surgery as just one more hoop to jump through on her way to becoming a grown-up. In her bag, she had packed all the essentials of a preteen-age girl and an afghan she was crocheting. It really looked quite nice but had a long way to go.
Lori went to surgery with an abnormal
but incredibly brave heart. Late in the afternoon, she arrived in the pediatric intensive care unit with all the typical supportive medication and equipment. We knew her many previous surgeries and time on the heart-lung machine had put her at risk for bleeding, and before long we noted an abnormal amount of blood coming from her chest tubes. This continued over the next hour until the surgeon had no choice but to take her back to the operating room. We got her parents to her bedside for a visit before Lori was quickly returned to surgery. A couple of hours later she was back in ICU and the bleeding stopped. The relief in her parents’ faces sent me home, tired but reassured.
The next day, Lori’s heart was doing reasonably well, and her lips and fingernails were pink. But she had a lot of recovering to do. Her family was at her bedside as much as they could be, considering the restricted visiting hours so prevalent back then. Lori’s condition rapidly declined, however, and her kidneys began to fail. She needed a ventilator. This tube, through her nose and airway, prevented her from talking, but it definitely didn’t prevent her from communicating. She still had that spunky attitude. She was very thirsty but, of course, she couldn’t have anything to drink. When I dipped a cloth into a little fruit punch just to wet her mouth, her eyes said thank-you in no uncertain terms.
When the charge nurse came to the bedside to ask if I could stay into the evening shift, Lori overheard. I looked back at her and she mouthed, “Please stay.” I did. Her urine output declined even further, and when I went home that night, I felt tired and uneasy.
Chicken Soup for the Nurse's Soul Page 15