It was 12:30 PM in Los Angeles in a modest apartment close to the ocean. The day seemed slow and uneventful this quiet Sunday afternoon.  Theresa was completely the opposite as she was  preoccupied with anticipation of her first child.  This young man was already 10 days late and she wondered when she would get to meet him as she paced the apartment. Rubbing her swollen abdomen she felt a twinge of anxiety when the phone rang. The nurse midwife on the phone who had followed her pregnancy said “I was looking at your ultrasound  again and that boy seems large and ready to be born. It’s slow today, would you like to come in and be induced  today instead of  tomorrow?”  Theresa, a nurse herself, knew about the procedure she was to encounter, but never imagined  her labor and delivery experience to be so difficult.

The drive to the hospital was exciting. Theresa talked about her delight and joy  with her husband. She felt supported and safe, thinking what could be better than having a psychologist as a Lamaze coach.

As Theresa entered the hospital and was asked to sit in a wheelchair she felt odd. Being the caretaker and more importantly, in control in medical situations  as a nurse was what she was accustomed to. She felt this strange odd feeling repeatedly as they started the IV and injected the Pitocin. Silly questions came to mind such as “where did she go to school?”

Then, rapidly the idyllic anticipation of a child slipped away as the contractions began.  Her loving husband tried to soothe her. Every relaxation technique was attempted without success. She began ordering her husband to do it this way and that way and then finally ordered him out of the room.  The nurses watched patiently. Some were intimidated and left as soon as their task was done.

One, however, had the courage to enter her world of pain and loss of control.  She approached Theresa and said, “I know what you’re going through, it’s not easy being a patient when you’re a nurse.”  The nurse sat  by Theresa and said nothing. She waited to be invited into her pain.  Theresa  finally said, “ help me.”  It was then, that the relationship began and the journey into motherhood  began a little easier. The nurse gave her permission to cry out, to give up all control, and to be vulnerable.

The time seemed endless for Theresa as she labored to have her first child.  The pain was excruciating, yet bearable as the nurse broke through the barriers and successfully got Theresa to relax.  Theresa  remembers the stroking of her head, wiping the perspiration from her brow, singing, the smell of her perfume, and her quiet, patient, accepting voice. They tried everything together, breathing, squatting, grunting, laughing for brief moments, and story-telling.  What Theresa remembers about the nurse was her devotion, patience and loyalty. What she still wishes to try and remember about this nurse is her name.

To this day Theresa has this experience imprinted in her heart, the birth of her first child.  Theresa believes that she would not have been able to persevere with the labor and delivery of her child hadn’t it been for this unnamed nurse. She is inspired having witnessed a colleague in action and to have benefited  from her expertise and caring. Two nurses met , one as the patient and the other as the caretaker. Theresa will be forever grateful and appreciative, and even though she will never have the opportunity to change roles with the nurse who cared for her, she will pass on the collegial  tenderness whenever possible.

Jan Cipkala-Gaffin, MN,RN,CS
Los Angeles, CA

– excerpted from Touched By a Nurse©

I was a very young new RN after graduating from nursing school only eight months earlier.  I was employed at the Rochester Methodist Hospital next to the Mayo Clinic.  One evening while at home, I received a phone from my mother.  She told me that George, a gas station owner and church member from my hometown, had been diagnosed with leukemia.  He was being treated at my hospital.  He and his wife, Connie, would be there today.  My mother asked me to pay them a visit and help with the transitions of being in large urban medical center.  I knew today would be different.  I was gradually realizing that the title “nurse” meant more than a routine job.

As I approached the front desk to get his room number, I felt a sense of eagerness and dread.  I was eager to see a familiar face from my hometown, and dreaded knowing that I would have to help deal with George’s terminal illness.  Walking down the long corridors toward his room, I reflected back to my early childhood when I first met George and Connie.  I remembered them from church.  Their two sons were a few years ahead of me in school.  Funny, we had only been acquaintances for the past 20 years, but now in this particular time and place, we shared an automatic kinship.

I took a deep breath upon entering his room, I did not know what to expect.  I composed myself as my body reacted to the shock of seeing George with bluish-gray skin from poor oxygen exchange.  His face was drawn and he was very thin.  I looked him deeply in the eyes and smiled a warm greeting as we gave each other a hug.  I then sat down at his bedside and asked how he was doing. After a few minutes, we had little to say as we silently colluded in the knowledge that his time was limited.  He told me, “Connie has just stepped out to get some lunch.  She should be back soon.  You will check on her, won’t you?”  “Of course.” I responded emphatically. He seemed comforted.

I thought back to all the times I had walked by his gas station on the way to and from school every day from kindergarten through high school.  I had always perceived him as a quiet, somewhat serious man, and in my younger years I was even a little afraid of him.  Now, at his deathbed, it was I who was expected to be the stronger one.  I felt a wave of sorrow and compassion for him.

I excused myself to get back to my unit and told him I would find Connie and let her know that I had visited.  I waved good-bye and promised to return the next day.

The following day, I again walked down the long corridor to George’s room.  As I turned the corner, I felt something odd.  I saw that the curtains to his room were completely closed.  As I walked nearer, I knew George had just died.  His body was still in the bed.  A chill came over me, but I bravely stepped closer and saw his body lying peacefully with stone-like pale, ashen skin.  I whispered a gentle “good-bye”.  Tears filled my eyes as I turned to perform my final promise.

The nurses at the desk told me to check for Connie in the chapel, so I raced down the hall to find her.  Quietly, carefully, I opened the chapel door. In the third pew from the back, I saw Connie on her knees, head bowed. As I approached her, she stood up, turned around and saw me.  Her face was filled with sorrow and anguish, but her eyes lit up as she threw her arms around me.  “Oh, I am so glad you are here–you are like an angel!” she exclaimed.   My heart was heavy yet filled with a deep sense of gratitude for this moment.  I was glad to be here, too.

Jill Bormann, RN, PhD, FAAN (visit Jill’s website)
Rochester, MN

A warm July night breeze flowed through the open window in the hospital emergency room in Leesville, Louisiana.  A young mother in her early twenties, Adeline, and her one and a half-year-old son, Kyle, entered the admission area at 8:15 p.m.

“He has a fever.  My little man has a fever,” she cried in a high pitched Southern accent.

“Bring him in here,” I motioned her to the examination area.  I saw her sweat as I checked the child’s vital signs.  His temperature was 103, so when I called the physician on call that night, he ordered the usual x-ray and blood work to help him arrive at a diagnosis.  After about an hour, the physician reassured the mother that her little man would be ok, he had bronchitis.  She went home with medications and a list of “to do’s” to promote recovery.

Almost midnight, I sighed to myself thinking it was almost time to go home.  Suddenly the back door at the ambulance entrance flew open and the young mother, Adeline had her limp child draped over her arms.  “Something is wrong with Kyle,” she screamed.

The medic grabbed the young boy from her arms and put him on the table.  I checked for breathing and there was no breath.  Immediately initiating artificial respiration I could taste vomit and saliva in my mouth as I became his lungs.  The rest of the staff rallied around, each doing a task: chest compressions, starting an intravenous, administering drugs.  The anesthesiologist finally arrived and placed a tube into the child’s his lungs to connect to an ambu bag or respirator.  As we worked on young Kyle trying to reclaim his young life, I noticed his mother watching numbly, as if this were a TV drama.  I escorted her into the waiting area and sat down with her as she told me what happened after they left the ER earlier in the evening.

After they arrived home she carefully gave him some juice and his medications.  She held him awhile then feeling her own exhaustion, she laid him down in his crib.  She went to have some tea and felt herself dozing.  Before going to bed, she went to check on her little man, only to find him lying on his back covered with vomit and looking very bluish-pale.  She screamed to her neighbors in the next trailer and they flew out of the door.  She would not let go of Kyle as she told them to drive her to the ER.  I sat with her and listened, helpless to do anything else for the moment.

In what seemed like hours, the physician slowly made his way towards Adeline.  I could feel my whole body stiffen as he looked at me. I knew.  Then said to her half making eye contact, “I’m sorry.  We couldn’t save him.”

Time stood still.  All the people in the waiting area, the oncoming staff, my co-workers and this young mother froze in the flood of our tears.

I don’t remember what happened after that.  I know I could not say a word.  I felt like screaming, like running, like being anywhere else than in that place.  As a twenty one year old, new graduate I was still cloaked in the vision that modern medicine can make happy endings.  Maybe it could.  But it didn’t on that summer evening in July in the emergency room.

Karen Bauer, RN
US Army Hospital at Ft. Polk, Louisiana