rounds on my patients, started a couple of intravenous lines for my coworker, and was just outside Room 825 when I
decided to peek in. The only thing I recognized in the room was the hospital bed. The room was totally transformed with potted plants, beautiful floral arrangements, balloons, a refrigerator, a coffee maker, and a microwave. The outdated television on the wall had been replaced with a smart TV. My phone
rang. I jumped like a kid who had been caught doing something wrong. From the caller ID, I realized it was Jenn.
"Kyra speaking," I answered.
"Is your patient out of recovery?"
"Haven't heard anything yet. Did you find out anything else?"
"No, but I guess you will. I did not have him for too long."
"Was he admitted?"
"No."
"Jenn, I am in the room and it looks like a hotel suite. They replaced the television. There is a refrigerator that is already stocked, a microwave, coffee maker, flowers and potted plants. I feel like I'm in a
flower shop!"
There was a click on my phone. Another call was coming in. I looked at the phone and the call was from the recovery room.
"Jenn, I'll talk to you later. Recovery is calling.
Hello, Kyra speaking," I answered.
"Kyra, baby." It was Carlos, my favorite recovery room nurse. "Who is getting the patient going into 825?"
"That would be me, Carlos."
"Can I bring him up?"
"Sure, the rooms are ready."
"He's pretty good. He's fully recovered, his pain is controlled, and his family's here with him."
"Bring him up, Carlos."
"See you in ten, love."
Family, I thought. Except for a few, they constantly fussed over the patient, and posed endless and ridiculous questions like so: "Can
we do this? Can we do that? I think he's in pain. Give him something for pain. Call the doctor. Call the doctor again. The doctor needs to come and see him. When is the doctor coming...?" And all this was over a patient who could
express his own feelings and was doing just fine. Now add that to some super rich, spoilt guy who was used to having things his way. I had taken care of doctors and doctors' families, and I knew how difficult they could be.
I emerged from the office. Someone had dimmed the lights, enhancing the soothing, calming environment. Our surgical-trauma unit was recently remodeled from the sterile décor to a more homey décor to give our patients a better healing environment: cherry hardwood floors, pastel colored
wall paint, comforting scenic and floral artwork with relaxing colors of blue, green and yellow denoting life, warmth, and hope. The nursing unit was the envy of all units with large windows overlooking the city, and cherry cabinets
matching the hardwood floor with a large starburst floor medallion - a beautiful focal point. No wonder our patients thought they were in a five star hotel and treated us like maids.
Our usual busy unit was quiet tonight. No call lights going
off excessively, or noisy patients. At the end of the hall were Carlos and the transporter, maneuvering the bed into the room. There were about ten people standing in the hallway talking quietly. As I approached, I noticed how
well-dressed they all were. I smiled my award-winning smile, the one that constantly got me compliments, and introduced myself.
"Hi everyone, my name is Kyra and I'll be Mr. Stone's nurse. I'm also the charge nurse. Please give us a few minutes to get him all
settled." I gestured toward Room 826.
"My name is Cattleya. I'm Mark's mother." She rested her well-manicured, diamond studded hand on my arm, her face filled with
fear. She was so beautiful: an older woman, with dark brown hair and warm, beautiful, hazel eyes. "Please let us know as soon as we can see him."
"I will."
I entered 825, where Carlos had Mr. Stone all set up. His
leg was elevated on pillows and he had an external fixator on his left leg. The bones in his leg were held in place with pins and screws that were attached to several metal rings placed around the leg.
"Hi, Kyra," Carlos said as he
decided to peek in. The only thing I recognized in the room was the hospital bed. The room was totally transformed with potted plants, beautiful floral arrangements, balloons, a refrigerator, a coffee maker, and a microwave. The outdated television on the wall had been replaced with a smart TV. My phone
rang. I jumped like a kid who had been caught doing something wrong. From the caller ID, I realized it was Jenn.
"Kyra speaking," I answered.
"Is your patient out of recovery?"
"Haven't heard anything yet. Did you find out anything else?"
"No, but I guess you will. I did not have him for too long."
"Was he admitted?"
"No."
"Jenn, I am in the room and it looks like a hotel suite. They replaced the television. There is a refrigerator that is already stocked, a microwave, coffee maker, flowers and potted plants. I feel like I'm in a
flower shop!"
There was a click on my phone. Another call was coming in. I looked at the phone and the call was from the recovery room.
"Jenn, I'll talk to you later. Recovery is calling.
Hello, Kyra speaking," I answered.
"Kyra, baby." It was Carlos, my favorite recovery room nurse. "Who is getting the patient going into 825?"
"That would be me, Carlos."
"Can I bring him up?"
"Sure, the rooms are ready."
"He's pretty good. He's fully recovered, his pain is controlled, and his family's here with him."
"Bring him up, Carlos."
"See you in ten, love."
Family, I thought. Except for a few, they constantly fussed over the patient, and posed endless and ridiculous questions like so: "Can
we do this? Can we do that? I think he's in pain. Give him something for pain. Call the doctor. Call the doctor again. The doctor needs to come and see him. When is the doctor coming...?" And all this was over a patient who could
express his own feelings and was doing just fine. Now add that to some super rich, spoilt guy who was used to having things his way. I had taken care of doctors and doctors' families, and I knew how difficult they could be.
I emerged from the office. Someone had dimmed the lights, enhancing the soothing, calming environment. Our surgical-trauma unit was recently remodeled from the sterile décor to a more homey décor to give our patients a better healing environment: cherry hardwood floors, pastel colored
wall paint, comforting scenic and floral artwork with relaxing colors of blue, green and yellow denoting life, warmth, and hope. The nursing unit was the envy of all units with large windows overlooking the city, and cherry cabinets
matching the hardwood floor with a large starburst floor medallion - a beautiful focal point. No wonder our patients thought they were in a five star hotel and treated us like maids.
Our usual busy unit was quiet tonight. No call lights going
off excessively, or noisy patients. At the end of the hall were Carlos and the transporter, maneuvering the bed into the room. There were about ten people standing in the hallway talking quietly. As I approached, I noticed how
well-dressed they all were. I smiled my award-winning smile, the one that constantly got me compliments, and introduced myself.
"Hi everyone, my name is Kyra and I'll be Mr. Stone's nurse. I'm also the charge nurse. Please give us a few minutes to get him all
settled." I gestured toward Room 826.
"My name is Cattleya. I'm Mark's mother." She rested her well-manicured, diamond studded hand on my arm, her face filled with
fear. She was so beautiful: an older woman, with dark brown hair and warm, beautiful, hazel eyes. "Please let us know as soon as we can see him."
"I will."
I entered 825, where Carlos had Mr. Stone all set up. His
leg was elevated on pillows and he had an external fixator on his left leg. The bones in his leg were held in place with pins and screws that were attached to several metal rings placed around the leg.
"Hi, Kyra," Carlos said as he
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