Chicken Soup for the Nurse's Soul Read Online Free PDF

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 faced 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.
    Scot Thurman
     

Wake Up!
     
N ext to a good soul-stirring prayer is a good laugh.
Samuel Mutchmore
     
    Of Midwestern blood, I was schooled as a registered nurse in Fargo, North Dakota. Three years into my working career, my husband and I packed our few belongings and moved south to Fort Worth, Texas.
    My initial job was in a Post-Anesthesia Surgical Care Unit. It was an exciting change from my neuro-orthopedic experience, and my clinical skills adapted smoothly. Despite this blanket of comfort, there existed a neoteric aspect of patient care that Fargo had not prepared me for.
    Fort Worth was largely populated by persons of Hispanic descent. Fargo was not. In Fargo, the Norwegian dialect asks, “How ya doin’?” Whereas, in Fort Worth you hear, “Como esta?” And, the days of “Uf da” were now but a dear sweet memory. Soon, my fingertips scrambled through the pages of the Spanish-English dictionary close at hand in my locker. Fortunately, many of my nursing colleagues were already armored with conversational Spanish—at least enough to manage a patient through the recovery-room process. I was assured that I, too, would soon gain such competency.
    One afternoon, Mr. Mendoza was wheeled into recovery, still lightly anesthetized. I was given the report: “Fifty-one-year-old Hispanic male, married wife out in the waiting area, non-English speaking . . . right inguinal hernia . . . general anesthesia . . . extubated without difficulty. . . . ”
    I engaged myself in the care of my new patient, dressing Mr. Mendoza in the standard patient attire of EKG, blood pressure and oxygen monitors. His physical assessments were normal: vital signs checked out normal sinus rhythm; blood pressure stable; respirations nonlabored; breath sounds clear; oxygen saturation at 99 percent; good capillary refill in all four extremities; abdomen soft, with bowel sounds present; surgical dressing was clean and dry.
    But his neurological status remained in question: “Mr. Mendoza, Mr. Mendoza.” Not a stir. Not a flinch of a response to my voice or to touch.
    His wife came in to see him. Mr. Mendoza didn’t respond to her either. I continued closely monitoring my sleeping patient, charting, “clinically stable, assessment unchanged . . . remains nonresponsive to voice or touch at this time. . . .” Definitely, it was not prudent to chart, “Responds like a brick wall.” I continued to engage every effort to waken him.
    “Mr. Mendoza, Mr. Mendoza,” I called over and over again. Soon I had an uncomfortable sense of an audience.
    The other half-dozen or so semi-conscious patients and their nurses were clearly annoyed with the echo of my persistent badgering.
    Yet, I was determined to get any elicited response—a groan, a hand squeeze, a bat of an eye. Art, my trusted and bilingual colleague, finally came to my aid. He suggested I ask Mr. Mendoza to “wake up” in Spanish. I nodded my head as Art repeated the Spanish phrase I was to repeat to my patient. Art assured me it would elicit a response.
    Trusting my rescuer, I didn’t question Art for the