One full moon night (yes, it really matters), a patient “escaped” by crawling through the window in her room at 3:00 in the morning. Her nurse, my co-worker was, at least, 450 pounds. Initially she tried to follow the patient through the window and naturally, she could not make it.
I could not give chase, either, because watching my co-worker trying to get her big apartment-complex-sized butt out that window and knowing she would not be able to, threw me into such a fit of giggles that I had to go pee first.
I came out of the bathroom and went outside, but didn’t make it too far. The other nurse was running (waddling & laughing) around the parking lot trying to chase down the patient. The CNA’s caught the woman, much to my co-worker’s relief. However, the sight before “the capture” was such a hilarity that I had to go pee again.
My co-worker made it inside before she collapsed from laughing. "I wish we had a video camera," she exclaimed pertaining to herself chasing the patient around. "I know that would have been something funny to put on American's Funniest Home Videos: me and my fat ass running around trying to catch her!"
Many, many years ago, I had a couple of neighbors who were Klansmen. We all knew it, but didn’t care. I think everyone in the neighborhood agreed that they have a right to belong to whatever organization they wanted, as long as they left us out of it.
How I actually found out was; I got up one morning for work and noticed my husband peeking out the front window. I had no idea why, but I quietly crept over to him anyway. We were in the house alone and no one could see us that early in the morning so I was really curious as to what he was looking at so secretively.
“What are you looking at?” I asked in whispers as I was coming up behind him.
“I’m watching the cross burn in the neighbor’s yard,” he answered whispering back to me.
“What!” I exclaimed. “What neighbors?”
“Shh! The black family across the street,” he answered. “Someone burned a cross in their front lawn.”
I was shoving him aside to see for myself as the firemen and police arrived. “Who would do such a thing?”
That’s when he told me. I was shocked! I could not believe that nice man down the street was in the Klan nor could I believe our neighbor two doors down was in it with him. We soon moved out of the neighborhood.
Two Doors Down was the one to burn the cross under Nice Man’s direction. Two Doors Down got ten years in prison for that stunt, while Nice Man was never mentioned. Like I said, we moved. I didn’t see either one again until the day we had a new admission in the nursing home and it was Nice Man from down the street.
Since I was the last one in the loop at home about him, I didn’t bother to tell anyone at the nursing home of his affiliation with the racist organization. I truly thought it was a well-known fact and I was just the last one to know about it. Especially when one night, my co-worker shared with me that Nice Man was in the Klan.
“Everyone knows it,” she confirmed.
Nice Man frequently used a lot of racial epithets and slurs, homing in on the “N” word specifically, toward his caregivers so, I was even more sure everyone knew. We were ALL the “N” word indiscriminately, if possible. It didn’t matter our race; he was mean to all of us, lashing out, striking us, or trying to run us over with his wheel chair.
When Nice Man’s wife passed away, I was shocked that the CNA’s would take him to the phone every day, sometimes two and three times a day to let him call his (deceased) wife.
I thought that was cruel and became very angry until one of his aides explained, “Mr. Nice Man doesn’t know she passed,” she explained. “We let him call her so he can hear her voice on the answering machine. The family agreed not to change the message so he can talk to her. It makes Nice Man feel better.”
I thought to myself, Wow, these girls have some class! I was completely taken aback by the empathy and compassion they showed him in spite of his terrible, and at times, volatile behavior. The night he died, I saw even more of that same class act.
I had looked outside the door into the yard of the nursing facility. Nice Man’s family had gathered on the front lawn. One of the CNA’s, who was peeking over my shoulder, commented, “I ain’t going home until they leave. It looks like a Klan rally out there.”
I giggled a little and opened the door for one of his granddaughters who was coming back inside. As she walked through the lobby, I realized the CNA’s had gospel music on. I turned and said the group, “Can you please turn that music off?”
“I realize that Nice Man was our patient, but sometimes we have to extend courtesies to the family, as well. They don’t like that kind of music,” I answered.
All of the CNA’s stopped and looked at me in shock. “They don’t like gospel?”
I turned to the CNA who didn’t want to leave before the family left. I thought everyone knew! To all of the staff, I answered with surprise, “No, ladies, they’re Klansmen.”
They were equally surprised at the information and clarified, “You mean, real Klansmen, as in, the Ku-Klux-Klan?”
“Well that explains a lot,” they all murmured between themselves
I could not help but laugh at their expressions. However, I quickly realized it might not have been the wisest thing to tell them. I didn’t want them to disrespect the family and jack up the music defiantly. I couldn’t blame them if they did, but as I walked back to the desk, and mentally kicking myself for saying something, I heard the radio click. They had turned off the music and sat in the lobby silently.
I have to say, I was so proud of them that night. They truly rose above themselves and showed more class than I would have ever shown on my best day! I approached them all before we went home for the night and thanked them for rising above the racism and showing that they were bigger and far better people than anyone could have ever imagined.
We had these two patients in the nursing home, Ethel Johnson and her sister Roberta Johnston. They were roommates and they were the cutest pair! Roberta, the eldest, taught me a few things.
I noticed one day that she kept spitting in a cup. It was nasty looking so I asked her what it was. She told me it was snuff, but I was thinking she would say chewing tobacco.
“You take a little dip, like this...” she said, pulling open her can of snuff, pinched a little between her fingers, and then put it in her cheek. “Then you just spit it out. You can’t swallow it or it will make you really sick.”
I looked over to Ethel to see if she were serious. Ethel promptly dipped from her own personal can of snuff and put it in her cheek as well. I guess that answered my question.
Roberta had also taught me that while Johnson was a popular name, Johnston was the upper crust of the Johnson pedigree. That being said, I was able to deduce that while Ethel Johnson had married a man of meager means, Roberta Johnston had married well.
The older sister was with us because she had crippling rheumatoid arthritis while Ethel, the younger, was with us because she had terminal breast cancer. It wasn’t terminal when she was first diagnosed, but she had refused treatments. When it had gotten so bad that surgery was the only hope, she refused that, too.
“I had a friend die from breast cancer,” Ethel explained. “She went through all that chemotherapy and even had a double breast removal. She still died anyway and I just soon not put myself through all of that.”
Try as we might, we could not get either sister to understand that each patient is an individual and each diagnosis affects people differently, too. There are different stages of certain diseases so her friend may have already been in the worst stage of cancer, but Ethel was in stage one. Still, they thanked us for our concern and went on with their own beliefs.
Although, Ethel had an order for Tylox (a morphine derivative), and it could be given every four hours, if she wanted it, she only took it at 8:00 every night. She didn’t want to become an addict. Roberta was the same with her Darvocet: she only wanted it at bedtime and one tablet in the morning to get her started for the day.
When Avis started working evening shift with us, we explained this to her, “Ethel gets a Tylox at bedtime, Roberta gets a Darvocet. That’s the only time they want it.”
Avis being a new nurse, fresh out of college, had her own way of doing things. We realized this one night when Ethel and Roberta chased her out of their room swinging their hard (HARD) specially made canes from sugar cane stalks, at the new nurse.
I was coming down the hall when I saw the sisters chasing her out of the room so I intervened. The problem was she tried to give the sisters Tylenol. They told her they wanted their pain medication and she refused to give it to them.
“Avis, we explained to you already, they get the Darvocet and Tylox at bedtime,” I reiterated. “It’s the only time they want it.”
“I don’t care,” she snapped. “I’m their nurse tonight, not you! We were taught you give the lesser pain med first and if that doesn’t work then you go back and give them the stronger one!”
“Why do you think that is?” I asked.
“It’s to cut down on drug addiction,” she answered, shocked that I did not seem to know that myself.
“Seriously?” I was even more shocked that she was worried about these two old women, who were in their late 80’s, becoming drug addicts. “Do they look to you like a couple of old bitties who will be going out on the street panhandling for money to pay for their drug fix?”
Avis wore a dumbfounded expression to my question while the sisters openly laughed in her face.
“Michelle, will you give us our pain medication, please?” Roberta asked of me sweetly.
“Certainly,” I answered and reached down to the narcotics drawer and pulled their two medications for them.
While signing the book for the narcotic administration and count, I explained to Avis, “If you want to be a good nurse, then know, it is only 25 % book sense and skill and 75% heart. Toss away what you learned in school and deal with each patient as an individual. Learn their needs, learn them as separate people. The truth is you can have all the book sense in the world, but if your heart is not in it, and you have no compassion at all, you’ll not be a good nurse.”
The following night, the same thing happened again and another nurse went through it all over again with Avis and the sisters as if I had not done it the night before. The day after that, the sisters went to the boss and told her what was happening. The boss made it clear to that dingbat nurse, if she pulled it a third night, she’d be out on her ass before the end of her shift. Avis got it after that.
We had a nurse that was an aggravating woman. At 64 years old, Betty thought she knew it all. She only worked part time and since she was elderly to us spring chickens, I was always patient with her even when she talked smack about me behind my back (she did that to everyone, though. I wasn’t a special case).
She was always quick to tell us that her son worked at the police station as a detective. Having cleared that up for any listener, she was always happy to come in and regale us with her own rendition of intimate details of a crime or ongoing case he was working.
She would tell everyone, “He called me tonight and told me all about...(Insert whatever news story was current at the time). He couldn’t wait to call and tell me what is going on.”
We ignored her. I don’t think any of us really believed he was busting a gut to call his mother and tell her personal details of a case he was working. We just let her have her say. It made her feel important so we let her be.
Whenever Betty needed a G-Tube (gastric) or NGT (nasogastric) inserted, I would go down and do it for her. The same with IV’s. Her hands were not steady enough to start the IV’s herself. I think she worked only to give herself something to do.
One particular night, I was having a rough go and I really didn’t want to be bothered. Like always, I knew she would come down to my floor to gossip and tell me all about the different staff members she knew something about. Since I didn’t feel like hearing it that night, I psyched her out.
When we heard the unmistakable sound of the doors down the back hall open, my CNA, Anne, said to me, “Here comes Betty.”
I quickly sat in a big wing back chair in the lobby in front of the nurse’s station and pretended to be asleep.
Betty came on the floor but didn’t speak. I knew she left when I heard the back hall doors open again. I peered through my eyelashes and saw my CNA’s, both of them, standing next to me, and staring at me.
“What are you doing?” Lavada asked as she laughed at me.
“Shh,” I answered, “I don’t want to listen to her complaints and gossip tonight. I have a headache.”
The doors opened again. “She’s coming back,” Anne stated in whispers and then they walked away.
I closed my eyes again and remained still until I heard Evelyn and Mae, the CNAs from the other wing, say, “I don’t believe it, Michelle is asleep!”
“Oh damn! I thought you were Betty coming back,” I exclaimed as I stood up. “What are you two doing down here?”
Mae answered while Evelyn laughed. “Betty came back and said you were asleep and we had to come see it for ourselves.”
“In the five years we’ve worked with you, we have never seen you fall asleep,” Evelyn explained, “So we came to see if it were true.”
Needless to say, Betty had made it a point to tell everyone she spoke to about it. Thankfully, no one believed it and figured out on their own that I was probably only pretending to sleep in order to avoid a conversation with her.
When I was in nursing school, we had an instructor that had a speech impediment. My heart went out to her as she tried to pronounce many of the difficult vocabulary words associated with medicine. I felt bad when the doctors at the hospital would yell at her.
I remember on one occasion where she was speaking with a surgeon and asked him about the ostomy he was going to perform later that day. She pronounced it as os-tee-o-tommy (os-toe-me is the correct pronunciation).
The doctor asked, “What the (blank) is an os-tee-o-tommy?”
A fellow student, recognizing the impediment as the problem, answered, “She means ostomy.”
At which time (using more explicits than I’m using in his quote), the doctor started screaming at her, “If you cannot pronounce the words correctly then what in the (blankety-blank-blank) are you doing teaching a class!”
She blamed me for that incident even though I was only a spectator and nothing more. Her pets often sat in the classroom during the mornings making fun of her behind her back and mocking her as we waited for class to begin.
She pulled me into the office before class one day and said she’d been sitting on the other side of the partition listening to me make jokes about her.
“I don’t sit near the partition,” I replied. “I sit in the middle row of the class, in the back. Your favorites sit there. You might want to talk to them about it.”
Because of her constant accusations towards me, by the end of the year, I didn’t feel so sorry for her anymore. She couldn’t fail me since I was a dean’s list student. Honestly, she couldn’t do anything to me but complain about me.
When I graduated and passed state board, I didn’t ask for a reference from her, either, as many of the other students had. I just went and got a job. A couple of years later I bumped into her, and of all places, at my job.
We had a patient, David, who had a tracheotomy (hole in his throat/neck so he could breathe). She pronounced it trach-otto-tommy. I was on my way into his room to do trach-care when she stopped me and asked if her students could observe me doing the treatment.
I almost laughed in her face. Instead, I said, “Sure. Come on, but first, let me go ask David if he is comfortable with having an audience.”
I practically ran into the room. I shut the door and ran to David’s bedside. “David! David, listen… my old nursing instructor wants to let the class watch me do trach-care on you. She used to be mean to me when I was in school and this is my chance to get some satisfaction so…when I bring the class in, I’m going to slap this shit on any ole way and then I’ll come back later and do it correctly. Don’t tell and just pretend I am doing it right.”
David nodded. Most times, he was expressionless because he was so depressed. However, when he nodded, I thought I saw a twinkle in his eye.
I stepped out to the hallway and waved the class inside. Very professionally, I began doing my care (incorrectly), explaining (with a crock-of-bull explanations) what I was doing and why. I had to give some rationale to my care. That crazy woman was agreeing with every piece of bull snot I was slinging.
David started laughing. It was the only time I had ever heard or seen him laugh. Every time David laughed he would spit mucous through his trach which he usually did not do during the treatment. It was like he was hocking up a loogie.
“Is that normal?” One student asked of the copious amounts of mucous coming out.
“Oh yes, that’s why we do the trach-care six times a day,” I answered with a straight face (in reality, we only did trach-care once a shift).
The instructor agreed with me and offered her own rationale as to why David was coughing up so much. At one point, David coughed and a loogie hit a student in the chest. I thought for sure he was going to lose it and not get it back either because he began laughing so hard that I almost started laughing, too.
In the midst of all this, the instructor was called away for a phone call and asked me if I would finish up. When she walked out of the room, I confessed to the students what my accomplice and I were up to and then I did the trach-care properly.
I realize that I was giving them misinformation so I was relieved that I was able to correct myself quickly once the teacher left to answer the phone. Otherwise, I was going to have to go to each student individually afterwards and tell him or her.
In the end, they (the students) enjoyed what I did and even thanked me for getting back at her. Quite a few stated they could not wait for the opportunity themselves to do the same in the future.
As for David, well…he would often smile whenever I came in the room after that day. I’m guessing it was because of that particular memory of me incorporating him into my practical joke.