Read Chicken Soup for the Nurse's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
As I went from child to child, my nursing skills came to the fore, and I knew what had to be done. No sooner had I finished with one child than another would need my attention. The hours blurred into a constant round of nursing each baby. I started recognizing the individuality of each one, and soon could identify them as the unique little people they were.
Finally, I looked up to see Elaine smiling and watching me, looking refreshed and rested. “You’re a natural,” she told me.
“I have my mission.”
At last I had found the “definite service” for which I had been created. I returned to the United States only long enough to retrieve my children and husband and never returned to America to live again. The work in Vietnam in 1973 was the beginning of my lifetime commitment to children in Vietnam and India. I eventually opened my own organization—International Mission of Hope.
Cherie Clark
[EDITORS’ NOTE:
Cherie Clark was instrumental in implementing
Operation Babylift to help rescue three thousand orphans
from Vietnam in 1975. From there she journeyed to India where
she worked with Mother Teresa. She returned to Vietnam in 1988
where she continues to minister to needy children today.
]
Y
ou must give some time to your fellow men.
Even if it’s a little thing, do something for
others—something for which you get no pay
but the privilege of doing it.
Albert Schweitzer
My husband worked as an orderly at a nursing home in a nearby town. There were two ways patients left his fullcare unit: by going to the hospital or dying. Most had no visitors so my husband tried to fill that void with a friendly word or smile for each of the people on his floor.
Easter was approaching. My husband felt sad that there would be little to designate the holiday for his patients and wondered what we could do to help. He had been out of work some time before finding this job, and we were struggling financially. Still, what could we do to make Easter a little more pleasant for the patients? What could we give them?
I looked around our apartment with plants in every sunny window. “Let’s give a plant to every patient,” I suggested.
We bought Styrofoam cups and filled each with some stones on the bottom, potting soil and a plant cutting. When we were done we had thirty potted plants, and I still had windows filled with greenery.
After church on Easter, we took our toddler and headed for the nursing home. One of the nurses found us a utility cart and we wheeled the box of plants around, stopping in each room, greeting each patient by name. Our son, dressed up in his Easter clothes, handed out the plants. Out of respect, he called each resident Grandpa or Grandma, though he knew they weren’t his grandparents. They all smiled while we spent a few minutes talking with each of them and wishing them a Happy Easter. Some of them might not have usually celebrated Easter, but we felt our visit transcended religion. Our little boy enjoyed the pats on his head and kisses on the cheek. It was the best Easter we’d ever spent.
Later that week there was a nursing strike. The floor was manned by a skeleton crew and per diem nurses. My husband and the other orderlies were pressed into service to help. It was near the end of his shift and he was exhausted, when one of the substitute nurses hurried out of a room. “Mr. Peterson is dying,” he overheard her tell the head nurse. There wasn’t much they could do for the old man other than make him comfortable. After the nurse gave him the medication, she returned to her station. On a normal day one of the nurses or certified nurses’ aides would sit with a dying patient and offer whatever comfort was needed. This day there was no one extra to perform this humane service.
“I’ll stay with Mr. Peterson,” my husband offered.
“Your shift’s over, and we can’t pay overtime,” the head nurse said.
“I’ll stay. No problem,” my husband said again.
It was a long time before he could tell me the rest of the story. He sat down next to Mr. Peterson. The plant we’d given him at Easter bloomed next to him on the nightstand. He recognized my husband. “I’m dying, son,” he said in a low voice.
My husband fought back tears. “I’ll stay with you awhile.”
The old man asked, “Pray with me?”
My husband had no idea what religion Mr. Peterson practiced, but he took the man’s gnarled hands in his and prayed with him for God’s grace. He stayed with him for hours, talking and praying until the man slipped away with a smile on his face.
“I felt the spirit of the Lord in that room,” he told me. “I know Mr. Peterson is with God.”
My husband wasn’t a trained nurse, but surely that afternoon he had the heart of a nurse.
Beatrice Sheftel
D
o all things with love.
Og Mandino
It was Christmastime in 1979, and I lay recovering from “female surgery” in a hospital in Virginia. To make matters worse I got stuck with a wacky nurse. And she was mean as a viper. Her short, chubby body waltzed into my room each morning, waking me and shouting, “Time to get up, Missy! Get up and get outta that bed before you catch pneumonia. You’ve got to move about, or else!”
I didn’t like her much, and I let it be known. Besides, it was plain she didn’t like me. She frequently quipped, “I’m just doing my job, and I intend to do it by the book, Missy. By the book.”
Outside the snowfall piled higher and higher and half of the nursing staff was unable to get to work. But of course Nurse Puss ’n Boots made it. I called her that because she came in every afternoon with her white boots on, covered with snow and stomped around in them all day. I could see her from my window trotting through the white flakes every day at 2:30 on the dot.
What was it about this particular nurse that intrigued me so?
I wondered.
I was sure she didn’t have a life outside the hospital. She was domineering and mean and always eager to start her shift, as if it was so wonderful to be stuck in a hospital with sick people every evening. Sullenly I asked God,
Must Christmas come this year? And must I spend it with this
gruff nurse?
Christmas Eve came and I was devastated that my husband and baby boy were stranded at home, an hour from the hospital. There was no way they could drive through the snow-packed interstate. I lay in my bed in a deep state of melancholy imagining how little “Bradley Boy” would look when he opened his train.
To make matters worse, Puss ’n Boots came marching in and noticed my sadness. “Well, Missy. You’ll just have to do better than this. You’ll have to take what comes,” she insisted. I made a face at her when she turned and walked out the door. I could hear her at the nurse’s station. “That’s right—by the book, always by the book.” I groaned and covered my head with my pillow.
At seven o’clock sharp, I heard Christmas carolers in the hallway, singing “O Holy Night.” I smiled in spite of myself and walked to open my door. Shocked, I stammered, “I’m dreaming! Ol’ Puss ’n Boots put something in my ginger ale.”
“Nope. No dream,” my husband beamed. “Thanks to your nurse, I’m staying in the hotel one block away.” Nurse Puss ’n Boots had arranged for her husband to drive his Jeep to our town the day before and pick up my husband. Not only did she bring him to me, but she paid for his hotel room for a few days, until I could be discharged. I stood gazing at the mean nurse, now turned heroine. She even smiled at me, as I stood with my jaw dropped open in marvel.
I learned this extraordinary nurse and her wealthy husband did generous deeds for many people. She didn’t even have to work, but chose to fulfill her life with nursing. My husband adored her. “She’s tough, like my old drill sergeant,” he said. “We need more nurses like her.”
Today, as a nurse, I trot through snow in the hospital parking lot wearing white boots in honor of my favorite nurse. I called her hospital to inquire about Puss ’n Boots and to tell her how she had inspired me. They said she had passed away in her sleep at home—her generous heart stopped beating.
If I know Nurse Puss ’n Boots, she’s standing at the gates of heaven right beside St. Peter with her ink pen and chart. She’s grabbing each lost soul who tries to slip through the cracks, saying, “By the book, Missy! By the book!”
J. C. Pinkerton
T
he future destiny of a child is always the
work of the mother.
Napoleon Bonaparte
Northern Oklahoma College invites you to
attend their Nurse’s Pinning Ceremony
Friday, May 7, 1999.
I was the first member of our family to graduate from college and I had waited for this moment all my life. As we assembled in the auditorium, I joked with my family and friends that I was finally graduating. My two-year degree took me ten years to complete while I raised a family and worked as an L.P.N.
The final weeks of school had been so busy and life so hectic, I could hardly believe this moment was actually here. In my new dress and shoes, I didn’t look too bad next to all those younger nurses. Then my best friend Dru came with the news—Ronnie may not make it on time. How could my husband, who had supported me so faithfully all these years, be stuck at work and miss this?
My mom had been my first choice to pin me, because she had always been there for me on this journey. But she declined, saying my husband and sons should share in this moment—a moment already bittersweet. My son Jesse was in the Navy, stationed in Chicago, and couldn’t attend. Now, with Ronnie stuck at work, my mom and son Clint would have to do the honors. The script had been written for my pinning weeks before, and now it would be changed—again.
My nursing buddies knew my disappointment, as I had spoken often of missing my Navy boy, especially with this being Mother’s Day weekend. As my turn approached to cross the podium, I looked around the auditorium to catch a glimpse of my husband, but to no avail. I did see Dru poised to capture the moment on film, but I couldn’t hear my script, only my name when I caught the line . . . “will be pinned by her husband and two sons.”
There in front of me, coming my way, was my handsome husband, son Clint, and Jesse, fresh off a plane in Navy attire, with smiles so broad and a hearty “Surprise!”
My whole class and all the instructors cheered wildly as the pin I had worked so hard for was lovingly placed.
Dawn Koehn
M
usic is the universal language of mankind.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I took care of Sam on med-surg for about nine months during his frequent admissions for end-stage liver disease. Sam, a World War II veteran with a caring wife and family, had slipped into a coma for nine days and was not expected to recover. On a slow Sunday afternoon, Sam’s family had left for the day. When I went to check on him fifteen minutes later, I knew by his breathing he was about to pass on. I walked into the hall looking for other staff members, since we were all quite close to Sam and his family. Just outside the door stood Father Charlie, the Catholic priest who made rounds every weekend. I asked him to give Sam last rites. He checked the chart outside the door and informed me in a kind way that he could not, because Sam was not Catholic. He offered to come in and say a prayer, though.
Entering the room he said, “Oh, I know this man. We’re both veterans and have had many discussions.” He took Sam’s hand. “Do you mind if I sing a song?”
I was so surprised at this request but, of course, said, “No, go right ahead.”
Father Charlie started to sing, “Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory of the Coming of the Lord.”
To my astonishment, Sam, who had been in a deep coma all these days, had tears streaming from both eyes. As Father Charlie sang the words, “Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!” Sam took his last breath.
Jacqueline C. Hadeland