The best portion of a good man’s life are his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love. --William Wordsworth
One of my favorite job duties happens every Monday morning as I supervise students in the clinical setting. Though I grumble at the notion of getting up early enough to be at the hospital at 0630, being at the bedside with those eager learners, watching them figure it all out, seeing the future of nursing develop right in front of me is such a joy and a priviledge.
We took care of a gentleman this semester who had suffered a stroke. After we gave him medications and did a couple of other tasks, I helped the student with his hygiene. We washed his face and hands, performed oral care, changed his linens and cleaned up his room. He was essentially unresponsive throughout, certainly not aware of the care we provided. Just before we left the room I combed his hair. The student sighed a little and said "I'm not sure that really made any difference." She couldn't be more wrong.
Prior to teaching I was an ICU nurse. I love the ICU—all the machines, the gadgets, the numbers, the sickness, it feeds my sense of urgency and importance. As a new nurse I was particularly focused on learning how to manage patients with all the “stuff” and I remember the first time I really felt like I had it all figured out-- like I had "it". I was taking care of a pre-op heart transplant patient and, as you can imagine, she was very sick. She had tubes and IV lines everywhere, monitors galore, medications out the wazoo—I was in heaven. My night was a perfect ballet of noting this reading, pushing that button, giving that med, running this machine. I finished that shift, patient taken care of and stable, thinking—I am a nurse. The next week my manager called me into her office and told me it was time for my evaluation. Part of the process had been asking my patients about the care they received and one patient chosen was the heart transplant lady. I thought, jackpot! I was great that night! My manager read the words the patient had written, “Jodi was nice, she braided my hair.” I have to admit, I was devastated. All that work and all the patient could come up with was braided hair?! I called my mom in a fit of despair and she imparted to me the wisdom only a mother can give—saying “honey she expected you to do all the other things, isn’t that your job? She remembered the hair because it was special, and extra, and human.”
When I tell this story to my students, I do so not to elicit their applause but so that they may take up my challenge. I challenge them, and remind myself, to find the time to hold a hand, reassure a patient during a spinal tap, comfort a mother who’s crying because her baby is sick, tell a joke, say a prayer and yes, braid some hair. You may not remember it, but your patients will.
