surrogate motherhood
Just to clear the air, I'm not talking about surrogacy relating to sheep or conception or anything genetic like that. I'm referring to the elbow grease, the encouragement, the patience, and the subsequent tie that comes with a long-term nurse-patient relationship. Okay, long-term may be stretching it. I've only had this patient for 3 weeks. I'm just anticipating that this guy will be here for a while.
I'm trying to be vague here. I think the only information that's necessary to the story is that this guy is very weak, quite sick, goes to various tests/procedures about every day, and that his nursing care team is trying very hard to get him stronger. And I'm going to call him Guy.
For the past 2 weeks, I have created a goal board for Guy, with little check boxes. I tell Guy that I'm going to gather up the posse to help him sit, bathe, turn, and move his arms and legs. Most of the time I can get him to reluctantly agree that all this activity is to help him get better. Other times, he just rolls his eyes at me in exasperation at my determination. I told him that I'm probably getting the same workout when I exercise his arms and legs. When we finish something on the goal board, I write in the time, and sometimes stick up smiley faces or exclamation points if he was able to push himself a little further. When he was able to stand, with lots of support, for a minute, I drew a picture and told him he did an excellent job.
Sometimes we can't get as much done because he goes down for various medical procedures. One day as I was getting ready to send him down in a special wheelchair, he told me to put a sheet over his sexy legs, because he didn't want to shock people. I love the times when he shows his sense of humor. When he's done with the procedure, sometimes I go to pick him up and take him back to his room. I feel like I'm picking him up from school. I ask him how the procedure was, and he tells me it was boring.
Most of the entertainment he gets is watching TV. On days when he doesn't have too many procedures, I get the posse to help him into his special wheelchair, and we take him outside, or to look at some of the aquariums. He loves the fish, and we'll watch them swim around for as long as he's comfortable in the chair. When his wife comes to visit, he likes to just sit with her and talk and watch movies. He told me that he really misses her. I can tell. He is a lot happier when she's in the room.
When his doctors asked to transfer him to a different floor, he declined to go. I think he likes us.
He is hard work. I come home exhausted. I've cried in frustration. I get behind in charting, in meetings, in my own breaks. I snap at other people more. It's like doing all the care typical in infancy on an adult who is at least my own weight and well over my own height.
I have a rewarding job. Not despite all the hard work, but because of it. I go home certain that I have made a significant difference, not because we have made significant progress, but because we have put in significant work.
I'm trying to be vague here. I think the only information that's necessary to the story is that this guy is very weak, quite sick, goes to various tests/procedures about every day, and that his nursing care team is trying very hard to get him stronger. And I'm going to call him Guy.
For the past 2 weeks, I have created a goal board for Guy, with little check boxes. I tell Guy that I'm going to gather up the posse to help him sit, bathe, turn, and move his arms and legs. Most of the time I can get him to reluctantly agree that all this activity is to help him get better. Other times, he just rolls his eyes at me in exasperation at my determination. I told him that I'm probably getting the same workout when I exercise his arms and legs. When we finish something on the goal board, I write in the time, and sometimes stick up smiley faces or exclamation points if he was able to push himself a little further. When he was able to stand, with lots of support, for a minute, I drew a picture and told him he did an excellent job.
Sometimes we can't get as much done because he goes down for various medical procedures. One day as I was getting ready to send him down in a special wheelchair, he told me to put a sheet over his sexy legs, because he didn't want to shock people. I love the times when he shows his sense of humor. When he's done with the procedure, sometimes I go to pick him up and take him back to his room. I feel like I'm picking him up from school. I ask him how the procedure was, and he tells me it was boring.
Most of the entertainment he gets is watching TV. On days when he doesn't have too many procedures, I get the posse to help him into his special wheelchair, and we take him outside, or to look at some of the aquariums. He loves the fish, and we'll watch them swim around for as long as he's comfortable in the chair. When his wife comes to visit, he likes to just sit with her and talk and watch movies. He told me that he really misses her. I can tell. He is a lot happier when she's in the room.
When his doctors asked to transfer him to a different floor, he declined to go. I think he likes us.
He is hard work. I come home exhausted. I've cried in frustration. I get behind in charting, in meetings, in my own breaks. I snap at other people more. It's like doing all the care typical in infancy on an adult who is at least my own weight and well over my own height.
I have a rewarding job. Not despite all the hard work, but because of it. I go home certain that I have made a significant difference, not because we have made significant progress, but because we have put in significant work.
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