Monday, November 29, 2010

...and now, dinner and a movie.

Patient had been on the unit for a long time at this point; he had so many comorbidities and wounds, he had a snowball's chance of leaving his room, ever. EVER. He was trach vented. Hadn't spoken in months. Anytime I offered him a communication board, he would only spell out "BUTT HURTS" with the block letter alphabet offered in the left-hand margin. I could put my fist through one of his pressure ulcers. It was heartbreaking. There were other, tough, strong nurses that wouldn't even go in his room anymore.

I liked Patient; he had enough fight in him to get this far, but there were signs that he was giving up. He was glazed full-time; his eyes only grew less glassy when I warned him that I had to change his wound dressings (this was an excruciating process for him). He would still nod "yes" or shake "no" to questions asked of him, but finally he even gave up the "BUTT HURTS" pronouncements. Nothing we were doing for, or to, him was going to fix the pain or the source problem, and he knew it.

On this particular Sunday evening, I really tried to make the dressing change as minimally...horrible, I guess...as possible. I pushed loads of narcs, which were were woefully ineffective. Lots of pillows and propping up to make him more comfortable; whatever, dude. I unpacked the wound, and quietly explained to Patient everything I was doing while I was doing it. It really only took me a few minutes, but it was painfully obvious, as I repositioned him and looked in his eyes, that time had just stretched in unholy ways for him. I was not so much a nurse at this point as this shift's appointed tormentor.

It was nearly the end of the shift, so I was tidying up the room----a habit I picked up after inheriting chaotic rooms and disheveled patients from other nurses. I placed the TV speaker next to Patient, so he could hear it well enough. I glanced at him in a bid to silently say, "I'm not ignoring you even though I haven't looked in your direction in 10 minutes". His eyes were riveted to the TV screen.

The Color Purple was playing.

Two of the characters were getting cozy with each other. They were both women.

I have somehow managed to never see Purple. It was clear that Patient hadn't, either. Neither of us saw this coming. Forgive me, but come on, it was Whoopi Goldberg. She's one of the very last people I associate sex with.

"Hey, Patient...have you seen this before?"
He shook his head no, slowly.
"I haven't either. So you didn't know this happened in the movie? This was a pretty bold move for an '80's flick."
He shushed me, eyes never leaving the scene before him. Shushed me! Then waved me over to his bedside so we could watch the rest of the scene together. Or, at least, so I'd quit distracting him with all the hovering around his room.

And we watched, together. We were united by chicks making out.
And for a brief moment, all was forgiven.

1 comment:

  1. It's probably hard to believe how much this poor sod loves you now. The one thing I remember from my little stay in the hole was Pam. One day she came into my room, Loaded me and all the crap attached to me into a wheel chair and gave me a ride around the ward. A 2 minute ride cost her about an hour of work and could have gotten her in trouble. She didn't ask anyone for permission. She just did it. I think that had as much to do with my coming back to life as everything else combined. This is where you make a difference. You remind him he's human. Not just a test tube.

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