Chicken Soup for the Nurse's Soul: Second Dose

by Jack Canfield

  Then I went to Mr. E. and leaned over and whispered my name into his ear.

  There was no response.

  Before I left the room, I asked his wife what I could get or do for her.

  She said, “I know my husband is dying. I just want my sons to see him before he dies.”

  “Where are your sons?”

  “In jail,” she wept. She explained that the oldest one was in prison in Florence and the younger one was in juvenile jail in Phoenix. “The social worker said it’s impossible for them to visit their father,” she sobbed.

  I gave her a hug, then bent down to whisper to Mr. E., “I promise that before my shift ends, I’m going to try as much as I can to have your sons come to see you. I know how much you love your kids.”

  I gave them both my reassurance and left the room.

  I phoned the social worker. To get the son from Florence would cost more than $350 for transportation and a police escort. Plus it would take a day or two to process it.

  Next I called the officer at the Maricopa County Jail. He flatly declined my request for the younger son to see his father before he died.

  I got the telephone number of the juvenile jail facility and asked to talk to the officer in charge.

  “This is a matter of life and death. I need a big favor.”

  I asked the officer if he had children and he said he did. I stated that I was asking on behalf of Mr. E. to bring his son to the hospital before he died. I told him he was near death.

  “I know his dad is just waiting to see his son for the last time. If security is an issue, I’ll ask our security guards to assist you regarding inmate protocol. I’ll be working until 7:30 PM. Please bring the boy. I beg you.”

  All through the shift I kept praying for a miracle. I watched the clock, waiting for security to call me.

  Nothing.

  The dopamine drip was almost empty and Mrs. E. refused to have another bag hung. “There’s no use,” she said.

  It was 7:00 PM when I saw our two security officers come down the hall. One stood outside Mr. E.’s room. The other asked the family to step aside at least fifteen feet from the perimeter. After a few minutes, two uniformed police officers emerged escorting a handcuffed prisoner. Stifling my joy, I introduced myself. The officers listed the rules: the son would be handcuffed at all times with a police officer. No family was allowed to approach or touch him and had to stay at least fifteen feet away from him. I watched his mother and could feel her yearn to reach for him.

  I agreed, then went to Mr. E. I whispered to him again, “It’s almost the end of my shift and I was able to keep my promise to you. I have one of your sons.”

  I waved to the officer to let them enter the room. I talked to the mother waiting outside, so grateful she started to cry. The security officer stood stiffly at the door. Within minutes, the son and the police officer came out of the room.

  I approached the son. “Is that all you can spare for your dying father, after all I did to let you come and see him for the last time? You go back in there and if you feel embarrassed to say anything out loud, whisper it to him and tell him how much you love him. He may not respond, but he can still hear. Ignore the officer . . . talk to your daddy.”

  The son went back into the room with the police officer. When they exited later, the boy was crying.

  I approached the officer. “One last favor. Can his mother give him a hug?”

  Without hesitation, he gave me a nod and waved for Mrs. E. to come. She threw her arms around her son and he clutched his mother like a lost little boy.

  I stood with tears flowing down my cheeks. The staff, the security guards, and even the officers had tears in their eyes.

  Mr. E. died an hour later.

  Gina Hamor

  I Can’t Go to Heaven Yet

  The manner of giving is worth more than the gift.

  Pierre Corneille

  “Wow, she has the most incredible blue eyes—they actually dance!” I said to her daughter the first time I saw Ms. Smith. She seemed to glow as she lay in front of a huge picture window in her daughter’s home. She had the brightest smile and the baldest head—not a hair left from the prolonged chemotherapy. The medical profession had done all they could for this little lady from Kentucky. Her daughter had brought “Mom” to her home in Tennessee to care for her so she wouldn’t die alone.

  Her home was out in the boonies. It used to be a convenience store of some kind. It was a long and narrow house and every time I opened the door, I expected to hear a chime go off. When I arrived the first time, I knocked and a huge man came to the door. Her son-in-law looked like Charlie Daniels, without the cowboy hat, with tons of hair and whiskers. “Come right on in here,” he ordered, but with a grin. With slightly more than a little apprehension, I followed him in and so did three cats and two dogs.

  There was Ms. Smith in a hospital bed with her mouth full of miniature Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. My kind of woman! I introduced myself as her visiting nurse. She smiled a huge toothless smile. The chocolate ran down the wrinkles near the corners of her mouth.

  “Would you like a Reese’s Cup?” she asked.

  “Are you kidding? If I won the lottery and they paid in either money or Reese’s Cups, I’d be hard-pressed to make the choice!” I popped that peanut butter delicacy into my mouth.

  She laughed. “I think we’ll get along great!” She wasn’t wrong.

  Ms. Smith was short and round and could do very little for herself. Over the months I was there, she shared her life with me. She had seven children and only one grandchild. She had a son in prison who she knew she’d never see again. Her daughter was devoted to her. She’d crawl in the bed with her mom and rub her head to help ease the headaches from the growing tumor. Ever so slowly, Ms. Smith began to lose the faculties she had left.

  One night she began to have difficulty breathing and her daughter called me in the wee hours of the morning. I jumped into my car and put on my emergency lights and got there in record time.

  Her speech was slurred but she whispered, “I can’t go to heaven yet.”

  I asked her if she was afraid.

  “No, I can’t go to heaven without my teeth.”

  What? I looked at her daughter and she explained that during the move from Kentucky they had lost her mother’s dentures. I looked down at Ms. Smith, whose bright blue eyes were still dancing.

  “I won’t meet Jesus without my teeth,” she firmly whispered.

  I could have explained that we will be whole when we meet our Maker, but I could see that she wouldn’t compromise on this. I bent down and softly said, “I promise I will get you some teeth.”

  I prayed all the way home. “Why did I promise her teeth, Lord? You’ve got to help me out here.”

  I caught a few hours’ sleep, then pulled myself out of bed and headed to church with my family. During the sermon I looked ahead two pews and saw Sandra Hayes. The hair stood up on my arms. She was a dentist, in practice with her husband. After the service I approached her, told her my dilemma, and asked if she could help. She agreed on the spot. I explained that in all likelihood she would not be paid.

  “This family has no extra money. They live in the American version of the Outback,” I cautioned.

  Not surprisingly, Dr. Hayes said, “I’d be honored to help.”

  The next day she followed me to Ms. Smith’s home and stirred up her stuff to make the dental molds, refusing to take any shortcuts. When Ms. Smith entered the gates, she’d have the finest teeth of anyone who’d ever passed through.

  The following day Ms. Smith went into a coma. It certainly didn’t look like she’d live to get her teeth because the denture process took four to five days.We were all disheartened, but we kept a vigil at her bed. I could see the weariness and love in her children’s eyes as they turned her or patted her. We all talked to her, unsure if she could hear. The first day passed and she remained with us. Then a second, and a third.

  Her daughter turned
to me that evening and said, “I think she’s waiting on her teeth.”

  “Yes, I think she is,” I sighed.

  I had called Dr. Hayes daily with updates on Ms. Smith’s condition. She explained that she sends her teeth to a town about thirty miles away for a baking process to make them hard. She was bugging the poor “baker” and even offered to drive there to pick them up.

  Finally the dentures arrived and Dr. Hayes wanted the honor of giving them to Ms. Smith. Occasionally during her comalike state Ms. Smith had opened her eyes. Now they were dim and glassed over. But when Dr. Hayes placed those teeth in her mouth, those beautiful blue eyes danced once more.

  As we prepared to leave I handed Dr. Hayes the forms to complete for payment. “No charge,” she said softly, then nodded toward Ms. Smith laying with a peaceful smile on her face. “I’ve already been paid.”

  Five hours after receiving her precious gift from Dr. Hayes, Ms. Smith died quietly in her sleep. I can only imagine how proud she must have been as she smiled in awe at her Maker.

  Sue Henley

  “Yes, they’re my own teeth. I paid the dentist for them.”

  Reprinted by permission of Aaron Bacall. © 2007 Aaron Bacall.

  Making the Grade

  It is not so much our friends’ help that helps us as the confidence of their help.

  Epicurus

  This was going to be a great group of students—I could tell. I asked each one to introduce herself and tell us why she wanted to learn to be a certified nurse assistant. A few said this would be their first experience in health care, and they weren’t sure what to expect. However, most of the students said this class would be their first step on the way to nursing school.

  Marie caught my attention. She was a tall woman. She said she joined the class because she had been a home health aide for so many years; she felt she owed it to herself to achieve certification and earn the salary she thought she deserved. Later in the semester she confided to me that she wanted certification for her own self-esteem— she was tired of her family’s constant teasing and criticism. She told me that they repeatedly called her “dumb” and said she would never amount to anything.

  For the first two weeks Marie shone. She participated in class discussions and described techniques that could only have come from experience and creativity; these methods of patient care were certainly not in any textbooks. She sailed through the clinical labs. With no need to practice bed baths or patient positioning, Marie would share her experience with classmates who were learning these tasks for the first time. Everyone in the class warmed to her and appreciated her kind and friendly disposition. So I was shocked when I administered the first written test and she failed—badly.

  I spoke to Marie privately. She claimed she was just nervous and would try harder. But she failed the next two tests.

  I approached Tanya, our admissions counselor, for advice. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask. Marie can’t read very well. That’s why she’s not passing the tests even though she knows the material. Plus, Marie has no self-confidence in her abilities and talks herself out of succeeding. It would really be wonderful if you could find a way to help her earn her certification. She really has so much to offer, and passing the certification exam might help her believe it.”

  Of course, certification was important to all the students, but Marie was a gentle, knowledgeable caregiver who really needed—and deserved—to pass. How could I get her through the state exam? Her clinical demonstration would be a breeze, but the written exam would stop her cold. Then I remembered something from my original school orientation and inquired, “Doesn’t the state give an oral version of the exam in some cases?”

  Tanya said they did.

  “Then I’m going to ask Marie if she wants to try that testing format. I’ll read the next exam to her and see what happens. If she’s willing to pay the additional fee for the oral exam, that might make a difference.”

  What about the rest of my students? Certainly they would need to be monitored during the test. If I read aloud they might be distracted. I had no answer then, and by the time of their next exam I was still seeking a solution. So with Marie’s permission I posed the question to my students. Their response was immediate and unanimous. They glanced at each other, then stood up and changed their seats so no one would be sitting next to another student. One student beamed at me and said, “Go ahead, Mrs. Malkin. Just sit out in the hall with Marie. You can watch us from there and see that we aren’t talking to each other. We really want to know if we understand this material. You can trust us.”

  And I did. I peeked into the classroom between the questions I read to Marie. Tanya also passed the classroom from time to time to see what we had worked out. All of the students were as good as their word. Marie scored over 80 percent on that first oral test, and on the rest of the tests that semester. She developed a comfort level with that testing style and continued to excel in her clinical work. By the time the students went to a local nursing home for their bedside experience, everyone wanted to pair off with Marie. We all delighted in her newfound confidence.

  The day of the state exam I was as nervous as the students. Although I was not scheduled to work, I came in anyway “to straighten up,” fussing around my classroom, rearranging shelves, and refolding linen while I waited for the students to finish. One by one they filtered into the room with certificates, hugs, and smiles. I congratulated all of them. Although they could have left upon completion of their exams, everyone remained on the pretense of helping me until we’d heard the entire class’s results.

  They were so relieved the exam was over they started talking nonstop. There was so much noise and chatter that we didn’t notice when Marie appeared, standing quietly in the doorway. There was no expression on her face and my heart dropped. As the students began noticing her, the room slowly became silent. When Marie knew she had our complete attention she broke into a huge grin, strode into the room flourishing her certificate, and swept me up in an enormous bear hug.

  Everyone cheered, and I could hardly breathe! She put me down and held her certificate in the air. “Look at this! Look at me! I’m going to carry this with me for the rest of my life, and if anyone ever tells me I’m nothing, why, I’ll just pull this out and show them that I am really something!”

  Susan Fae Malkin

  The New Grad

  Each person has an ideal, a hope, a dream which represents the soul. We must give to it the warmth of love, the light of understanding and the essence of encouragement.

  Colby Dorr Dam

  Startled by commotion, the young registered nurse, Janeen, entered the intensive care unit of Long Beach Memorial Hospital to begin her morning shift.

  “What’s going on?” she exclaimed as she watched a doctor, nurse, and respiratory therapist working feverishly over a new patient.

  Having only completed nursing school four months earlier and still considered a “new grad,” never before had she truly experienced such traumatic care in action.

  The patient was a young female with an endotracheal tube connected to a ventilator, filled with fluid. Must be pulmonary edema, Janeen surmised. Wearing a neck collar, and in traction, the female’s legs were elevated. Her discolored feet stuck out from under the sheets, a sign of poor blood circulation.

  The new grad’s attention was drawn to a middle-aged woman standing near the activity, appearing alone and helpless. With an overwhelmed and distraught countenance, the woman’s bright green eyes blurred with tears while she watched her daughter’s heart monitor. At once, a deep wave of sympathy swept over Janeen.

  “What’s going on?” the young R.N. repeated. She learned the young woman had been run over by a Ford Ranger truck while bicycling. She had fractured 111 long bones; many short, flat, and irregular-shaped ones; her pelvis; and her cervical spine, which could result in paralysis. Tire tracks were still visible on her chest. Her heart’s papillary muscle was destroyed and her mitral valve was ripped
almost entirely off. Her liver was severely lacerated.

  When Janeen heard that the patient’s twenty-third birthday had just passed two weeks before, she thought, She’s only one month older than me. But, before her thoughts continued, she was interrupted by the yell, “Cardiac arrest!”

  Orders were shouted. “Quick! Prep her for surgery.”

  The heart surgeon approached the mother. “Sibylle,” he began, “we don’t think she’ll survive, but we’re sure she’ll die if we don’t try.”

  Her tearful mother signed the consent.

  As they transferred the young lady to the operating room, a priest gave her last rites.

  Knowing that saving her would require a miracle, silently Janeen prayed, If You do miracles God, please let one be visible today.

  After ten hours of surgery, doctors said it was a miracle. Now with a pig valve, the patient’s chest was too swollen to close so a transparent thin film covered it.

  For the next few days, Janeen continued to pray.

  One morning, her eyes widened as she read the female’s name among her list of assigned patients. She entered the room and introduced herself. “I’ll be your primary care nurse. I’ll take good care of you,” then, turning to the mother who had traveled far to sleep at her daughter’s bedside, she added, “and you.”

  Unprepared for the shock of seeing the patient’s toes turn completely black, Janeen composed herself and continued to follow the orthopedic surgeon’s instructions to take her to hyperbaric twice daily for oxygen therapy. Hopefully they could stop the gangrene from traveling and prevent amputation.