“When you’re through changing, you’re through.” ~ Bruce Barton.

I have been fortunate that in my life, very few of my encounters with the health care system have been from the point of view of the patient.  It is easy to be the one in the uniform, in control of things, able to complete tasks with confidence and efficiency, smoothing the patient’s experience as much as possible, showing compassion and empathy while administering medications.  Of course, it was not always so. 

I wanted to be a nurse for as long as I could remember.  I had a dress-up uniform, and, armed with my mother’s first aid book (possibly from World War I!) and an assortment of bandages, I bandaged every doll in sight.  For this, I thought, was what it meant to be a nurse.  As a teenager, still with not a clear idea of what it meant to be a nurse, I saw myself standing, smiling, at the bedside of a very sick patient (rather poorly, is the English way of saying critically ill!), one hand on the fevered brow of the patient while the doctor on the other side of the bed (possibly looking like Dr. Kildare) asked me: ‘What do you think, Nurse?’. 

One of my older sisters went to nursing school ahead of me, but she didn’t really fill me in on the everyday work of nursing.  She didn’t hint at the noxious smells, the many-colored bodily fluids you may encounter.  Just as mothers don’t tell their daughters what labor and childbirth is really like, she was perhaps protecting me.  And yet the reality of my experiences as a student nurse did not horrify or scare me.  They taught me.  I was fascinated by the human condition, the workings of the body in sickness and in health.  And I soon learned that my patients could teach me something every day. 

One of my first stories, oft repeated, was of the sixty-year-old woman who was being treated for cancer of the uterus.  She was a lively, outspoken Irishwoman, with huge construction-working sons who would come in to visit her each evening.  One evening, after visiting hours, she called me over and gave me a bottle of Guinness.  She had told her son to buy it for me, as she thought I was looking ‘peaky’, a term for tired, pale.  I was to drink it to build my blood back up.  I displayed that bottle of Guiness for years, reminding me that patients may be studying me, even while I am caring for them.  And that caring can go both ways.

I loved bedside nursing.  I loved the interaction with each patient, even the tough ones, for it built on my experience, helped to develop my intuition.  Seeing every patient as a potential family member helps you to go beyond the techniques and skills necessary to deliver care, and helps you to tap into the emotions: the fear, the anxiety, the unknowns.  Perhaps even more important is to imagine yourself in the role of patient, treating others the way you would want to be treated.

This week I had one of my infrequent opportunities to be a patient, while undergoing cataract surgery.  Despite my years of nursing and teaching, and with all of the technological advances, I wasn’t exactly sure how the procedure is done.  I knew I would not be ‘put to sleep’, but would I see the instruments approaching? Would I be watching as they cut into my eye?  As those who have already experienced it know, the actual procedure is quick, painless, and over before you know it. I am seeing a bright, clean world.  At home, it is as if all of the house lights have been replaced with much brighter ones!

But, like most nurses, I did not disclose that I was a nurse.  I like to observe the standards of care, to see how nurses do their job, from the point of view of the patient.  And I was disappointed to have a very efficient nurse who may have introduced herself to me (I could have forgotten), but who never once explained what she was about to do before she did it, whether it was starting an IV, or dripping drops into my eye. 

The thing I loved about working in the ER many years ago, was the variety, the randomness of illnesses and injuries that patients would present with.  No two evenings were the same.  It tested my nursing knowledge and skills since this was a Community Hospital, too small for you to be assigned to one area or type of patient.  You would go from pediatrics to dealing with a patient with concussion; to caring for a patient who had a heart attack; to prepping a patient for emergency surgery. 

Surgical centers on the other hand, especially those who do one kind of procedure are much more repetitive, more routine.  So I get that the nurses may go into autopilot, repeating the same procedures and activities over and over again.  But each patient is different, and deserves individual care.  The nurse anesthetists, I must note, were more professional, they anticipated and explained, answered questions and reassured.  But showing empathy, telling a patient what you are about to do and why is not a complex skill, it does not require advanced degrees or education. 

I have been fortunate that my encounters with healthcare professionals have been minimal, my needs few.  I do hope that those who have more complex needs encounter nurses who care, who anticipate, who listen and who explain.  For it can make all the difference in the world. A little kindness goes a long way.

With my new lens I am seeing a spring-cleaned world, amazed at the whiteness of whites, the brightness of colors.  I was reminded of the story of the woman who complained to her husband about their neighbors.  She observed the wife hanging clothes on the line that looked dingy and grey, as if she didn’t know how to wash clothes properly.  She should go and tell her how to do a better job! Then the husband surprised her by cleaning their windows, and she realized that the clothes were sparkling white! It was her view that was to blame.

This week I am grateful for advances that permit me to see clearly again, when 100 years ago blindness would have been the inevitable outcome.  I am hopeful that when we see faults in others, we should examine ourselves first, in case it is the perception that is faulty.  And I appreciate more than ever the ability to savor life with all of my senses. 

Have a wonderful weekend, Family!

One Love!

Namaste.