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Nurse Linda - 1971 A NURSE
BY ANY OTHER NAME An e-mail from Jim, a longtime friend, reminds me that I omitted something important when I wrote last week about hospital experiences. Someone important, I should say. Jim said he planned to forward what I’d written to his wife Linda, a nurse, who might want to pass it on to others at her hospital. I haven’t met Linda; she and Jim were married just a few years ago and live a couple states away. But from various e-mails, photos and from knowing her husband, I have a sense of who she is. And in that sense, I have met her – many times – in hospitals, nursing homes and clinics. It isn’t always “her” that I’ve met. There is no gender restriction – sometimes it’s Nurse “Linda,” sometimes Nurse “Lenny.” They’re the ones for whom nursing is not a job but a vocation – a significant distinction. The word vocation comes from the Latin vocare, meaning “to call.” These people are nurses because that’s what they are called to do and be. They’re the ones who listen. Their questions are not perfunctory. They’re not just filling in a chart or typing data into a computer. They really want to know what’s going on with a patient. They sort through confusion, work to understand. They’re the ones with empathy, which goes deeper than sympathy. Empathy makes them sensitive to what a patient is feeling and needing, as if they were experiencing those feelings and needs themselves. They’re the ones who practically knock you over with efficiency. They get things done, procedures moving, pills passed, call buttons answered. You can feel a breeze in their wake. At the same time, they’re the ones who believe compassion trumps efficiency. If there’s a need, they can slow down. They may have an entire floor of patients to worry about, but whenever they’re with any one patient, it’s just the two of them. It’s as if they have all the time in the world. They’re the ones who can see shades of gray. They know and follow the rules, policies and procedures – but they’re not turtles hiding under a bureaucratic shell. They know there is space between the lines of rules, a space that allows room for interpretation. They understand that no two patients are alike, that no body of rules and procedures will meet every patient’s needs. They follow the rules written in their hearts. They’re the ones who welcome and respect family and friends, not as inevitable nuisances to be tolerated but as vital members of the healing team. They inform and instruct, comfort and encourage. They’re the ones who understand they have power – the power that comes with the authority of their job. They’re humbled by that power, and they pass it on in the most healing way by empowering patients and their families. They’re the ones who make all the difference.
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