You can do Anyhting!
I
was a twenty-year-old nursing student in 1968, preparing for a rotation through
the pediatric unit. Compared to cardiac units or the operating room, how
hard would this be? After all, I'd always cared for and played with
children. This rotation would be a snap. I'd breeze right through it
and be one step closer to graduation.
Chris was an
eight-year-old bundle of energy who excelled in every sport he played.
Disobeying his parents' instructions, he explored a neighbor's construction
site, climbed a ladder and fell. His broken arm was casted too tightly,
leading to infection, sepsis and gangrene. Sadly, his condition required
amputation.
I was assigned as
his postoperative nurse.
The first few days
passed quickly. I provided Chris's physical care with forced cheerfulness.
His parents stayed with him around the clock.
As his need for
medication decreased, his level of awareness increased, as did his moodiness.
When I saw how alert he seemed as he watched me bring in supplies for a sponge
bath, I offered him the washcloth and suggested he take over. He washed
his face and neck, then quit. I finished.
The next day, I
announced he'd be in charge of his whole bath. He balked. I
insisted. He was more than halfway through when he slumped down and said,
"I'm too tired."
"You won't be
in the hospital much longer," I urged gently. "You need to learn
to take care of yourself."
"Well, I
can't," he scowled. "How can I do anything with just one
hand?"
Putting on my
brightest face, I groped for a silver lining. Finally I said, "Sure
you can do it, Chris. At least you have your right hand."
He turned his face
away and muttered, "I'm left-handed. At least I used to be."
He glared at me. "Now what?"
Suddenly, I didn't
feel so snappy. I felt phony and insincere, and not very helpful.
How could I have taken right-handedness for granted? It seemed he and I
both had a lot to learn.
The next morning I
greeted Chris with a big smile and a rubber band. He looked at me
suspiciously. Wrapping the rubber band loosely around my wrist, I said,
"You're left-handed and I'm right-handed. I am going to put my right
hand behind my back and keep it there by winding the rubber band around my
uniform buttons. Every time I ask you to do something with your right
hand, I will do it first, with my left hand. And I promise not to practice
before I see you. What should we try first?"
"I just woke
up," he grumbled. "I need to brush my teeth."
I managed to screw
the top off the toothpaste, then placed his toothbrush on the overbed table.
Awkwardly, I tried to squirt toothpaste onto the wobbly toothbrush. The
harder I struggled, the more interested he became. After almost ten
minutes, and a lot of wasted toothpaste, I succeeded.
"I can do it
faster than that!" Chris declared. And when he did, his
triumphant grin was just as real as mine.
The next two weeks
passed quickly. We tackled his daily activities with enthusiasm and a
competitive spirit. We buttoned his shirts, buttered his bread and never
really mastered tying his shoes. Despite our age difference, we were
playing a game as equal competitors.
By the time my
rotation ended, he was almost ready for discharge, and ready to face the world
with more confidence. We hugged each other good-bye with sincere
friendship and tears.
More than thirty
years have passed since our time together. I've encountered some ups and
downs in my life, but I've never let a physical challenge pass without thinking
of Chris and wondering how he would cope. Sometimes I put a hand behind my
back, hook my thumb in my belt and give it a try.
And anytime I feel
sorry for myself, for some petty grievance or another, I take myself into the
bathroom and try once again to brush my teeth with my left hand.