Before you call it dirty!
There are some who say that to criticise the nursing
profession is like throwing your grandma in front of the train! It’s no secret
that nurses are overworked and underpaid and yet they keep at it. So what is it
about nurses that set them apart from anybody else?
Florence Nightingale, Mary Seacole – these were just names
to me. Who would’ve thought that one day I would get it?
For those who aren’t in my shoes here’s a snippet of a day
in a life of a nurse.
It was one dreary morning when my alarm clock rang. It was
that time again. I gave a heavy sigh as I stretched out to silence it. You’d
think I would’ve gotten used to the darn thing! The way it seems to ring the
minute I close my eyes to sleep. The first few minutes are always the hardest.
Nothing a cup of tea can’t fix though!
The day was no ordinary day. Having snowed heavily the night
before I was fully aware how the treacherous the roads were going to be. I
didn’t think twice about making the cumbersome journey into work. My heart gave
a flutter of excitement riddled with a hint of excitement as I contemplated
what the day would bring. As I negotiated the slippery roads to work, I managed
to cast my thoughts aside for a minute.
With such fondness my mind wondered back to the time I was
growing up in Zimbabwe. Back to the days when I used to watch my neighbour in
her nurses’ uniform as she trod the dusty road at the back of our house on her
way back from night duty. I didn’t understand the story behind her tired
looking eyes. I understood her uniform though. That white belted knee length
dress which flattered her figure and the brown shoes and stockings to match.
The white starched cap pinned at the back of her head was just the icing on the
cake. Perfect, just perfect. There
was something about the nurses’ uniform that drew me in. Needless to say it
didn’t surprise me when I found myself spinning out an essay during an English
lesson one morning about how I wanted to become a nurse when I grew up. Now
some years later, having undertaken several occupations from teaching to
cleaning as well as my endeavours as an author, I have come to realise that
being a nurse is in a league of its own.
Florence Nightingale (1820-1920), dubbed the ‘The Lady with
the Lamp’ was a celebrated English nurse who believed that she had been called
by God to be a nurse. In 1855, during the Crimean War, The Times purported that
Nightingale was:
‘a ‘ministering angel’ without any exaggeration in these
hospitals, and as her slender form glides quietly along each corridor, every
poor fellow’s face softens with gratitude at the sight of her. When all the
medical officers have retired for the night and silence and darkness have
settled down upon those miles of prostrate sick, she may be observed alone,
with a little lamp in her hand, making solitary rounds.’
Sufficing to say that I’m no Florence Nightingale, but over
the years I have discovered something about the nursing profession or indeed
vocation as others would like to call it that only someone in my shoes can
begin to comprehend.
I once had the pleasure of meeting a certain lady who had
accompanied a relative to hospital for minor surgery. As I stamped the ward
floors rushing back and forth, the lady walked up to me and towered besides me.
I couldn’t help but notice her legs in pointed leather high heels positioned
next to my flat black shoes. She rested her slim hands over her tiny waist and
I found myself ogling at her long well-manicured nails. All of a sudden I was
aware of my own slightly chirped natural nails. I scanned her sleek outfit as
my eyes wandered up to meet hers. ‘Excuse me nurse,’ she said her red lip-sticked
mouth creasing into what I could not decide was a smile or a sneer. After
giving me the run around, tending to her demands, she was frank enough to
express her dislike of the nursing profession. ‘It’s a dirty job, I couldn’t do
it,’ she said. I couldn’t blame her. I understood where she was coming from –
at least I thought I did.
Back to that snowy day.
The emotional roller coaster began the moment I stepped
through the hospital doors. A young mother lying in one of the beds told me, as
I popped pills into the pot, ‘Do you know they said I have less than 3 weeks to
live?’ I opened my mouth to speak but words failed me. What do you say when
confronted with such a situation? All I could do was hold her hand and listen.
As I looked into her eyes I could tell that was enough. She didn’t need to know
how sorry I was because she knew. I didn’t need to preach to her about how
there was the possibility of heaven because she knew that too. As the weeks
rolled on I watched her deteriorate. And when she finally breathed her last
breath, I cleaned her cold, lifeless body and made a pot of tea for her
grieving young husband and kids. Good damn cup of tea! As if it could fix
anything. This was but the tip of the iceberg.
Don’t get me started on how ungrateful some patients can be.
Nothing you do is ever good enough. I know what you’re all thinking. Nurses
always say ‘I’ll be back in a minute’ but they never come. Well, excuse me but
nurses are expected to do a hundred and one things at the same time. Doctors
barking instructions, bells ringing from all directions, patients falling out
of bed not to mention the helpless sweet old lady who needs to be fed! God
knows there isn’t enough of us to go around at any one given time.
I regard myself as one of the lucky ones having to work in
an environment where resources aren’t so scarce. My heart sinks whenever I
throw away unused oxygen masks or broken vials of morphine. I toss and turn in
my bed in the stealth quiet of the night as I spare a thought for the nurse in
the third world. The way she has to watch her patients die of ailments which a
course of antibiotics can easily cure. Malaria, measles and pneumonia are still
major killers in the Sub Saharan Africa and yet in some countries these aren’t
that much of a threat. My heart always pierces when I remember how my step
mother died of an ailment she could’ve easily been cured of. A lump engulfs my
throat as I recall the sequence of events leading to her death. As soon as I
had learnt of her ailment I rushed to the post office and deposited some money.
Being a nurse I understood how precious time can be when faced with a medical
emergency. I wanted her to have the best care there was and as soon as
possible. But alas there was no equipment to properly diagnose the disease. It
came as a rude awakening that no amount of money or knowledge could’ve saved
her. My mind twirls endlessly at the realities of life in the world that we
live in. Not fair, so very unfair. As
I do my rounds on the ward I know that I cannot afford to let things get the
better of me. I have to keep my emotions in check. After all that’s what a
nurse does.
However, it is not all doom and gloom. My job is not without
its rewards. The adrenaline rush that I get in ‘touch and go’ situations cannot
be explained. The satisfaction that comes with being able to nurse someone back
to health is priceless. It is such a privilege to sit there and listen to a
complete stranger pouring their heart out during their darkest days or indeed
happiest days. So if you see a twinkle in my eyes it is because of that
grateful patient who takes my hand every now and then and whispers a ‘thank you
dear’ in my ear.
Mary Seacole (1805-1881), a Jamaican nurse, also known as
Mother Seacole, was another great lady known for the way she nursed wounded
soldiers during the Crimean War. I cannot begin to imagine what she experienced
during her time in her conviction as a nurse. As I read her story, the way she
sacrificed her resources, time and energy, I suspect she must’ve felt the same
kind of satisfaction that comes with being able to touch people’s lives in such
a way.
So each time I step through the hospital doors, I do it with
a song in my heart. I have no idea what each day will bring but all I know is
there is something to be had at the end of the day. I’m still young in the
profession and have a lot to learn but something tells me that regardless of
where life takes me, I will be able to look back at my nursing experience with
great pride. Because that’s what it is- a job to proud of!
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