Nursing Shorts: Stories About Being a Nurse by a Nurse

By Vennie Anderson

Stories About Nursing by a Nurse is the subtitle of Nursing Shorts, and a perfect brief description of this fascinating book.

From her first tentative hospital experiences as a volunteer to her final thirteen years of paid employment at a Department of Veterans Affairs Medical Center, Anderson brings us along as she remembers, relives, and writes about her career as a registered nurse.

A sixteen-year-old girl bathes a dead man to prepare him for the funeral home. Student nurses wait apprehensively while police search for a mass murderer. A disabled child is badly beaten and dies with no one held accountable for the beating. A cruel doctor blames his own patient for her stillborn child. A belligerent drunk threatens those who are trying to help him. A desperate, depressed veteran locks himself into a bathroom and commits suicide.

Some stories may shock and surprise you. Some may make you happy, sad or angry. Humor and tragedy exist side by side in these captivating stories.

Compassion, humor, and honesty give the ring of truth and reality to this extraordinary career-based memoir. Of herself and fellow nurses Anderson says, “Nursing isn’t what we do, it’s who we are.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664108905

Book preview

PART ONE

Prelude

MY SUMMER JOB—A NURSE’S

AIDE AT SIXTEEN!

W hen I was a sophomore in high school, I volunteered, along with several of my Girl Scout troop friends, as a candy striper at the local hospital in our small town. We were called candy stripers because our uniforms were red-and-white candy-striped pinafores.

Our jobs included passing out magazines and fresh water to patients, running errands for patients and the nursing staff, and other menial nonnursing tasks. Several of us were already considering nursing as a career.

The sights, sounds, and smells of the hospital bothered a few of the girls, who dropped out of the program after a while. I felt totally comfortable in the hospital, however, and volunteered again the following year when I was a junior.

By that time, I had begun to think seriously about a career in nursing. I knew the hospital hired young people as nurse’s aides and orderlies during the summers to help out when the regular staff took vacations. Toward the end of my junior year, I went to the office of the director of nursing, who was also a family friend.

Mrs. D., I really enjoy working in the hospital, and I’d like to apply for a summer job as an aide.

Oh, my dear, we’d love to have you, she told me. But the job slots are all full. I just hired four girls from SIU’s new nursing program to work for the summer. I’m really sorry.

Two years before, nearby Southern Illinois University, known locally as SIU, had launched its fledgling four-year nursing degree program. The first two years were strictly academic subjects, no clinical experience, so it was no surprise some of the students wanted to get hospital experience before returning to begin their third year in the program.

Of course, I was disappointed no job slots were open, but then I had an idea.

What if I came and worked for free? I’d buy white uniforms and shoes and do whatever the other nurse’s aides do, and you wouldn’t have to pay me. I really want to get some experience, because I think I might want to be a nurse.

Are you sure about that, Vennie Rae? [All my family and my parents’ friends used my middle name.] Do you really want to volunteer to work as an aide without pay?

Yes, ma’am, I really do!

It was settled. The Monday after school ended, I was to report to the charge nurse on the east wing at 7:00 a.m. I used my babysitting money to buy three cheap white uniform dresses, two pairs of white stockings, and a pair of comfortable white nursing oxfords. I was excited, and I couldn’t wait to get started.

The big day came, and I reported for work Monday at 7:00 a.m. I knew all the east-wing day-shift staff from working with them as a candy striper. Because it was a small hospital in a small town, word had spread. They knew I was there as slave labor. Everyone welcomed me. Nurses are always happy to have extra help.

The charge nurse assigned me to work with Lena, an experienced nurse’s aide who had worked at the hospital for a number of years. Lena was friendly and kind and very patient with me as she showed me the ropes.

I soon learned being a nurse’s aide was considerably different from being a candy striper. I was sixteen years old. My only sibling, my brother, was twelve years older and left home when I was five. I had led a somewhat sheltered life, for all practical purposes as an only child. I had never seen a naked adult male, let alone given one a bath!

Fortunately, I was a fast learner, and I got over my initial discomfort pretty quickly. The work was hard, but I loved every minute of it. Lena stayed right beside me every step of the way Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday morning, she told me, Vennie, I think you’re ready to go ahead on your own. If you have any problem or question, just come and find me.

After the morning report, I wrote down my assignment and set about my duties. The day went quickly without any problems. I could hardly wait to get home and tell Mom about my first day on my own.

The following day, Thursday, was the day the four SIU nursing students were to begin their summer jobs. I had no idea why they were scheduled to begin in the middle of the week.

As I recall, all four students were assigned to the Goodrich Wing, named after a former hospital administrator, Bertha Goodrich.

At lunchtime, I went to the cafeteria at my assigned time and sat down near two nurse’s aides I knew from Goodrich Wing.

One of them said to me, Have you heard what happened? The other aide was grinning and giggling.

No, I haven’t heard anything. Tell me!

Well, you know we had four SIU students start this morning.

Yeah, I know. I rolled my eyes. Everybody knew I had wanted one of those summer jobs and was volunteering instead.

Well, one of them just quit! Right before we came down for lunch.

I was dumbfounded. She quit? What happened?

They both were giggling now.

Tell me! I insisted.

She had to empty a bedpan! said one.

A full one! the other chimed in.

And it wasn’t full of pee, if you know what I mean! the first one added.

She couldn’t do it! She threw up in the dirty utility room!

And then she got her purse and went out the side door!

I stood up. I’ve gotta go, guys. I’ve gotta go see Mrs. D.!

Good luck, Vennie!

I literally ran out of the cafeteria and up the stairs to the main floor.

The director of nursing’s office door was open. I stuck my head around the corner. Mrs. D. was seated at her desk.

May I come in, Mrs. D.?

She looked up, smiled at me, and put down her pencil. Of course, Vennie Rae, come on in.

I entered the office and stood in front of her desk. I took a deep breath. Mrs. D., I understand you have an opening for a nurse’s aide.

She grinned and raised her hands as if she were surrendering. I wondered how long it would take before you found out, she said. All right, my dear, you’re hired as of this afternoon. Go down to the front office and fill out a time card. Then go back to East for the rest of today.

I floated on air through the remainder of the day. My first real job! I had been prepared to work gratis all summer, but I was thrilled to know I’d actually be getting a paycheck for my efforts.

I learned an important lesson. Sometimes you have to be willing to take a chance and go the extra mile to get what you want.

OH MY GOD, DID

I KILL HIM?

W orking as a nurse’s aide in my hometown hospital was a watershed event for me. I did a lot of rapid growing up that summer.

When I came home and told Mom about my day, I could see at times she was mildly shocked, but she hid it well. She knew I took the job to see if I really wanted to pursue nursing as a career and to find out if I had what it took to be a nurse. What better way to find out than to work as a nurse’s aide in a hospital?

My boyfriend, Jack, also had a summer job working at a filling station. Mom or Dad took me to work in the mornings. Sometimes Jack would bring me home.

Mom often joked when Jack and I entered the house after work, the combined smell of gasoline and ether was overwhelming. In those days, ether was the primary anesthesia used in hospitals. The extremely distinct odor permeated the entire building and seeped into my clothes and my hair.

One day I was assigned to give an elderly male patient an enema. I had never given an enema or even observed one being given. Somewhat embarrassed, I confessed to the charge nurse I had no idea how to do it.

Oh, it’s easy, she told me. The enema cans are in the clean utility room, along with packets of castile soap and lubricant. Close the tubing clamp and fill the can about three quarters full with warm water. Add a packet of soap and stir it gently. Open the clamp and run some water to get the air out. Put a little lubricant on the nozzle, then put nozzle in—there’s only one place it can go—and open the clamp. Hold up the can to run the water in. Have the bedpan handy. You’ll do fine.

He really needs this enema, she added. His pain medicine has made him constipated, and that’s making him even more uncomfortable. I’m sure he’ll feel better afterward.

She told me the patient’s name and room number and sent me to the clean utility room to prepare the enema.

I began the summer a naive young girl who had never seen a naked man, much less touched one. I had overcome that hurdle the first week, but the idea of giving my first enema to a male patient was daunting, to say the least.

I promised myself I would be calm and matter of fact to avoid giving the patient the idea I was embarrassed or nervous. That went well until I entered his room, a small dark cubbyhole literally underneath the back stairs, and realized the patient curled up on his side in the bed was a frail elderly black man! For a moment, I was stunned speechless.

My parents brought me up to believe that black people, who were politely referred to back then as colored people, were the same as the rest of us.

Our small town was not integrated. Colored people were welcome to shop in town, but they were not allowed to eat in any local restaurants and had to be out of the city limits by sundown. Culp, the colored settlement, was a few miles west of town. Until very recently, it had its own schools, including high school.

In 1957, when I was in the seventh grade, our high school was very quietly integrated with a half dozen or so colored students attending. I don’t recall hearing of any violence or problems. It probably helped that two colored boys who were among the first integrated students were gifted athletes who helped the high school basketball team to the state championship that year.

The woman who cleaned house for my grandmother was an older colored lady whom I liked. There were two colored girls in one of my high school classes and one colored boy in another. That was the total extent of my experience with African Americans until I entered that dim little room under the stairs carrying an enema can.

I remember nothing of our conversation. I must have introduced myself and explained why I was there. He spoke to me, but I don’t remember what he said.

Today I’m horrified at the idea of a totally untrained young girl giving an enema to anyone, let alone an extremely ill elderly man. A few years later, when I was taught how to give an enema correctly and safely, I learned how many bad things could have happened. I could have punctured the man’s bowel. I could have gotten the water too hot or too cold. I could have run the water too fast. Any or all these mistakes could have caused problems.

Because I was terrified, I proceeded very slowly and carefully, which was exactly the correct thing to do. The gentleman was in obvious pain before we even began the procedure, so I was as gentle as I could be when touching him, helping him turn, and helping him onto the bedpan after the enema was finished.

I stepped out of the room for a few minutes to give him some privacy and used that time to get some towels and washcloths and a pan of warm water so I could clean him up afterward.

When I returned to the nurses’ station, I was totally exhausted. Fortunately, it was almost three thirty, the end of the shift, and the oncoming staff were getting report. The charge nurse asked me if all went well, and I told her I thought it had. She gave me permission to go ahead and clock out, which I did gratefully.

When I got home and Mom asked me about my day, I didn’t tell her about the elderly man and the enema. I didn’t know how she’d take it, and I didn’t want to discuss it anyway.

The next morning, I arrived at work hoping the rest of the week would be less traumatic. As a member of the oncoming shift, I listened to report with the others.

Report was given in order by room numbers from the cardex, a small flip chart list of basic patient information for each patient on the wing. When the night nurse got to the room under the stairs, she said, Mr. Smith passed away during the night. She went on with the rest of the report, but I didn’t hear anything after Mr. Smith passed away during the night.

After report, I grabbed the charge nurse’s arm.

He died! I gave him that enema, and he died! Oh my god, did I kill him?

By this time, I was crying. She led me into the break room and gently pushed me down onto a chair.

Vennie, him dying had nothing to do with you giving him the enema. He was dying from cancer. The medicine that made him so constipated was morphine for pain. It was not a surprise that he died.

You’re sure? You’re not just saying that?

No, honey, I’m not just saying that. If you want to be a nurse, you have to get used to the idea that some of your patients will die. It happens. Now you stay in here, have a cup of that terrible coffee, and settle down, then come back out and get to work, okay?

Okay.

I managed half a cup of coffee—it was pretty terrible—and returned to the wing to begin my workday.

The charge nurse was right. In my long nursing career, some of my patients died. I’m satisfied none of the deaths was my fault.

However, even when death is expected, it’s always difficult. While I had to get used to the idea that some of my patients would die, I never got used to the actual dying. I don’t think good doctors or nurses ever do.

DEAD MEN DON’T BREATHE

T he hospital hired both nurse’s aides and orderlies to help during the summer vacation season. Shortly after I began working on the east wing, I met Jimmy Ottolini, a first-year premed student who had been hired as an orderly for the summer.

Although Jimmy was several years older than me, both of us were green as grass when we began helping take care of patients that summer. He was working in the hospital for reasons similar to my own, to get experience and find out for sure if medicine was his true calling.

Jimmy was friendly and had a great sense of humor. In addition, he never acted as if he were superior to the rest of us just because he was in premed.

Most of the time, each nurse’s aide and orderly had individual assignments. Occasionally, something came up that required two people to work together to accomplish.

During report one morning, we were told a male patient had passed away just a few minutes before the end of the night shift. The man’s body needed to be washed, dressed in a fresh hospital gown, and prepared for the undertaker who would arrive in about an hour.

The patient was a large man, about six feet tall and weighing around two hundred pounds, so it was a two-person task. The charge nurse asked Jimmy and me to take care of the man’s body. I suppose she could see from the looks on both our faces that we had no idea how to begin.

First of all, you know, when someone passes away, the bowels relax, so you will need to clean that up. Then give him a complete bath. Take some gauze squares from the clean utility room and use them to plug the rectum so more stool doesn’t leak out. You understand?

Jimmy and I nodded.

Then make the bed with clean linens and put a clean gown on him. Make sure his eyes are closed. Bag up his things for the undertaker and let me know when you’re done. Any questions?

Jimmy and I exchanged a look, and both of us shook our heads no.

We went to the clean utility room to find the gauze. I said quietly to Jimmy, I’ve never touched a dead body before.

Well, I touched a cadaver in anatomy class, but that’s different, Jimmy said. Don’t be scared. It’ll be okay. We’re in this together, right?

Right.

Along with the gauze, Jimmy and I assembled linens to make the bed, towels and washcloths, a bath blanket to roll up and prop the body, a clean patient gown, and a large plastic bag for the man’s belongings.

There would be a washbasin and soap in the bedside table since that was standard equipment for each patient. We carried our supplies into the dead gentleman’s room.

The body was in a four-bed ward at the end of the hall. We pulled the curtains around the bed to give the deceased and ourselves some privacy.

Only one of the other three beds was occupied. Two empty beds were between the dead man and the other patient. The other gentleman paid no attention to Jimmy and me. I wasn’t sure if he even realized his roommate had died.

We filled a pan with warm water; laid out the soap, washcloths, and towels; and rolled up the bath blanket. Jimmy stood on one side of the bed, and I stood on the other. We regarded the body.

He’s not very old, is he? I observed quietly.

Jimmy nodded. I’m guessing about fifty or so. Okay, we need to roll him over. He’s a pretty big guy, so I think we should roll him this way, toward me.

I was happy to comply since I wasn’t sure if I could prevent the man from rolling off my side of the bed. Jimmy was tall, and he certainly appeared strong enough to support the body.

Even though the man was dead, both of us instinctively handled him carefully and gently. Jimmy grasped the man’s right arm, tucking it close to the body in preparation for rolling him to the right. Without pausing to think I was touching a dead body for the first time, I grasped the man’s left arm, slipped it out of his hospital gown, and draped his arm across his body.

Jimmy and I worked together to shift the man’s hips to the right and gently rolled him onto his right side. As we did, an audible whoosh of air came from the man’s mouth. I jumped and looked up at Jimmy, whose eyes were wide with surprise.

I gulped. What was that? Is he . . . ? I couldn’t bring myself to ask if the man was breathing.

I think it was just air from his lungs because we moved him and put pressure on them.

That made sense to me, and I relaxed. I’ll bet you’re right.

I pushed the rolled-up bath blanket against the man’s back to help prevent the body from rolling back toward me.

Okay, hang on, I need to clean him up, I told Jimmy.

The man’s bowels had indeed relaxed in death, but only a small amount of stool had escaped. I washed and dried him carefully and tucked the gauze into place as we had been instructed.

I looked up at Jimmy. Do you think that’s enough gauze?

He nodded. I’m sure the undertaker will appreciate it, he said dryly.

Stop, I whispered, fighting back a nervous giggle.

Sorry.

While Jimmy held the body in place, I bathed and dried as much of it as I could reach and pulled the clean gown over the man’s left arm. I rolled the soiled linens carefully to the right, tucking them under the body, and then made my side of the bed with the clean linens, rolling them up next to the soiled ones.

Very gently we rolled the body over the hump of bed linens. Jimmy grabbed a clean washcloth and towel and finished bathing the body. Then he pulled the soiled linens out and laid them on the