Read Chicken Soup for the Nurse's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
After the patients were finally fed, bathed and put to bed, I sat at the desk and put my head down on my arms for a few moments’ relaxation before the night shift arrived. Suddenly, the front door burst open. Startled, I thought,
Oh, no! Here comes Jack, checking up on us again!
As he stomped to the desk, I looked up to see his burly hand gripping a pickle jar with a bit of colored yarn tied in a bow around the neck. And in the jar was the loveliest, long-stemmed red rose I’d ever seen. Jack handed it to me and said, “I noticed what a bad time you were having tonight. This is for you, from me and my mother.”
With that, he turned around, marched back out the door, and with a roar from his motorcycle, rode out into the darkness.
I’ve received many gifts and cards from many grateful patients and their families, but never one that touched me more than the red rose in the pickle jar given to me that night so long ago.
Kathryn Kimzey Judkins
T
here is no fear in love, but perfect love casts
out fear.
John 4:18
“Please drink,” De Lewis coaxed, holding an eyedropper of water to the tiny infant’s parched lips. The four-month-old Haitian baby was badly dehydrated and malnourished. She also had pneumonia and a raging stomach virus.
Cuddling the listless infant in her arms, De remembered a seven-year-old girl from North Carolina who once told her mom and dad, “When I grow up, I want to go to a poor country and help care for sick children.” Well, here she was in Haiti, where the conditions were ten times worse than she ever dreamed possible. What De never once dreamed, however, was that her very first day in Haiti she would fall hopelessly, helplessly, head-over-heels in love with a sick baby girl named Olivia.
After her divorce in 1994, De had moved to Anchorage, Alaska, where there was a call for her skills as a pediatric physical therapist. She joined a local church, and in September of 1995, De left her patients in a colleague’s able care and volunteered for three months of mission work in a Haitian orphanage.
De cried when she reached Port-au-Prince and saw thousands of hungry Haitians teeming in the streets, smoldering piles of garbage everywhere and not a tree in sight. The walled orphanage seemed like a tranquil oasis.
Still, there was never enough food or money to buy medicines for the dozens of sick children who lived there.
Olivia was to be the very first Haitian infant De held in her arms.
“A bread vendor found her abandoned in the street only hours after she was born,” the orphanage director explained. “She’s very sick. We’ve done all we can with our limited resources.”
De couldn’t put Olivia down. The moment their eyes locked she’d felt an inexplicable bond with this tiny baby who was so weak she could hardly move her head.
Over the next several days, De pitched right in and helped change diapers and administer medicines to the orphanage children. But whenever she had a spare moment, she always hurried to Olivia’s side. De carried the infant to see the doctor every morning, and every night she slept holding Olivia in her arms. “Why, of all these sick children, do I love this baby so much?” she wondered, but De knew it was a question only God could answer.
De’s itinerary called for her to spend just a few days in Port-au-Prince before moving on to another orphanage in the remote Haitian countryside. Because of Olivia she delayed her departure for several weeks, and then one night she told the orphanage director, “I’m not going at all unless I can take Olivia with me.”
Tears spilled down the director’s cheeks. “You really love that baby, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” De replied.
At the smaller, remote orphanage, De used an old towel to make a sling and carried Olivia snuggled against her chest wherever she went. On those rare occasions when she did put her down, even for a moment, Olivia flailed her arms and cried until De picked her up again. “You’re getting so strong and healthy,” De marveled when she heard Olivia’s lusty cries.
When the other children called her “Olivia’s Mama,” De began dreaming of adopting Olivia and taking her home to Alaska. She tried to initiate adoption proceedings, but was thwarted at every turn. Rocking Olivia in her arms, she lamented, “Maybe it’s not meant to be.”
De extended her stay in Haiti until the beginning of February to be with Olivia, but finally she knew it was time to return to the many sick children in Alaska who also needed her care. Before she left, she carried Olivia back to the main orphanage in Port-au-Prince and implored newly-arriving missionaries, “Please take special care of Olivia, and show her to anyone who comes looking for a sweet baby to adopt. If I can’t adopt her, I want more than anything for her to find a loving home.”
De sat up the whole night before she left, cuddling Olivia. “Will I ever see you again?” she wondered. “Please God, keep this precious child healthy and safe.”
Back in Anchorage, De ran up huge phone bills calling the orphanage every other day to ask about Olivia. “She’s doing wonderfully,” reported the orphanage workers who all knew how much De worried about Olivia.
Then, one morning at 4:00 A.M., De awoke shouting, “Olivia!”
Somehow she knew she had to call right away.
It was four hours later in Haiti. The woman who answered the phone was a stranger to De. When De asked about Olivia the woman said, “Oh, that poor baby is so sad. Ever since her American mama left, she just cries and cries.”
“I’m Olivia’s mama!” she sobbed into the phone. “Tell my baby I’m coming back for her. Tell her if they won’t let me adopt her, I’ll move to Haiti to live.”
De called the adoption agency only to receive more devastating news. A family from British Columbia had already expressed interest in adopting Olivia.
De felt torn in two. More than anything she wanted to adopt Olivia herself. “But what if that isn’t what God intended?” she asked her own mother over the phone. “What if God only meant for me to take good care of Olivia until the family she was meant to be with could find her?”
De prayed for a sign from God, and that Sunday she got one.
It was Mother’s Day, and during the service the pastor presented heart pins to all of the congregation’s moms. Then he walked straight to De and handed her a pin, too. “This is for Olivia’s mother,” he announced.
De burst into tears. She knew exactly what she had to do.
Soon she was back in Port-au-Prince. At the orphanage, all of the children gathered around cheering, “Mama Olivia! Olivia’s mother is here!”
Inside, De barely recognized little Olivia. She had nearly stopped eating, and her hair had turned red from lack of protein.
De sobbed over the tiny crib. “Olivia, it’s me—your mama.” Slowly, Olivia opened her brown eyes. And then she smiled.
De lifted Olivia into her arms and hugged her. “First, I’m going to get you well again,” she vowed. “Then I’m going to take you home with me to Alaska.”
This time the red tape practically cut itself. Olivia’s adoption was quickly approved, and in less than six weeks De was back in Alaska with her brand-new daughter.
Today, Olivia is a happy, healthy little girl who loves hiking and camping with her mom in the scenic Alaskan wilderness. In their cozy home, she carries her toys and picture books to De and snuggles in her arms while her mama reads to her. Wherever De goes, Olivia is sure to be close behind. Her wide brown eyes follow De’s every movement as if to say, “I lost you once. I’m never going to lose you again.”
It’s a sentiment her mama shares with all her heart.
Heather Black
T
here is something in the nature of things
which the mind of man, which reason, which
human power cannot effect, and certainly that
which produces this must be better than man.
What can this be but God.
Cicero
The school bell rang loud and clear at the elementary school. Amidst much shouting and laughing, the children raced out the door for summer vacation. Johnny raced through the crowd to his bike, hopped on and headed home.
From nowhere, a car careened into him, knocking him off the bike and into the street, unconscious. The paramedics arrived and rushed him to the hospital, where doctors whispered behind closed doors and shook their heads solemnly. They had little hope the ten-year-old boy would make it.
News of the accident spread quickly. Teachers, friends and relatives came to the hospital to see their beloved Johnny and to pray and wait. He was conscious, but couldn’t walk or talk. Johnny’s mom stayed by his side day and night, praying and holding his little hand.
Slowly, he began to recover, trying to form words and even sitting up in bed. A nurse named Julie came by often to check on him and give him candy. But the doctors still doubted he would ever walk again.
Late one evening, Nurse Julie stopped in Johnny’s room. She found him struggling to get out of bed. She rushed to help him, and soon Johnny’s feet were on the floor. Julie looked him square in the eyes and said, “It’s time for you to walk.”
He took one step and stumbled. Julie reassured him: “Have faith, I’m here to help you. Believe you can do it, and you will.” A few more steps led to a few more steps, and Johnny was walking. It was a miracle!
Johnny was standing by the window when his doctor came in. “How did you get over to the window?” he asked.
“Nurse Julie helped me,” Johnny answered.
The doctor looked puzzled. “Who helped you?”
“Julie. She said all I had to do was believe, and I would walk again.”
The doctor walked out of the room, mystified. There was no nurse named Julie. A thought crossed his mind. He shook 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
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. . . . ”