Compassion

Around 7pm, I sat in the blue recliner, moaning. Drew looked over at me and I said something like, "Make it go away. I am so tired of feeling sick."

Drew laughed and said, "Mom, you've come all this way after weeks of chemo and you want to quit NOW??!!!" I stared at him, miserable, and sighed. He was right of course. I have already come through the whole treatment except for the few days after the final round.

Granted, this one is a toughie, but suck it up. You are so close to the finish line for phase 1 you can taste the victory. So I determined to just grit my teeth and think about better days ahead. Drew, on the other hand, suddenly turned into a softy.

He put on a Veggie Tales DVD to cheer me up, filled my glass with ice and fresh water, and dipped me a chocolate marshmallow waffle cone - one for himself too - and we licked together while laughing at the antics of Lyle the Viking and Josh and the Big Wall.

Drew's sudden fit of compassion reminded me of when I worked at the Wesley Nursing Home in Saratoga. I was young - barely 20 - and assigned to the third floor where residents took care of themselves for the most part. I worked the night shift which consisted of making hourly rounds, answering any call lights, assisting people to the bathroom when needed, and changing linens should there be any accidents - which thankfully there were few.

It was a job. I did what I was told to do and wrote everything down in the log book. I didn't get to know many of the residents since they mostly went to bed at 10pm and my shift started at 11pm.

Just the few who had to get up in the night, like Mrs. E who went to the bathroom a dozen times of an evening and the diabetic in the corner room who had to be helped into her wheelchair (she often snuck chocolate at night, and had to have the nurse from the first floor come and rescue her from herself).

Then there was Mr. D whose legs ached, causing him to walk around and around the floor loop past the resident's rooms and by the office where my desk was situated. He never smiled as he shuffled along and sometimes he would whack the wall with his cane if he were in a particular lot of pain.

One night as I was writing up my last round in the log book, Mr. D appeared in front of the desk. I hadn't heard him coming, so was a bit startled. He mumbled something I couldn't make out, and I asked him to repeat it.

"Pain!" he shouted at me. "Need my pill." I got out the meds book and looked it up. He wasn't due for another two hours. I explained to him that it wasn't time yet and he would have to wait. He whacked his cane down on my desk and I jumped up, knocking over the chair.

"Pain!" he yelled again and we glared at each other.

"I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do until your medicine is scheduled." I explained patiently. He continued to stand there, and I was just beginning to think I should call security when he turned and shuffled off down the hall toward his room.

Whew! That was a bit scary. I decided to finish my log entry, then check to make sure he got back to bed alright. But he didn't go back to his room. By the time I heard the elevator bell ding and realized it wasn't time for security or the nurse to appear, it was too late to stop Mr. D from leaving the floor.

My heart was racing with fear as I picked up the phone and called the nurse on duty. I quickly explained the situation, and she assured me that she would take care of it. Twenty minutes later, the two of them appeared and headed for Mr. D's room. I waited with bated breath, wondering what was happening.

Finally, the nurse came to the office and sat in the chair across from me. She explained that even though my supervisor had instructed me to not give in when residents ask for their medicines (usually because they have lost track of when the last had it), there are times when people are suffering and in need.

Even though time for the usual medicine had not arrived, there were other options, especially when dealing with a resident who should by rights be on a floor where more nursing care is available. Mr. D's condition was deteriorating and he definitely was in pain and in need of help.

Of course, I could have no way to know that, so the nurse just told me that should anyone ask for meds early, to simply call her and she would make that determination. Wise woman. But it didn't keep me from feeling badly that I had not understood what Mr. D was going through, that I had only known to function according to the rules.

I learned that day that a job dealing with people is never just a job, never just a set of guidelines and rules and tasks. Working with people requires getting to know them and what makes them tick. It requires compassion and understanding along with the work. It was the beginning of learning to see things through the eyes of others, a lesson I have never forgotten.

Drew is young to see such an important piece of life. Compassion and understanding of what others are experiencing are so necessary. I hope he keeps it on his radar screen. Meanwhile, my cone is gone and I am headed for bed. Tomorrow will be better.