As a medical communicator, I’m not just honored to interact with nurses often, but also to share their stories of innovation, dedication and compassion through the creation of patient videos. In one such story called “Miracle Man,” produced by Contrast Creative for Duke University Hospital’s annual employee engagement event, a young nurse did something so simple yet powerful for a patient, involving (believe it or not) her sneakers, that recalling this act of grace still moves me.
In a time when healthcare organizations are hyper focused on metrics and the all-important bottom line, nurses still continue to connect the head to the heart by skillfully delivering personalized patient care. How is it possible, especially now when all healthcare workers are being asked to do more with less? It makes no sense. And yet, I continue to hear stories from patients about nurses who went above and beyond and made a lasting impact through word and deed.
In reflection, I think it says something about the women and men who choose the nursing profession above all others. These are special people. Of course, I may be biased. My mother is a nurse. Rosalie Fonte McDonald was the youngest and ninth child born to Sicilian immigrant parents in Reading, Pennsylvania. After graduating high school in 1953, she worked in several administrative jobs, got married and eventually had four children. The youngest, Maggie, was born with special needs. Life was busy. Hectic. Any woman reading this will understand.
And then one day, my mother decided to take on more…be more…give more. She wanted to become a nurse. In 1980, when she was 45 years old, she graduated from Alvernia College with a degree in nursing and an A in anatomy and physiology (a hard earned accomplishment that still brings her delight.)
As a young adult, I didn’t fully appreciate the courage and determination required to take on such a task. When my mom took her nursing boards the first time, she failed one section. Undeterred, she would visit my sister at her nearby college and study for hours in the library determined to succeed on her next try. And she did.
Soon she was working in healthcare. As a mom, she would mostly work the 11PM to 7AM shift so as not to disturb the family flow. She served at a couple of local hospitals, in a nursing home and later as a private duty nurse. She had a rare affinity for the elderly.
Sometimes she would share details of her workday. Discussions about bodily functions or the loss thereof were often served up with a plate of mom’s perfectly seasoned pasta. And then there were the nursing stories that took my breath away—and shined a light on my mother’s true character.
As a private duty nurse, mom cared for a woman in her 80s living with Parkinson’s disease. The patient was unable to get around by herself and communicate clearly. After administering her standard nursing care duties, mom would do other little things like paint the woman’s fingernails or play her favorite music. The patient, who had been quite the dancer before Parkinson’s stole her ability to move, loved jitterbug and listening to songs like Little Richard’s Good Golly Miss Molly. But, for mom, that wasn’t enough. She wanted to give her patient something more so she reached out her hands. The patient grunted her approval, and my mom lifted her into her steady arms. And the two danced together, slowly swirling as her patient smiled broadly.
Another patient, a plumber by trade, had end-stage colon cancer. In addition to caring for the man, mom would take the time to support his wife with a hug or conversation over a shared cup of coffee. When the man died with mom at his side, she dampened a washcloth and gently wiped his arms and face and then neatly tucked the sheets around him in preparation for his children’s arrival…and their final goodbye to their father.
In life and death, nurses, like my mom, are unflinching and merciful.
Today, I see my mom fully and completely. Whereas my dad is my head bestowing upon me the business sense needed to successfully run Contrast Creative, my mother is my heart. She is compassionate and, dare I say, kick-ass. She set lofty goals—and against all odds—achieved them. My mother, who is now retired from the nursing profession, is the reason I do what I do well.
As a nurse, she has profoundly touched the lives of others in ways that I am only beginning to comprehend. For instance, I just learned that she performed lifesaving CPR on two people who had collapsed on separate occasions in public places. Her quick action and skill kept these individuals alive until rescue teams arrived on the scene. She relayed these stories to me nonchalantly without a hint of drama in her voice.
“Mom, you’re a hero!” I proclaimed. She didn’t agree. Hero? No. A nurse doing what she was trained to do? Yes.
To my mom and all nurses, thank you.
Thank you for your intelligence, your commitment, and your unwillingness to let metrics detract from your revered mission to treat your patients (moms, dads, grandparents, children—all human beings) with dignity, respect and your own extraordinary brand of kindness.