Story time! With mood music. [emoji5]ï¸
[video=youtube_share;A3yCcXgbKrE]
I count myself blessed to have been raised largely in part by my grandparents. My grandfather, a newly-minted 80-year old, conservative, successful man, taught me there is pride in self-sufficiency, and honor in good qualities such as honesty and humility. You earned what you have, and you certainly never asked for help, as that would admit weakness, or even worse, failure.
Society has changed a lot in the U.S. as we've adopted new ideas of what weakness and honor should mean. I don't think the ideas of Grandpa's values are obsolete, though my own values have evolved as society has. In fact, as much as I'm able, I still stick to those things that I know he placed in this heart of mine. I also think having the experience of being raised by his generation (as opposed to my mom's, which in the strictest of technical terms, is actually my own, if we go by years born) has helped me communicate and advocate for the patients of his demographic (whom I quietly refer to in my mind as "Men of a Certain Age") a little better than I would otherwise.
We have a frequent flyer on my unit. He is also a Man of a Certain Age (let's call him MOCA, or Moca). I first met him shortly after I was licensed. By then, he'd already experienced an event that severely impaired his ability to communicate. He was extremely frustrated with this, as anyone would be, but he was making it work.
The next time we met, not a huge amount of time later, Moca had had an emergent, but not overly complicated surgical procedure that included getting a prosthetic. Recovery was short, life resumed.
Until, it didn't. Moca started getting sick. Just sick. That's it. Fevers. Really high fevers. Multiple admissions. Decline in overall condition. Nervous system responses to the high fevers. Tremors, altered mental status, failure to thrive, profound weakness. He was just so sick, over and over, but no answers pointing at what was causing it.
The toll this took on Moca emotionally was profound. He'd deteriorated to a point that communication was impossible, and he needed someone to feed him. On one of my last shifts with him, I saw we were sending Moca a clear liquid diet. Clear liquids for a man with debilitating tremors. I watched this man's pride and dignity leave him. He traded health for a bedpan, full meals for broth spilled down the front of him.
I fought hard for him to be advanced to finger foods. I saw Moca brighten up. It wasn't a massive brightening up, but it was successful. The Man of a Certain Age, who was robbed of all independence by his brain and body, could do this ONE THING for himself.
So, Moca sunk into a deep despair. He let go completely. He gave up. The sadness in his eyes, as he cried over something so simple as putting the broth in a cup with a lid instead, stayed in my mind and my heart. I'd never seen such sadness, such defeat.
On the last admission, Moca had imaging that might be the key to it all - some vegetation was spotted on his prosthetic. Finally! A year of this back and fourth, a year of his life, a year of the loss of things that give Men of a Certain Age their spark. Gone.
The last time I saw him, he was on an EMS stretcher to get the infection removed surgically. He said to me, "I know I'm going to die on the table." He didn't say it with fear. He said it with despair because he actually, 100% believed it. Getting on that stretcher, in his mind, EMS might as well have been hitching a ride to his funeral. All pride gone. All honor lost. Just a man robbed of the things that he'd taken for granted. His eyes showed the depth of loss and humiliation he felt.
I've waited. He'd been there enough that if he died, I know it would have been talked about. There was no word. Months passed.
As I wrapped up my charting my last shift, I heard him. His speech pattern is unmistakable given the injury he had affecting his speech. After I wrapped up the last details of charting, I went to see him.
When he saw me, his eyes welled up. I hugged him fiercely, and like a couple of old fools, we sobbed happy tears as he told me how recent months have been. Never in my life had I seen despair run so deeply, and here he was, back again, but BETTER. Not only did he look better, but his speech improved exponentially, and all other assaults that had been suffered by his nervous system was reversed. GONE! He's better! He's LIVING his life!
This week, I learned that a nurse can cry happy tears on the ride home from work. What a beautiful joy! I'd go through months of horrible shifts just to experience that joy again! Victory!
I remembered why I became a nurse.
It's rare we get to know the end of the story. But this time, I got to. [emoji173]ï¸
I love being a nurse!
You guys learn anything good?
