Jelly Hearts

The years teach much which the days never knew.

I was in my second year of nurse’s training at Children’s Hospital when I fell in love with Jimmy. His eyes were the purple of a full-moon sky. His golden hair tossed rings of curls onto strawberry blush cheeks. He looked like a cherub in the stained-glass cathedral windows. But he had the wail of a lonely, frightened, orphaned baby, which he was.

Jimmy was in the communicable diseases wing, isolated with measles and pneumonia. He had to be enclosed in his oxygen-tent-covered crib most of the time. When he wasn’t sleeping, he was crying to get out. But he always stopped crying when I entered his room because he knew I would cuddle, rock and sing to him. The Children’s Orphanage had been his only home most of his fifteen months of life. I knew he was well tended there, but no institution care can replace a mother’s love. As I hummed a lullaby, I fantasized. “Jimmy, I promise you that as soon I finish nursing school, I will find a way to become your full-time mommy. You will be my special little angel.”

My mind eagerly formed wedding plans for right after graduation. The man I married would just have to love this beautiful baby as much as I did.

The door opened a crack. My supervisor hissed, “Miss White! Have you completed all of your work and finished charting?”

“Almost Miss Stickleby.”

“It’s nearly time to go off duty. Put the baby down now. Check on your other patients, and then go help Miss Nelson. I believe she had an extra patient today.” The door closed before I could answer. Suzie Nelson did not have an extra patient. I did. Suzie was assigned as Jimmy’s nurse, but I asked to have him added to my patient load. I want the extra time with him since I’d be on vacation the next three days.

Deliberately I dawdled, massaging his thin little legs, playing peek-a-boo with his yellow ducky blanket, urging gurgly giggles between his raspy breaths. He was more responsive and playful than I’d seen him before, and his grasp was stronger. A good sign of improving condition.

A loud tap rattled the ward window. Stickleby.

Quickly, I gave Jimmy his favorite squeaky bear and an extra farewell backrub. As his eyelids closed over his pansy eyes, I tucked the oxygen tent around his crib and whispered good-bye.

Back at the nurse’s station, Miss Stickleby glared as I signed off Jimmy’s chart. Who was she anyway? I wondered. We students couldn’t fault her as a teacher and supervisor. She saw to it that we were all as conscientious in our duties as she was. But although the hospital policy encouraged staff and students to hold, play with, read and talk to all the children in our care, we never saw her cooing over a baby or reading to a toddler. By the end of the shift, our pink student uniforms were always rumpled and damp. Miss Stickleby’s looked as starched and clean as at the start of the day. Unlike my netted unruly locks, no wisps of auburn hair escaped from under her square pillbox nurse cap. She was such a proper, capable nurse. Why did she hide her heart?

I waved good-bye to Jimmy’s room as I hurried off duty, excited to have a holiday of mountain fun. But at the same time, I was eager to return to my bright-eyed, nearly recovered Jimmy.

While on vacation, I bought several silly, washable toys for “my little guy.” He had only the disposable ones given by the local children’s societies. Before he went back to the orphanage, everything would be burned, of course, to prevent cross-contamination.

Holiday over, I rushed back to work and eagerly peeked through Jimmy’s window on my way to the ward station. His crib was clean and empty.

“Where did you move Jimmy?” I asked the night nurse.

“Oh, he died Saturday night. Didn’t you know?” Such a casual answer.

My body turned to clabbered milk. I fell into the chair, crushing the toy bag.

“I’m sorry, Joy. He was a special little kid.” She released a long, exhausted sigh. “Saturday was a bad night.”

Beyond consolation, I stumbled into the nurse’s lounge where I could release a great wash of tears.

“Miss White!” It was Stickleby’s clipped, stern voice. “Time for report. Dry your eyes and get on duty. Now, please.”

All of the emotion I felt for Jimmy poured out like boiling oil over this cold, unfeeling woman.

“How can you be so uncaring?” I yelled. “It’s bad enough that Jimmy’s beautiful little life is snuffed out, but he didn’t even have a mama to comfort him or to care that he died. And you? Do you care about him or any other little life? No! just ‘Miss White, go to work. Pretend everything is the same.’ Well, it isn’t the same. I care! I loved that little boy!”

Tears spattered down the front of my uniform.

A handkerchief dropped onto my wet lap. I felt a soft touch on my shoulder. Miss Stickleby at my side, teardrops softening her stiff uniform.

“Miss White – Joy,” her voice was a husky whisper. “There are far too many Jimmys in our profession. They can wreck our hearts if we let them. You and I are jelly hearts. We will always be searching for ways to cope. One thing I know for sure is that we must give equal attention to each child. To single out one child can destroy us and can limit our ability to be an effective nurse.”

She blotted her face. “It may give you comfort to know that Jimmy did not die alone. Death took him softly from my arms.”

We sat together for a brief time, the seasoned jelly-hearted teacher and the green jelly-hearted student, crying.

Then we put on our fresh nurse faces and went out to love and care for all the little children in our charges.

Joyce Mueller

BOARDER BABY

A sweet new blossom of humanity, fresh-fallen from God's own home, to flower on earth.

I was working as a pharmacist at the hospital in 1969 when Billy was born with Down's syndrome. His unwed mother intended all along to put the baby up for adoption. When she was told that the child had been born with "problems", she didn't even want to see him. She left the hospital during the night, abandoning the baby.

The law stated that in such cases Children's Services must be contacted. If no immediate placement was available, the baby would be transferred to a municipal hospital to wait for foster care of adoption. Armed with this information, the nurses from the maternity floor and nursery went to the director of nursing.

"Why can't we keep Billy here until he can be placed?"

The director said, "You know he can't stay here. It's against the rules of the Board of Health. We're not certified to have a boarder baby. We simply can't keep him here; there is nothing I can do about it."

"You know he won't be placed easily," they persisted. "It's hard enough to place a baby with no problems, much less a baby like Billy. Please, don't call Children's Services yet. Speak to the administrator first, or better still, let him come up and see the baby. Tell him we will take care of Billy and all the expenses. Just let us keep him up in maternity."

By this time, every employee of the hospital had seen Billy and was aware of the situation. And everybody had fallen in love with him. The administrator, a very religious man, was sympathetic to the please of the nursing staff and soon acquiesced.

The problem now was where to keep Billy. He couldn't stay in the nursery because he might subject the other newborns to germs. He couldn't be housed in the pediatric ward because the sick children would expose billy to their infections. It was decided he would stay on the maternity floor.

One of the three isolation nurseries was commandeered as Billy's private quarters. Through the viewing window Billy could see out, and visitors and nursing staff could see in. Initially he had only a crib, but the employees bought him clothes, a playpen, high chair, toys, a stroller and anything else he needed. The entire hospital staff became his family, constantly showering Billy with affection and attention during breaks, lunchtimes and days off. They took turns taking him outside for walks.

All the maternity and nursery staff mothered him, but no one more than Miss N, who, although she was an excellent nurse, had never shown any maternal instincts. In fact she was the prototype of a tough army sergeant. Actually, she'd been a captain when she served as an army nurse. Billy's face lit up whenever she approached him. Her coworkers had never seen Miss N even smile before so they were astounded to see her cooing and cuddling Billy. He truly melted her heart, and she cared for him zealously. She adored billy and desperately wanted to adopt him. Unfortunately, during the sixties, unmarried women were not considered good candidates as adoptive mothers. Knowing it was hopeless, Miss N didn't even try. But Mrs. B, one of the newborn nurses who loved him specially, applied to adopt him.

Meanwhile, Billy was a happy, gurgling boy thriving as a boarder baby in this nurturing, albeit conspitarotial environment. Every member on the staff was in on the secret. No one even mentioned Billy's name outside the hospital corridors.

One day, the Board of Health came to do an impromptu routine inspection of the hospital. Word of the inspectors' arrival traveled quickly to the maternity ward. The administrator led the inspection team to the opposite end of the facility where each department head delayed the inspectors as much as possible. Billy was spirited away from the maternity ward and taken to the apartment of one of the nurses across the street. Nurses and other staff members emptied his room, moved the furniture to the basement, covered his window with examining-table paper and locked the door.

The inspector arrived on maternity and inquired about that room. The head nurse explained it was one of the isolation nurseries being remodeled. The hospital passed the inspection, the inspectors left, the room was refurbished, and Billy returned to his home.

When Billy was fifteen months old, Mrs. B's application for adoption was somehow expedited and approved. We were all overjoyed when Billy became a sibling of her loving brood. Miss N shared a greater joy when she became his godmother.

Staff members sent gifts and had parties for Billy on his birthdays and holidays. Mrs. B and Miss N kept us informed of Billy's progress with pictures and stories.

And brought him often to visit his family in his "first" home.

FRESH SAMPLE

Laughter is the closest thing to the grace of God.

It began as a typical working day. As a registered nurse, I traveled to clients' homes to complete paramedical health assessments for an insurance company.

As I entered this lady's near, attractive home, I smelled the delicious aroma of pies baking. "Umm, sure smells good in here," I commented.

"I just put a couple of lemon meringue pies in the oven. They're my husband's favorite," my client volunteered.

Returning to the purpose of my visit, we completed the questionnaire quickly. The last section involved collecting a urine sample.

"I collected it earlier and saved it in the refrigerator," she said. "I'll get it for you."

As I emptied the sample into the collection tubes, I noticed the unusual thickness of it. When I tested it with a dip stick, I was shocked at the extremely high protein content.

"Are you sure this is your urine sample?" I questioned. "This almost resembles egg whites."

"Yes, I distinctly remember placing it in the refrigerator in the bottom right-hand corner. Oh! Oh, no!" She wailed. "I've made a terrible mistake. Don't use that. I'll get you a fresh sample."

Not wishing to further embarass the lady, I asked no more questions. But as I opened the door to leave her home, I heard her removing pies from the oven and the grinding sound of the garbage disposal.

No lemon meringue pie that night!

A Matter of Believing

There is something in the nature of things which the mind of man, which reason, which human power cannot effect, and certainly that which produces this must be better than man. What can this be but God.

The school bell rang loud and clear at the elementary school. Amidst much shouting and laughing, the children raced out the door for summer vacation. Johnny raced through the crowd to his bike, hopped on and headed home.

From nowhere, a car careened into him, knocking him off the bike and into the street, unconscious. The paramedics arrived and rushed him to the hospital, where doctors whispered behind closed doors and shook their heads solemnly. They had little hope the ten-year-old boy would make it.

News of the accident spread quickly. Teachers, friends, and relatives came to the hospital to see their beloved Johnny and to pray and wait. He was conscious, but couldn’t walk or talk. Johnny’s mom stayed by his side day and night, praying and holding his little hand.

Slowly, he began to recover, trying to form words and even sitting up in bed. A nurse named Julie came by often to check on him and give him candy. But the doctors still doubted he would ever walk again.

Late one evening, Nurse Julie stopped in Johnny’s room. She found him struggling to get out of bed. She rushed to help him, and soon Johnny’s feet were on the floor. Julie looked him square in the eyes and said, “It’s time for you to walk.”

He took one step and stumbled. Julie reassured him: “Have faith, I’m here to help you. Believe you can do it, and you will.” A few more steps led to a few more steps, and Johnny was walking. It was a miracle!

Johnny was standing by the window when his doctor cam in. “How did you get over to the window?” he asked.

“Nurse Julie helped me”, Johnny answered.

The doctor looked puzzled. “Who helped you?”

“Julie. She said all I had to do was believe, and I would walk again.”

The doctor walked out of the room, mystified. There was no nurse named Julie. A thought crossed his mind. He shook it off. “No, I don’t believe in angels.” And he continued down the hall.

But it still puzzled him. He finally asked Johnny what the nurse looked like. From this description, he talked to the nurses, and learned that a nurse named Julie did work there – twenty-five years ago. After a bad accident she, also, was told she would never walk again. A few hours later, Julie died of heart failure.

The doctor talked with Johnny’s parents, explaining the history of Nurse Julie. Johnny’s mother smiled and said matter-of-factly, “Well, if God sent one of his angels, that’s fine with me.”

I met him at a charity bike-a-thon. After sharing his story with me, his face beamed. “Today, I’m flying high because an angel of God touched me.” I watched him ride, his muscles straining with the effort and his T-shirt blowing in the wind. He was on a bike again and truly flying high.

Jack

After working many years in a large metropolitan hospital, with state-of-the-art conveniences, my work as P.M. charge nurse in a small, local convalescent hospital yielded many frustrations. Occasionally, we lacked supplies or equipment, and sometimes the food was less than desirable. The biggest problem was the lack of qualified help. Still, everyone working there genuinely loved the patients and did their best to care for them.
Alice, a tiny, alert, elderly lady with bright blue, twinkling eyes was everyone's favorite. Her only living relative was her son Jack, a large, tough man. Tattoos covered his arms and a scraggly beard grew haphazardly on his chin. No matter how cold the weather was, he always wore a tank-top shirt so the dragon and snake artwork could be admired by all. He wore faded jeans, so stiff with grime, they could have stood alone. His loud and gruff manner terrified most of the staff.
But this monstrous man loved his tiny mother. Every day, he roared up to the hospital entrance on his old motorcycle, flung open the front door and tromped down the hall to her room, his clacking boot heels loudly announcing his arrival. He visited at unpredictable hours so he could surprise anyone he suspected of not taking proper care of his mother. Yet, his gentleness with her amazed me.
I made friends with Jack, figuring I'd rather be a friend with a man like him, than an enemy. And I, like everyone else, truly loved his mother.
One particularly bad evening, three aides called in sick, the food carts were late and cold, and one of the patients fell and broke his hip. Jack came in at suppertime to help his mother with her meal. He stood gawking at me in the nurses' station as I busily tried to do the work of three nurses. Overwhelmed and near tears, I avoided his stare.
After the patients were finally fed, bathed and put to bed, I sat at the desk and put my head down on my arms for a few moments' relaxation before the night shift arrived. Suddenly, the front door burst open. Startled, I thought, Oh, no! Here comes Jack, checking up on us again! As he stomped to the desk, I looked up to see his burly hand gripping a pickle jar with a bit of colored yard tied in a bow around the neck. And in the jar was the loveliest, long-stemmed red rose I'd ever seen. Jack handed it to me and said, "I noticed what a bad time you were having tonight. This is for you, from me and my mother."
With that, he turned around, marched back out the door, and with a roar from his motorcycle, rode out into the darkness.
I've received many gifts and cards from many grateful patients and their families, but never one that touched me more than the red rose in the pickle jar given to me that night so long ago.

What Day is Today?

Sid taught the staff and patients alike that there's room for life and laughter in a hospice. This wonderful man tried hard to cope with a paralysis that left him highly dependent on his family and the nurses. Through this irritated him immensely, he was a born actor with a wonderful sense of theater. Sid knew exactly how to act out of his sense of injustice in the face of his terminal illness. Often he played to the gallery -- in this case, the three other patients who shared the same room. His roommates tolerated Sid, although "here-he-goes-again" was a much-used refrain.
But Sid was also very religious. One morning, I was giving out the medication in his room when he hoisted himself onto his elbows, looked soulfully acrodd the room and muttered weakly (but loud enough for all to hear), "What day is it today?"
I answered truthfully, "Palm Sunday."
Staring up at the ceiling, Sid blurted dramatically, "Then today is a good day to de." With this he fell back on the bed in such a dramatic fashion, I wondered if he would actually do it then and there! But a few seconds later, he popped opened his eyes, looked at me and sighed.
Later that same week, when I was back in Sid's room, he decided to give a repeat performance. Lifting himself onto his elbows again, he asked, "What day is it today?"
Again telling the truth, I said, "It's Good Friday."
Again without looking up from his book, his roommate muttered loudly, "I hope to God he doesn't die today -- he might rise again on Sunday!"

All in a Day's Work

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

Emily Dickinson

Emergency-room personnel transported him to the cardiac floor. Long hair, unshaven, dirty, dangerously obese, and a black motorcycle jacket tossed on the bottom shelf of the stretcher -- na outsider to this sterile world of shining terrazzo floors, efficient uniformed professionals and stric infection-control procedures.

Definitely an untouchable!

The nurses at the station looked wide-eyed as this mound of humanity was wheeled by-- each glancing nervously at my friend Bonnie, the head nurse. "Let this one not be mine to admit, bathe and tend to . . ." was the pleading, unspoken message from their inner concern.

One of the true marks of a leader, a consummate professional, is to do the unthinkable. To touch the untouchable. To tackle the impossible. Yes, it was Bonnie who was, "I want this patient myself." Highly unusual for a head nurse -- unconventional -- but "the stuff" out of which human spirits thrive, heal and soar. As she donned her latex gloves and proceeded to bathe this huge, filthy man, her heart almost broke. Where was his family? Who was his mother? What was he like as a little boy?

She hummed quietly as she worked to ease the fear and embarrassment she knew he must hav been feeling. And then on a whim she said, "We don't have time for back rubs much in hospitals these days, but I bet one would really feel good. And, it would help you relax your muscles and start to heal. That is what this place is all about -- a place to heal."

All in a day's work. Touching the untouchable.

His thick, scaly, ruddy skin told a story of an abusive lifestyle. Probably lots of addictive behavior, to food, alcohol, and drugs. As Bonnie rubbed the taut muscles, she hummed and prayed. Prayed for the soul of a little boy grown up, rejected by life's rudeness and striving for acceptance in a hard, hostile world.

The finale -- warmed lotion and baby powder. Almost laughable -- such a contras on this huge, rugged surface. As he rolled over onto his back, tears rolled down his cheek. With amazingly beautiful brown eyes, he smile and said in a quivering voice, "No one has touched me for years." His chin trembled. "Thank you. I am healing."

In a day when we have increasing concern about the appropriateness of touch, Bonnie taught this hurting world to still dare to touch the untouchable through eye contact, a warm handshark, a concerned voice -- or the physical reassurance of warmed lotion and baby powder.