40 Years In The Nursing Trenches – Part 2

In Part I, I shared some of the hardest moments of my nursing career. The tragedies. The heartbreak. The things that stay with you long after your shift ends.

But if that was all there was to nursing, nobody would stay.

Certainly not for forty years.

Because alongside the worst of times were the best of times.

When I look back on my career, I don’t think first about the trauma, the codes, or the long shifts. I think about the people.

I think about my coworkers.

Nursing is a profession, but it’s also a family. A nurse-hood. A bond that is difficult to explain to anyone who hasn’t lived it. We laugh together, cry together, miss our families together, and somehow survive together. We celebrate holidays, birthdays, weddings, babies, promotions, retirements, and everything in between.

These days I work private duty and spend most of my shifts alone. I love what I do, but I have to admit, I miss my work peeps.

I think about the funny times. Like the time my four-year-old patient, Jason, asked me to marry him. He was very persistent. Completely in love. I have to admit, he was a little cutie pie.

One of the other nurses, Katie, asked him, “Well, don’t you want to marry me?”

Without missing a beat, Jason replied, “No. You can be the flower girl.”

Poor Katie was heartbroken.

Over the years, I kept tabs on Jason as he came in and out of the hospital. I’d send him birthday gifts and sneak him little treats whenever I could.

Now that I think about it, maybe I wasn’t his future wife after all. Maybe I was just his sugar momma.

Nevertheless, it’s not every day you receive a marriage proposal at work from a four-year-old. I still laugh every time I think about it.

Then there was Patrick, a sweet seventy-year-old Irish gentleman I cared for in the ICU. I remember the shamrock tattoo on his arm. His six grown children adored him. Five of his sons even had matching shamrock tattoos.

Patrick’s health had slowly declined, and everyone knew he would likely never make it back home again.

One day he asked me for something simple.

A shower.

I was exhausted and working a sixteen-hour shift, but of course I agreed.

The problem was that Patrick wasn’t steady enough to shower alone. Before long I was soaked from head to toe and standing in the shower right along with him. We laughed the entire time.

My scrubs dried.

My shoes didn’t.

Eight hours later they were still squishing every time I walked.

Patrick thanked me over and over again. So did his family.

He died two days later.

And all these years later, I still think about how much that simple shower meant to him.

I think about all the patients who I “taxied” home at the end of my night shift.

I was a nurse long before the days of Uber and Lyft. In rural areas, taxis were practically nonexistent. If a patient arrived by ambulance during the evening or overnight hours, was treated, and then discharged, they were often left to figure out how to get home on their own.

You would be surprised how many people have nobody. The elderly. The disabled. Widows and widowers. People living alone. People whose families lived hours away. Sometimes there was simply no one to call.

If an empty room was available, I’d let them wait there. If not, they waited in the waiting room until my shift ended at 7 a.m.

For many years, I drove a big Dodge Ram pickup truck. It sat high off the ground, and I can’t tell you how many little old ladies, short old men, walkers, wheelchairs, and assorted belongings I loaded into that truck over the years. Off we’d go.

Some of the best conversations of my career happened during those rides home.

Eventually, hospital administration heard about my unofficial transportation service and threatened to discipline me.

I remember telling them, “I’m off the clock, we’re off hospital property, and what I do on my own time is really none of your concern.” Then I added, “But if you’d like to punish me for helping elderly patients get home safely, I’ll be happy to discuss it with the local newspaper.”

Yeah, I was a feisty little nurse back then.

Strangely enough, they never brought it up again.

Looking back, I don’t remember most of the miles. I remember the people.

I remember one little old lady I cared for in the ER. She lived alone in the downtown senior high-rise. The doctor wanted to admit her to the hospital, but she refused.

I asked her why.

“My cat,” she said. “I can’t leave him alone. There’s nobody to feed him.”

I asked if she had family, friends, neighbors, anyone who could help.

“No.”

The doctor stressed how important it was for her to stay, but she was worried sick about that cat.

Finally, I said, “Give me your apartment key. I’ll take care of him.”

She was incredibly grateful.

After my shift, I stopped by her apartment to feed her beloved cat.

Now, in my mind, I was picturing some sweet little furry companion patiently waiting by the door.

I was wrong!

That cat was a complete psychopath.

He hissed at me, clawed me, attacked my ankles, and made it very clear that I was not welcome in his home. I left covered in scratches and questioning every life decision that had led me to that moment.

Unfortunately, I had promised to care for him while she was hospitalized.

So I went back the next day.

And the next day, he greeted me with the exact same enthusiasm.

When she was finally discharged, I returned her apartment key and told her about my adventures with her cat.

She looked at me and said, “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. He’s kind of a crazy psycho cat.”

Kind of? That cat wasn’t a pet. He was a tiny orange terrorist with whiskers.

Then there was Roger. He was a short, round little man who informed me one day that he wasn’t fat.

“Oh?” I replied.

“No,” he said. “I’m pregnant.”

“Uh huh,” I replied, knowing full well there was a punchline coming.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m pregnant with a baby elephant. Can’t you see his trunk hanging out down here?” he asked, pointing to the area below his pregnant belly.

“Oy Vey”… Roger had probably told that joke a thousand times.

And somehow, it was still funny.

I could go on and on with hundreds of stories. Some happy. Some heartbreaking. Some hilarious. Some that still bring tears to my eyes.

Forty years is a long time.

Long enough to forget countless chart notes, medication dosages, room numbers, and shift reports.

But not long enough to forget the people.

Nursing gave me a front-row seat to humanity.

I’ve seen people at their strongest and their weakest.

I’ve witnessed incredible courage, heartbreaking loss, remarkable resilience, and extraordinary kindness.

I’ve learned that sometimes the biggest difference you can make isn’t with a medication or a procedure. Sometimes it’s listening. Sometimes it’s showing up. Sometimes it’s simply caring.

And if I had it to do all over again?

I’d still become a nurse.

Maybe with better shoes.

But I’d still do it.