Humbled

I haven't written much for a while but I learned early on if you don't have anything to say keep your mouth shut...OK, so I don't always listen but something happened recently that seem important enough to share.
I read something about people being lazy, naturally lazy....I'm not. Really, I'm not. I just have things I'd rather be doing. I am also a little bit of a fighter, the stubborn two year old who just says "No" because she likes the sound of it (Those attitudes turned me into a procrastinator waiting to do things at the last minute). Anyway.....we have a program at work called Progressive Mobility...a fancy name for "get the patients out of bed and moving...no excuse unless they are paralyzed or have guts showing." Ugh....I have things to do...don't we all....I do it anyway...slowly walking a patient around the unit when I want to run, taking 20 minutes to get him or her ready to walk two steps to the commode only to find the patient is too tired to walk back...Sound familiar? OK, picture painted.
Well, the other day I had the pleasure of seeing someone I hadn't seen in years. We used to be sort of close, close enough to go fishing together with the family close. We were just chatting nonsense...how's the kids, blah blah....when she confided in me how she couldn't remember much anymore. It took me by surprise. She never was much of a drinker and didn't do "recreational drugs" so I was more than a little bit surprised. Then she went on to say "Ever since I was sick I can't remember. I was in the hospital back in 2010 with pneumonia and was on a machine for a month. I don't remember much of it. I couldn't walk when I got out. My balance was off real bad. It took a long time before I was well again."
I didn't know what to say. I felt bad that we had been out of touch for so long that I didn't know about it....then I felt even worse for all those times I didn't want to walk my patients or put things off until the last minute. Often we don't have the time to do the rehab part of a patient's getting well but rehab shouldn't start late. We (as in the medical and nursing community) have learned to use less sedation on ventilator patients ( a good thing) and to get our patients up and moving faster and earlier (also a good thing). Getting them up and going with as little medications as possible makes for a stronger, healthier patient who returns to their life because they have things to do, too.
Bottom line is I was humbled. Humbled by the thought of the things I do for people make a big impact on their lives. Sometimes it takes a friend to help you see the important things in life. Mine did. I hope I just did, too.

His Name is Mac

After taking report, all I could think was “dear God, this poor man. He had a heart attack and was down for a while. Help me help him." He was unable to breathe on his own, totally unresponsive, and had these body twitches thought to be a result of anoxic injury. I walked in to examine him and, after taking a deep breath, said “Hi! My name is Eileen. I’m your nurse. I’m going to take care of you.” No reaction. I checked his pupils and they were reactive. That’s good, I thought.

After a while visitors came to see my patient. “His name is Mac. He was at his wife’s funeral when he went down.They were married over 40 years and were inseparable.” I’m sure someone told me about the funeral during report but that was the first time it registered. Poor man, I thought. “He’s a little hard of hearing, too” his visitor said. The next time I talked with Mac I got close to his ear and softly said “Mac, it’s me, Eileen, your nurse. Your friends came to see you today. You’re doing OK. You can’t talk yet because you have a tube in your mouth. Feel my hand? I’m holding your hand. You’re going to be OK.” I’d say this over and over, every chance I had between drip titration, all day long. Maybe he might hear me.

This went on for the next few days, me speaking to Mac usually with no response, once in a while a twitch in response. One day I went through my usual  “Hi Mac. How are you? It’s Eileen, your nurse. You’re OK. You’re going to be OK.” This time he twitched after I said it and I thought I saw movement around his eyes. “Mac, can you hear me? Open your eyes.” The muscles around his eyes moved and I got all excited. For the next few hours I went through my routine, “Hi Mac. Open your eyes for me.” Finally about 8 hours after the first muscle movement around his eyes, he opened his eyes. “Mac, look over here” but Mac didn’t look over and couldn’t focus…..yet.  After a couple more hours Mac could look my way. “Squeeze my hand Mac” and he did. I ran to get the unit fellow. “Watch. You got to see this” I said. Mac was following simple commands.

After that I was off on vacation. By the time I came back, Mac was gone. In the craziness of my unit I forgot about Mac. One day, the unit clerk told me someone was looking for me. “He said he was your patient.” When I went to the desk, there was a big man standing tall waiting for me. “Eileen? I’m Mac. You took care of me when I was here. I was out for a few days. I don’t remember much but I remember hearing your voice telling me I would be OK. I wanted to thank you.”

Everything came back to me, Mac’s condition, his wife’s death, and his amazing recovery and tears came to my eyes. I remembered why I became a nurse.

Life in the ICU: The Avon Man

He was at the bedside visiting with his comatose wife. She was my assigned patient, a middle-aged woman who had an infection in her brain. When I walked in the room, I realized he was putting on her make up. Very gently, he applied foundation, a little blush, lightly made up her eyes, and finally added some lipstick. He chatted with her while applying the make up telling her about the things at home and other everyday things.

As I examined her,  I asked about the make up. He told me she sold Avon before she became sick and always wore a bit of make up. During her illness, he took over her business, temporarily of course, and made sure to come in each day to make sure she looked good. Looking good was important to her. He made sure to tell me she wasn’t a vain woman, she just cared how she looked. Making sure she looked good was a promise he made to her when she first became sick.

I walked out after examining her, allowing them to spend their time together. I thought about how he kept his promise to her. Through his touch, his gentle voice, and his presence, he showed his love. I felt like  an intruder for interrupting that intimate moment but, at the same time, I felt lucky to have witnessed such love.