Mildred's Brand New Littman Stethescope

Ruby Vee, BSN

When i was in high school, I was always running into oldsters who would say "Ruby Vee? you're George's daughter, aren't you? I went to high school with your great grandfather and I remember him telling about the time he . . . .

My grandfather was more often the subject of great stories -- he was a professional wrestler back in the days when the "carnies" toured the midwest and one of the attractions was "the masked marvel." Granddad and his pals took turns being the masked marvel while the rest of the gang would stand in the crowd and pretend to be a local farmer who dared to challenge the masked marvel to a wrestling match . . . the masked marvel always won. Granddad's wrestling days were the subject of many a good story -- as were the tales of his lack of prowess with just about anything to do with running the family farm.

Dad inherited granddad Willy's story telling abilities and grandma's love of a good, elaborate practical joke. Some of dad's jokes involved spray painting farm animals (purple cows, anyone?), public embarrassment, prodigious amounts of water, oil or superglue and great timing. My mother couldn't tell a story or pull off a practical joke, but she could certainly enjoy them, and now that she has Alzheimer's she can enjoy a good story several times in an hour! Even I have been known to tell a story or two, but my sister was somehow born utterly lacking a sense of humor. There's an uncle on my mother's side with the same tragic lack -- it must be a recessive gene.

Mother's memory is tricky these days -- it comes in fits and starts. Events of yesterday are lost in the fog, and even events of thirty or forty years ago come and go. So when I talk to her, I never know exactly what she's going to remember and what she isn't. Last night, mom surprised me by remembering the night my sister told the story about the brand new Littman stethescope she'd bought for her stint as a travel nurse in the ER of a small, community hospital in the midwest.

It was Mildred's first night on the job in the ER, and she was sure she was going to be the best nurse any of the hillbillies in that small town had ever seen. (lack of self confidence has never been one of my sister's failings.) Early on in the evening, the police brought in a patient who, according to Mildred, was high on corn likker. "He was bucking and thrashing and spitting and carrying on," she said. "But I needed to do an assessment." And so she leaned close to the wildman with her brand new Littman stethescope around her heck. "And suddenly the patient grabbed my brand new stethescope and he bit off the bell," she wailed.

The police, the ER physician and the other nurse were all terrified that the patient was going to choke or something, but Mildred's only concern was her brand new stethescope. "The police were trying to get him to spit it out, and I thought it would work because he'd been spitting at all of us since he got there," she said. "But he up and swallowed it." Mother and I, listening to this story were beginning to tremble just a bit from the strain of holding in our laughter. Mildred, oblivious, went on to tell us about how the doc tried to retrieve the object through endoscopy, but wasn't able to. Quite possibly, she heard the little snort that escaped as I was trying my best to keep a straight face, because she turned to me and snapped, "that was a lot of money, you know. Those Littmans are expensive."

The endoscopy didn't work, so there was much discussion. Would it be better to dose the patient with mineral oil or go-lytely and hope the bell would pass on through? Try to make him vomit it up? Evidently the patient decided the matter by developing pretty severe abdominal pain -- or maybe the doc and the other nurse just wanted to knock him out. He went to surgery to have the bell of the brand new stethescope surgically removed. Mildred called the or several times during the surgery to make sure that the stethescope wasn't discarded, since maybe she could have it reattached. It was a brand new stethescope and it was hideously expensive.

Mother and I were both squirming mightily, and I know that a few snickers escaped from mom. And then Mildred told us that "after the surgery, the surgeon brought me my stethescope. The OR nurses had it all wrapped up like a present!" That was really nice of them." I thought they were probably so sick of hearing about the brand new Littman stethescope that they were making a bit of a statement. At the idea of that doc presenting my sister with a wrapped stethescope head he'd retrieved from the stomach of a drunken farmer, I couldn't take it anymore. I escaped to the bathroom so I could laugh my fanny off. Mother joined me as soon as she could get away. As we stood in the bathroom stuffing the guest towels into our mouths to stifle our laughter, I could hear Mildred starting the story all over again for the benefit of my husband, who hadn't heard it yet.

That was about thirty years ago, and I still laugh until I cry when I think about my sister telling that story, totally indignant that her patient whom she was trying to help would bite the head off her stethescope. Before mother's memory started to go, one of us would bring up that story and we'd both laugh until we were incontinent. We once embarrassed my father so badly he left us sitting in a restaurant laughing while he went out and sat in the car, pretending he didn't know us. (that took a lot of laughing!) Mildred still hasn't seen the humor in the situation. She's still angry about the time she told that story in front of me and I got the giggles so bad my beverage flew out my nose and sprayed the cousin next to me. (i apologized, saying i couldn't help it -- I'd had too much of the beet wine to be able to behave properly.)

Last night, mother remembered that story and, as usual just the words "Mildred's stethescope" were enough to send both of us into paroxsyms of laughter. we were both rolling around, holding our sides with tears streaming down our faces when Mildred showed up. "What's so funny?", she asked. Alzheimer's hasn't impaired my mother's sense of social or maternal responsibility. "Oh," she said, "I laughed at the wrong time. My memory isn't worth a hoot these days, you know." Neither of us could stop giggling long enough to even make up a good story, so Mildred went off in disgust, shaking her head. She probably thinks I have dementia now, too.

Meanwhile, the glow from that laughing jag has kept my mother on top of the world for the past 24 hours, even though she no longer remembers what we were laughing about. I remember. And maybe, someday down the road she'll remember again. Or maybe she'll remember the morning dad shot all my chickens. Or that purple cow. And we'll laugh until we can't speak, and just looking at each other will send us off once again.

Poor Mildred has no idea what she's missing!

Mildred's Brand New Littman Stethescope

About Ruby Vee, BSN

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