You THINK you forgot?!? Are you wearing underwear or not??
NOPE!
November 20, 2013
Underwear
About 2 minutes before we were going to walk out the door to put Becca on the school bus, she announced, "Um, I think I forgot to put on underwear."
November 15, 2013
Journey through Nursing School: More than Passing Meds and Making Beds: Today a life was changed.
More than Passing Meds and Making Beds: Today a life was changed.
Yesterday, Mr. C received devastating news – a biopsy was taken from the lump on his chest and the doctors believe it to be lung cancer. Even worse – a scan revealed it has already spread. There were 4 spots on his brain.
Last night the calm, level headed, happy-go-lucky Mr. C changed. He transformed into an aggravated, combative, danger to himself. He pulled out his IV, put on his clothes and was bound and determined to leave the floor, go down the elevator, and get his car (which was actually parked about an hour away). He went on and on ranting and raving about needing to move his car. His only focus was to get out of this prison and take care of moving his vehicle. He hardly slept all night.
When I met Mr. C, he had calmed down a little. He was still insisting that he needed to leave because he had things he needing to get done. He still needed to move his car, he needed to make sure the lights were off but the porch light was on at his house. Although retired, he was a very busy man, had things to do, and needed to get out of here.
My first task to complete was to do an assessment. He was cooperative, but voiced concerned that he really wanted to take a shower and get cleaned up now. We struck up a deal that I would do my assessment quickly, and then he could get in the shower. Mr. C was very independent and steady on his feet. He showered, shaved and brushed his teeth while I tidied up the room. With a neatly made bed, a fresh gown, and all cleaned up, Mr. C had calmed down dramatically. He was clearly a bit stir crazy in the room, so we took a walk down the hall to have a cup of coffee.
We took a seat in the family lounge and enjoyed a cup of coffee. The conversation flowed easily as he told me about the 44 years he worked for the same company, his daughter who now lived on the east coast, and his passion of restoring old muscle cars. After about 45 minutes, we saw the breakfast trays being delivered, so we returned to his room.
As he finished his breakfast I knew the time had come to have a serious conversation about his health. Now was the point that I needed to ask the hard questions and help him face the devastating diagnosis that he had received. A voice inside me repeatedly shouted to just let him be, just continue the benign small talk, and don’t rock the boat. But I knew what needed to happen. No matter how messy or ugly it was, we had to face the truth. I did my best to seem calm and matter of fact, but I could feel my body shaking. I used my cover as a student nurse to shift the conversation to his health. I jokingly blamed my professors for making us complete so much paperwork, and told him I needed to ask a few questions so I could complete my assignment. It started easily enough, I asked about his health history. I could see the fear in his eyes as he started to tell me the story of when he first noticed the lump on his chest. My head was spinning trying to come up with just the right words. When I asked him if he remembered what the doctors told him, he lowered his head and paused for a moment. The silence felt like an eternity, when in reality it was only a few short seconds. He slowly raised his head and looked me right in the eyes. “Yes,” he began. “They think it is cancer and… and..” another pause, “It is in my brain too”. He clearly understood the seriousness of the situation. I was so afraid that I would say the wrong thing, that I would somehow make things worse. Before I could even form a complete thought in my head, I heard these words coming out of my own mouth, “That is a lot to take in.” I immediately started to beat myself up on the inside, I wanted to come up with just the right thing to say, and that is all I had? I was floored when a look of relief came over his face and he started to speak calmly and easily. He went on to explain that in the last 24 hours his world had been turned upside down, but he didn’t want to burden anyone with his worry. He admitted that he tried to act like it didn’t bother him, but he had no idea what he was going to do. He revealed that he knew moving his car didn’t really matter, but he felt he had lost control over everything else, so maybe he became focused on that so he didn’t have to face the diagnosis he had been given.
Over the next hour we spoke gently and frankly about where he would go from here. We talked about the difficulties of asking others for help, and that one of his greatest fears was that he would become a burden on others. We didn’t go into the specific treatment, that would have to be discussed with the oncology team. We did come to the conclusion that it was ok if things were ‘messy’. He admitted that he liked life to be neat, organized and have a sense that he was in control. He didn’t want to admit that he might not have it all figured out right now, but that it was ok to have hard conversations with loved ones, it was ok not to have all the answers, and it was ok to feel broken. His plan from here on out was just to be present in the moment and allow others in with him. He began to express a confidence that his feelings needed to shared, and he had trust in others to listen and support him. He acknowledged that everything from treatment to being open to help from others would be hard, but he was willing to try. He reminisced about how proud he felt when he has been able to lend a helping hand to others multiple times over the years and decided that maybe now was the time for others to have the ‘glory’ and be there for him. He laughed and admitted that he probably wouldn’t get it all right on the first try, but he would keep trying and trying and trying.
As my time with Mr. C was ending, he shook my hand and smiled. He thanked me over and over for being with him today. I wish I could say that I performed some amazing and dramatic action today, but all I know I really did was show up and be present. This kind man who had just received a shocking diagnosis was able to share his wisdom and self-discovery with me. Every fear and doubt I had about my own struggles in life were brought into a completely different light. He could acknowledge the fear, uncertainty, and emptiness and embrace the need to rely on others for help. I couldn’t find the words to express what a difference he had made to me today, I just found myself thanking him for allowing me to be a part of his morning.
Today, in room 803, there were no cutting edge procedures performed, no foley catheters inserted, no central line dressing changes, and not a single medication was administered. In fact, not one medical intervention occurred. Despite this seemly lack of action, a life was changed, mine.
Yesterday, Mr. C received devastating news – a biopsy was taken from the lump on his chest and the doctors believe it to be lung cancer. Even worse – a scan revealed it has already spread. There were 4 spots on his brain.
Last night the calm, level headed, happy-go-lucky Mr. C changed. He transformed into an aggravated, combative, danger to himself. He pulled out his IV, put on his clothes and was bound and determined to leave the floor, go down the elevator, and get his car (which was actually parked about an hour away). He went on and on ranting and raving about needing to move his car. His only focus was to get out of this prison and take care of moving his vehicle. He hardly slept all night.
When I met Mr. C, he had calmed down a little. He was still insisting that he needed to leave because he had things he needing to get done. He still needed to move his car, he needed to make sure the lights were off but the porch light was on at his house. Although retired, he was a very busy man, had things to do, and needed to get out of here.
My first task to complete was to do an assessment. He was cooperative, but voiced concerned that he really wanted to take a shower and get cleaned up now. We struck up a deal that I would do my assessment quickly, and then he could get in the shower. Mr. C was very independent and steady on his feet. He showered, shaved and brushed his teeth while I tidied up the room. With a neatly made bed, a fresh gown, and all cleaned up, Mr. C had calmed down dramatically. He was clearly a bit stir crazy in the room, so we took a walk down the hall to have a cup of coffee.
We took a seat in the family lounge and enjoyed a cup of coffee. The conversation flowed easily as he told me about the 44 years he worked for the same company, his daughter who now lived on the east coast, and his passion of restoring old muscle cars. After about 45 minutes, we saw the breakfast trays being delivered, so we returned to his room.
As he finished his breakfast I knew the time had come to have a serious conversation about his health. Now was the point that I needed to ask the hard questions and help him face the devastating diagnosis that he had received. A voice inside me repeatedly shouted to just let him be, just continue the benign small talk, and don’t rock the boat. But I knew what needed to happen. No matter how messy or ugly it was, we had to face the truth. I did my best to seem calm and matter of fact, but I could feel my body shaking. I used my cover as a student nurse to shift the conversation to his health. I jokingly blamed my professors for making us complete so much paperwork, and told him I needed to ask a few questions so I could complete my assignment. It started easily enough, I asked about his health history. I could see the fear in his eyes as he started to tell me the story of when he first noticed the lump on his chest. My head was spinning trying to come up with just the right words. When I asked him if he remembered what the doctors told him, he lowered his head and paused for a moment. The silence felt like an eternity, when in reality it was only a few short seconds. He slowly raised his head and looked me right in the eyes. “Yes,” he began. “They think it is cancer and… and..” another pause, “It is in my brain too”. He clearly understood the seriousness of the situation. I was so afraid that I would say the wrong thing, that I would somehow make things worse. Before I could even form a complete thought in my head, I heard these words coming out of my own mouth, “That is a lot to take in.” I immediately started to beat myself up on the inside, I wanted to come up with just the right thing to say, and that is all I had? I was floored when a look of relief came over his face and he started to speak calmly and easily. He went on to explain that in the last 24 hours his world had been turned upside down, but he didn’t want to burden anyone with his worry. He admitted that he tried to act like it didn’t bother him, but he had no idea what he was going to do. He revealed that he knew moving his car didn’t really matter, but he felt he had lost control over everything else, so maybe he became focused on that so he didn’t have to face the diagnosis he had been given.
Over the next hour we spoke gently and frankly about where he would go from here. We talked about the difficulties of asking others for help, and that one of his greatest fears was that he would become a burden on others. We didn’t go into the specific treatment, that would have to be discussed with the oncology team. We did come to the conclusion that it was ok if things were ‘messy’. He admitted that he liked life to be neat, organized and have a sense that he was in control. He didn’t want to admit that he might not have it all figured out right now, but that it was ok to have hard conversations with loved ones, it was ok not to have all the answers, and it was ok to feel broken. His plan from here on out was just to be present in the moment and allow others in with him. He began to express a confidence that his feelings needed to shared, and he had trust in others to listen and support him. He acknowledged that everything from treatment to being open to help from others would be hard, but he was willing to try. He reminisced about how proud he felt when he has been able to lend a helping hand to others multiple times over the years and decided that maybe now was the time for others to have the ‘glory’ and be there for him. He laughed and admitted that he probably wouldn’t get it all right on the first try, but he would keep trying and trying and trying.
As my time with Mr. C was ending, he shook my hand and smiled. He thanked me over and over for being with him today. I wish I could say that I performed some amazing and dramatic action today, but all I know I really did was show up and be present. This kind man who had just received a shocking diagnosis was able to share his wisdom and self-discovery with me. Every fear and doubt I had about my own struggles in life were brought into a completely different light. He could acknowledge the fear, uncertainty, and emptiness and embrace the need to rely on others for help. I couldn’t find the words to express what a difference he had made to me today, I just found myself thanking him for allowing me to be a part of his morning.
Today, in room 803, there were no cutting edge procedures performed, no foley catheters inserted, no central line dressing changes, and not a single medication was administered. In fact, not one medical intervention occurred. Despite this seemly lack of action, a life was changed, mine.
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