Charlie
by
Lisa D. Doherty
Whenever I step into a patient's room for the first time, I try to take a moment to get a feel for the “vibes” of the patient. I can't say how it is I arrive at any conclusions. Generally the patient hasn't said or done anything in those first few moments. Typically, they have yet to notice me.
On the day I stepped into “Charlie's” room, it was dark, the blinds were shut, the television was not on, and the only sounds were Charlie's raspy, rhythmic breathing and the gentle bubbling of the humidifier on his oxygen.
I saw before me a man who, I can only imagine, was grand in stature as a young man. Now, at 86, he seemed smaller than he actually was. He opened his eyes, turned and looked at me as I approached his bed and introduced myself.
“Hello, I'm Lisa and I'm a CWC nursing student. I'll be taking care of you today.”
He smiled and said hello. I noticed he had very few teeth left and his hair was messy from a restless night. He let me know that he was hard of hearing in his left ear, and I assured him that I would make sure to speak up.
I turned on his light and began my task of assessing him. Actually, I had started assessing him the moment I entered the room, but now I was looking and listening more closely. He watched me with a sort of detachment and resignation. I stopped what I was doing, looked into his eyes and said, “So how are you today?” He shrugged off the question, but I could tell there was something on his mind. I gently pressed, “Is there something I can do for you while I'm here? Something that's a concern to you?”
He began to tell me about what brought him into the hospital in the first place, a bout of gastroenteritis, diarrhea and dehydration. He made a casual reference to living alone. I continued my assessment and tried to draw him out a little more without success. I showed him his call light and said, “I'll be checking on you from time to time, but if you need me, you just press this button and I'll be here.”
He replied, “Oh I don't want to be a bother to anyone.”
I sat on the edge of his bed and laid my hand over his. I gave him a conspiratorial smile and said, “I have a secret. I have only two patients today which leaves me a lot of time to get into trouble, so you just go right ahead and call if you need me. You won't be bothering me a bit.” Again he politely refused my offer. I countered with, “OK, then in that case, I will come and bother you so I can stay out of trouble. You can keep an eye on me.” That's when it happened. He laid his hand on top of mine and we connected.
He began to tell me about spending his life living on the open range herding sheep. He commented that he often didn't have anything but a wagon to sleep in, but there was something wistful about his voice. Then he said, “You know, I used to wear a uniform.”
I said, “Oh, were you in the military? I come from Air Force people. What branch were you in?”
“I was in the Army. I was in the ROTC and spent about a year after that serving.” Something came over his face, a shadow of sadness is the best way to describe it. “You know they threw me out after about a year because they found out I was partially deaf in my left ear. I hid it from them all that time, but when they found out, they threw me out. All I ever wanted to do was wear a uniform.”
I was speechless. Here is a man who has lived an entire lifetime, two of mine! This probably happened some sixty years ago and the sadness on his face was as fresh as the day he was told he would have to go. I couldn't think of what to do, so I just held his hands tighter and said, “That must have been very painful for you. I can see how much it meant to you to wear that uniform.” Again, he shrugged off my comments, trying to convey to me that it didn't matter as much as it obviously did.
I spent the rest of my shift checking on him, chatting now and again, keeping him comfortable, but more than anything I spent my time listening to him. Just listening. His history came out in small phrases and bits of seemingly unconnected thoughts. He painted a picture of a man who lived a life most people would consider hard and unforgiving, but when he spoke there was an undercurrent of pride in his words. Most of the time he maintained an air of indifference. I wasn't sure I was making much of an impression until it was time for me to go.
I found him in much the same position as I had when I first entered this morning. I again touched his hand and told him I had to leave for the day. I thanked him.
He looked confused and said, “What for?”
I said, “Thank you for letting me take care of you and get to know you a little better. I'm so happy we had a chance to meet.”
He took both of my hands in his, smiled and said, “No, thank you.”
Everyday before I start my shift, I say a little prayer. It varies but usually it includes, “Let me be a source of healing today, let me do the best I can, let me, in some way be a positive force in the lives of those I touch today, and please God, don't let me kill anyone.” I believe the day I met Charlie, my prayers were answered, and just maybe, so were Charlie's.
Lisa D. Doherty is a nurse, wife, mother and student of life. Writing and studying the human condition have always been part of her design. She hopes to one day publish a memoir that focuses on her experiences caring for patients.
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