Nurses and Patients..... and Patience
Buddy #2's surgery was finally scheduled. He went in trepidaciously but willing nonetheless. I knew he was nervous because the child never shut up! As we pulled in the parking lot, I muttered a quick prayer for each nurse who would encounter my little chatterbox.
We entered the registration area and the nurse asked the routine questons. I had the routine answers prepared but my little guy had answers of his own!
"Any allergies?" She asked.
He said without hesitation, "Yep! Ranch dressing."
"None known," I mouthed from behind him shaking my head.
"Father's name?" She continued unruffled.
"You should know him! He just had knee surgery TWICE!" He spouted.
While we waited for the paperwork to print out she asked for his right arm to attach the bracelet, he offered his left. Then we were sent to the next area to sit and wait. I had just managed to busy him with a book to calm his mind when my cell phone rang. My eldest was calling to inform me that an argument had broken out over the music she and the rest of her siblings were supposed to be practicing. Just as I was about to give my "mom speech" about getting along the nurse called us into the prep room and I hung up on my exasperated child. As she took his vitals and asked me more questions, my phone vibrated angrily. The 13 year-old and the 11 year-old were calling simultaniously from different phones to plead their case. Thankfully, Buddy #2 had the nurse engaged in conversation about how healthy his teeth were and the fact that he had gas that I was able to tap out a quick text. In my meek and mild nature I wrote, "STOP CALLING ME! I'M TALKING TO THE NURSE!"
I think my darling understood the "all caps" message because she texted back, "Yes, mom. We stopped fighting. Everything is good."
After many failed attempts to communicate with the nurse about the Buddy's personal information because of his incessant interrupting, I asked, in (what I thought was) a playful way, if the ENT would mind taking out his overactive tongue while she was in there. The nurse thought my question was exponentially less funny than I did.
She handed us off the to next nurse who offered my son his hospital gown. It was pink. He was not happy.
"I don't do pink." He stated matter-of-factly, "I'm a blue person."
She explained that only pink was his size and he reluctantly agreed to put it on but was incensed at the idea that I would be accompanying him in the dressing room. I assured him I would give him his privacy while he disrobed and just help doing up the ties. After he had changed he looked down at his new outfit and exclaimed, "Not only is it pink, it's a dress!!!"
Like every other compassionate and loving mother I gently patted his hand, led him to the nearest chair, and ignored his outburst.
We didn't wait long when we were summond to meet with the surgeon. The exam room we were seated in was noticably colder than the 'patient corral' we were in previously. The nice nurse offered my trembling, chattering, lightly dressed buddy a heated blanket which he refused. After the nurse left I questioned his refusal, "Why on earth wouldn't you accept a warm blanket? You're freezing!"
"It's simple, Mom. Heat-seeking missles can't find you when you're cold."
I have learned that, with my boys, somethings you just don't question. Asking for clarification is like opening pandora's box. I let it go.
Our wonderful ENT met us in the room to personally escort Buddy #2 to the OR but just outside the door my son stopped dead in his tracks. When she noticed he wasn't following she turned around and looked quizzically at him. He said, "The yellow line...it says 'Authorized Personnel Only'. I'm not authorized." The nurse dubbed him authorized and he let her lead the way.
It seemed minutes later I was called to the recovery area. When I went back to the ward my friend (who happens to be the day surgery charge nurse) met me with a hug. "He's the cutest thing." She greeted. As I rounded the corner, I saw three other recovering children, their parents sitting quietly at their bedsides, and my son. He was sitting up in bed surrounded by a few nurses and an orderly with a popscicle in one hand and a hockey puck in the other regaling his audience with stories of his hockey season which ended with an award for best defenceman.
They laughed with him for a few more minutes then excused themselves to return to work. When we were alone I asked how it went.
"Well, they tried to make me a deal. The doctor wanted me to hold the mask on my face. I said no thank you. I didn't want to take any deals. But they held me down and put the mask on me anyway. It was MUTINY! I screamed."
"You screamed?!" I asked getting a bit frazzled.
"Yeah, 'GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!'"
"But you promised me you'd be good!"
"I WAS good...just as soon as I fell asleep."
I saw no way to argue with that....let it go. His new nurse came by to check his vitals and ask if he needed anything. He responded by saying, "Yes, I would like a popscicle and this IV out of my hand now please." She explained that it had to stay in until he was discharged incase he needed medicine.
"Oh, I won't be needing any medicine," he assured her. "I'm a Christian! My Lord is helping me."
I agreed but gently reminded him that tylenol and gravol are pretty helpful too. But all he was interested in were those free popscicles he was promised. After the next three times the nurses passed, asked how he was doing, and were met with the same, "Great, except for this IV in my hand!" response, they stopped asking.
Three hours, 17 popscicles, a tearful phone call to his twin whom he was missing terribly, and a new friend named Noah later he was ready to go home. The very patient nurse came over to tell him he was being sprung. She asked him is he liked Cars stickers. "Oh, I like Cars! But I'm more of a toy man....got any Cars toys?" I held my breath and questioned my parenting as I listened to the exchange. She chuckled and told him he'd have to settle for stickers. Then asked him if he would like a popscicle to take home. He thought for a moment.... "No, what I would really like are my clothes and some privacy please."
He got his clothes, his privacy, and a popscicle to boot.
At least he said "Thank you."
We entered the registration area and the nurse asked the routine questons. I had the routine answers prepared but my little guy had answers of his own!
"Any allergies?" She asked.
He said without hesitation, "Yep! Ranch dressing."
"None known," I mouthed from behind him shaking my head.
"Father's name?" She continued unruffled.
"You should know him! He just had knee surgery TWICE!" He spouted.
While we waited for the paperwork to print out she asked for his right arm to attach the bracelet, he offered his left. Then we were sent to the next area to sit and wait. I had just managed to busy him with a book to calm his mind when my cell phone rang. My eldest was calling to inform me that an argument had broken out over the music she and the rest of her siblings were supposed to be practicing. Just as I was about to give my "mom speech" about getting along the nurse called us into the prep room and I hung up on my exasperated child. As she took his vitals and asked me more questions, my phone vibrated angrily. The 13 year-old and the 11 year-old were calling simultaniously from different phones to plead their case. Thankfully, Buddy #2 had the nurse engaged in conversation about how healthy his teeth were and the fact that he had gas that I was able to tap out a quick text. In my meek and mild nature I wrote, "STOP CALLING ME! I'M TALKING TO THE NURSE!"
I think my darling understood the "all caps" message because she texted back, "Yes, mom. We stopped fighting. Everything is good."
After many failed attempts to communicate with the nurse about the Buddy's personal information because of his incessant interrupting, I asked, in (what I thought was) a playful way, if the ENT would mind taking out his overactive tongue while she was in there. The nurse thought my question was exponentially less funny than I did.
She handed us off the to next nurse who offered my son his hospital gown. It was pink. He was not happy.
"I don't do pink." He stated matter-of-factly, "I'm a blue person."
She explained that only pink was his size and he reluctantly agreed to put it on but was incensed at the idea that I would be accompanying him in the dressing room. I assured him I would give him his privacy while he disrobed and just help doing up the ties. After he had changed he looked down at his new outfit and exclaimed, "Not only is it pink, it's a dress!!!"
Like every other compassionate and loving mother I gently patted his hand, led him to the nearest chair, and ignored his outburst.
We didn't wait long when we were summond to meet with the surgeon. The exam room we were seated in was noticably colder than the 'patient corral' we were in previously. The nice nurse offered my trembling, chattering, lightly dressed buddy a heated blanket which he refused. After the nurse left I questioned his refusal, "Why on earth wouldn't you accept a warm blanket? You're freezing!"
"It's simple, Mom. Heat-seeking missles can't find you when you're cold."
I have learned that, with my boys, somethings you just don't question. Asking for clarification is like opening pandora's box. I let it go.
Our wonderful ENT met us in the room to personally escort Buddy #2 to the OR but just outside the door my son stopped dead in his tracks. When she noticed he wasn't following she turned around and looked quizzically at him. He said, "The yellow line...it says 'Authorized Personnel Only'. I'm not authorized." The nurse dubbed him authorized and he let her lead the way.
It seemed minutes later I was called to the recovery area. When I went back to the ward my friend (who happens to be the day surgery charge nurse) met me with a hug. "He's the cutest thing." She greeted. As I rounded the corner, I saw three other recovering children, their parents sitting quietly at their bedsides, and my son. He was sitting up in bed surrounded by a few nurses and an orderly with a popscicle in one hand and a hockey puck in the other regaling his audience with stories of his hockey season which ended with an award for best defenceman.
They laughed with him for a few more minutes then excused themselves to return to work. When we were alone I asked how it went.
"Well, they tried to make me a deal. The doctor wanted me to hold the mask on my face. I said no thank you. I didn't want to take any deals. But they held me down and put the mask on me anyway. It was MUTINY! I screamed."
"You screamed?!" I asked getting a bit frazzled.
"Yeah, 'GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!'"
"But you promised me you'd be good!"
"I WAS good...just as soon as I fell asleep."
I saw no way to argue with that....let it go. His new nurse came by to check his vitals and ask if he needed anything. He responded by saying, "Yes, I would like a popscicle and this IV out of my hand now please." She explained that it had to stay in until he was discharged incase he needed medicine.
"Oh, I won't be needing any medicine," he assured her. "I'm a Christian! My Lord is helping me."
I agreed but gently reminded him that tylenol and gravol are pretty helpful too. But all he was interested in were those free popscicles he was promised. After the next three times the nurses passed, asked how he was doing, and were met with the same, "Great, except for this IV in my hand!" response, they stopped asking.
Three hours, 17 popscicles, a tearful phone call to his twin whom he was missing terribly, and a new friend named Noah later he was ready to go home. The very patient nurse came over to tell him he was being sprung. She asked him is he liked Cars stickers. "Oh, I like Cars! But I'm more of a toy man....got any Cars toys?" I held my breath and questioned my parenting as I listened to the exchange. She chuckled and told him he'd have to settle for stickers. Then asked him if he would like a popscicle to take home. He thought for a moment.... "No, what I would really like are my clothes and some privacy please."
He got his clothes, his privacy, and a popscicle to boot.
At least he said "Thank you."
Comments