Chicken Soup for the Nurse's Soul Read Free Page A

be when they grow up. The six-year-old started the conversation. “I want to be a nurse and help people,” she declared.
    After the four children had shared their dreams, I looked at the mom. She smiled and said, “I just want my family to be safe, warm and content—just like they are right now.”
    The “party” lasted most of the shift, before we were able to locate a shelter that would take the family in on Christmas Day. The mother had asked that their charts be pulled, so these patients were not seen that day in the emergency department. But they were treated.
    As they walked to the door to leave, the four-year-old came running back, gave me a hug and whispered, “Thanks for being our angels today.” As she ran back to join her family, they all waved one more time before the door closed. I turned around slowly to get back to work, a little embarrassed for the tears in my eyes. There stood a group of my coworkers, one with a box of tissues, which she passed around to each nurse who worked a Christmas Day she will never forget.
    Victoria Schlintz
     

Reprinted by permission of Benita Epstein.

Proud to Be a Nurse
     
H ow wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.
Anne Frank
     
    I just saw another television show where the nurse was portrayed as an overly sexed bimbo. It’s obvious the image of the nursing profession still needs some good public relations. Once in a while, we have an unexpected opportunity to educate the public to what nursing is all about.
    My chance came on a warm Saturday morning when I had a coveted weekend off from my job in a long-term care facility. My husband and I headed for the Cubs ballpark via the train. Just as the train arrived at the final station, the conductor curtly shouted for all the passengers to immediately leave the car. He hustled us toward the door. On the way, I glimpsed some people huddled around a man lying limply in his seat.
    The conductor talked excitedly into his walkie-talkie. I heard fragments of “emergency” and “ambulance.” Surprising myself, I approached him and said, “I’m a nurse. Could I be of any help?”
    “I don’t need a nurse,” he rudely snapped back, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “I need a medic!”
    His public put-down to nurses was a punch in the stomach. I was incensed. My adrenaline kicked in, and I abruptly elbowed my way through the crowd, past the insulting conductor and back on the train.
    Three men were standing like statues staring at a young man crumpled over in the seat. His face was the color of a ripe plum. Fortunately, the ABCs of cardiopulmonary resuscitation clicked into my brain. The man was obviously obstructing his own airway. I was relieved to find a pulse.
    “He had a seizure,” one man offered.
    “Help me sit him up,” I instructed the bystanders, as I loosened his collar and tie. We hoisted him to an upright position, and I quickly did a jaw thrust and tilted his head to the side. Mucous and blood oozed out. With a wadded tissue from my pocket I cleared more thick mucous from his mouth and throat. A thump on the shoulder caused him to take in a big breath of air. Within seconds, his color changed to pink and his eyes opened. His tongue was bruised and cut from biting it, but he was breathing well.
    I heard the ambulance siren in the background.
    Shaking now, I returned to my husband, praying the man didn’t have AIDS and searching for something to wipe my sticky hands on.
    “Hey, you did a good job,” one of the men who had been a bystander called to me.
    “Thanks,” I replied with a pleased smile, as I stared directly at the conductor who still clutched his walkie-talkie and looked surprised. He stammered, “I guess a nurse is what I needed after all.”
    Triumphantly, I marched off, hoping at least one person had a new insight into the capabilities of the nursing profession. Because, at that moment, I was especially proud to be a nurse.
    Barbara