A few nights ago I attended a banquet held by my employer to thank me and some of my fellow employees for our loyalty and service. It was a celebration of our longevity and commitment to serving the community. I work at a local hospital as a nurse, and I have worked there for 30 (!!!) years.
It wasn’t meant to be a career. At the time I had just turned 16, and I was thinking about a summer job. My mother was a LPN at the local hospital, and had heard about a desperate need for CNA’S. Apparently, they were in such short supply in our area in 1988, that the hospital came up with a program that would train 10 high school students for free, if we agreed to work full-time for the summer. I had no aspirations to be a nurse, and I abhorred the idea of assisting anyone, least of all a nurse, but it was either that or continue babysitting and since I’m not a “sitter” at all, I ended up spending the entire time playing with the kids, which made me in hot demand, but completely burned me out. Then, there was the matter of the inconsistent paycheck; 20 bucks from a doctor and her stay at home husband for a few hours while the kids slept, VS 5 measly ones to be up until 1am with a screaming Mimi in a filthy house. Thus, the 3.35 an hour WITH night differential, was a clear winner, even if it meant being a nurse’s assistant–a certified one at that.
So, every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon after school, and all day Saturday, from February until June, I learned how to care for patients. I learned how to take vital signs, and the proper way to write them down (that’s TPR for you younger nurses, not all scattered about like some do today, so that you have announce the respiratory rate, instead of just doing it in order!), make beds you could bounce a quarter off of, and how to give bedbaths, while preserving modesty (theirs), and without embarrassment (mine). I was taught everything I needed to know except for one thing… how to literally walk into someone bedroom and assist them with all manner of basic human needs, all while chattering about the weather or last night’s ballgame, like it’s nothing. I remember the first day of work, walking up and down that long hallway trying to summon the courage to walk in to a patient’s room and ask them if they’d “like to wash up for breakfast?” I finally did, and continued on from there; working days, evenings and nights the summer I was 16, then all of my junior and senior years of high school, and even after I graduated. I wasn’t ready to go to college yet; I’d was pretty wrapped up with a certain bad boy from Lewiston at the time (LOL!) and back then there wasn’t the same push to go to college right after high school ready or not; thank God, because I wasn’t ready, although I had plenty more to learn.
I found that I really enjoyed helping people, not the nurses so much, because many, many times I thought to myself that I could do a better job than some of the nurses, but the people in need; people who were hurting. It was truly a pleasure to wash and rub the back of the old farmer who had gotten run over by his own tractor and had been stuck in a hospital bed in traction for months, because it made him feel so much better. I loved making their beds fresh and wrinkle free, and helping the older lady, so debilitated and weary from a severe stroke, and hearing her sigh with relief and pleasure as she sunk into the clean bed. Awkwardness? I got over that really fast, caring for a 23-year-old man who had been nearly killed in a motorcycle accident and was bedbound and nearly immobile for weeks in traction. At that time, it was not uncommon for patients to be in the hospital for weeks, especially when traction was involved. My, how things have changed.
I liked taking patients outside for “fresh air,” (I brought my own “fresh air” out with me on those occasions, and yes, I quit years ago!). I liked feeding the ones who could not feed themselves; I’d put lots of butter, salt and pepper on their potatoes, and sugar and cream on their oatmeal just how I like it, and felt as proud as a mother when they ate it all, especially when the patient’s sweet little wife came in to visit, just as I was wiping her husband’s mouth and exclaim, “that’s wonderful dear! He hasn’t eaten that well in weeks! Thank you for taking such good care of him for me.” I glowed with pride, as I did when I walked by my assigned rooms and admired how tidy they were, everything neat and inviting, and how clean and comfortable my patients looked.
I learned tricks along the way too; getting someone to suck on a straw, when they couldn’t even open their mouths. I learned how to shave a mans face, with an electric and a disposable razor, wich is a tricky business when the skin is loose, and the angles are sharp. I learned how to make the ladies permed hair look like they came from the beauty parlor with some no-rinse shampoo, and a pick. I learned how to roll a 200+ pound person alone, even though I was a little over half that myself, and I could pull that same person up in bed by myself (Patients tend to slide down in the bed, and constantly need a “boost,” usually by a person on either side of the bed lifting with a sheet or pull pad) by pulling the bed down and lifting them from the top, and I could safely transfer that same person to a chair, with no help even if they couldn’t put weight on their legs. I learned that warm prune juice works like a charm for sluggish old bowels. Also, along the way, I learned how to make small talk. A tomboyish introverted bookworm, I would have described myself prior to working with sick and injured people, I had absolutely no clue how to make small talk, because it didn’t come naturally to me. Thanks to thousands upon thousands of conversations with strangers, I can talk to anyone about anything.
Most importantly I think, along the way though, I learned how to make people feel better– to make the worst day of their lives, just a little bit better. I learned to joke with the surly ones, kid the old men, agree with the confused ones, and listen to the sad ones; and I learned that this is my calling. I continued to work as a CNA for 16 years, in the same place, before finishing nursing school. The only reason it took that long, was because I loved the work so much, and didn’t want to trade the closeness I had with the patients, for paperwork and medications. Eventually though, the lure of a higher paycheck, coupled with the annoyance I sometimes felt at some of the nurses because I knew I could be more efficient, more compassionate and less judgmental than a few of the ones I worked with at the time (those slackers are long gone, the nurses I work with now, are a wonderful group of people).
Now, I spend the majority of my days at the front desk, and I miss the time I was able to spend with my patients. 30 years ago, I worked closely with two older nurses, who had my dream job. They no longer worked as nurses, because they were past retirement age and felt that they couldn’t return to all that responsibility, so they were allowed to function as CNA’s but with their old nurse pay. While I know this would never fly today, it seems like that would have been a nice way to ease out of the most trusted profession in the world, in the same way I entered into it; helping those, who for whatever reason, can’t help themselves and in the process helping myself.
