I love nursing.
No, I am not one of those who finds self-worth through the notion of "helping others." It's actually the opposite, as I get helped by those I nurse whether they know it or not. Their vitality, their spirit, their dedication to living, replenish my otherwise colorless inner world.
So often people tell me, "Oncology! That must be so depressing!"
Only if they knew... I know what depressing is.
My work is anything but; fighting for one's life, enduring the agony of brutal therapy with an unwavering hope, or the solemn moment of coming to terms with one's mortality... That's not depressing. It's uplifting.
So I listen to them, lapping up whatever pieces of wisdom they offer, and the world seems a little brighter when I step out of the hospital.
But enough with the meandering introduction.
I actually want to tell you a story of an elderly gentleman whom I had the pleasure of taking care of for a few nights. We knew he was a Holocaust survivor from reading his history. He was also one of those "pleasantly confused" patients, inducing smiles on everyone who came in contact with him. If you asked how he was doing, he would flash the brightest grin you have ever seen and declared with arms spread,
"Simply wonderful! Everyone's so kind here! Thank you, thank you!"
If you gently reminded him to finish the apple sauce suspended in his hands forgotten, he would raise his eyebrows in surprise,
"Oh, I can eat this? How kind of you. Hmm mm... it's delightful!"
On this particular night, I found myself squeezed inside the cramped bathroom holding his shoulder so that he will not tip forward while he sat on the toilet. I stood there, my idle hand rubbing his back, wishing his grunting effort will produce result soon. Suddenly, he looked up at me and asked,
"Do you know what this means?"
I looked down and saw the old tattoo on his arm - the mark of an unspeakable horror of the past. I nodded yes, feeling my heart thump at this sudden start of a conversation. He contemplated his arm for a bit longer, and with an unusual lucidity, he began his story:
"You know, life is a very precious thing. I do not take anything for granted, and I am so happy and appreciative for all the things I have. You know, I would not be here if it weren't for my mother. She taught me everything.
I was just a boy when we were sent to the camp. It was horrible. Horrible. Do you know what a commandant is? I would never forget this commandant. He would put on his fancy, shiny uniform. He had two guns... one on each side. He would walk down the rows of prisoners..., and shoot as he walked... I was so scared of him.
After we were liberated, I was there at his trial. I still remember what he said. He said,
'Yes, I killed them. But I do not regret it.'
Can you believe it? That's what he said. Oh, I was so angry... What did I know? I was only a boy. But my mother told me not to hate. My mother... she was an amazing woman. My brothers died in the camp. We lost everything. And yet, my mother taught me that there is no use hating.
You know what she did? She would always have candies with her when she went out and give them out to German children. I asked her why. She said,
'Because children are innocent.'
Can you believe it? A woman who lost her own children! She had so much love, and she taught me how to live.
You know, life is so short. It is too short and precious to waste on hating. Be happy! Life is full of beautiful things if you look."
Disclaimer: Just wanted to mention, there were more to his story but I am omitting all the possible descriptions that could potentially identify him. So it is impossible to convey the degree of outrage and awe that I felt at the time.
