We only had four patients to worry about, two of whom were getting ready to go home this morning, so task-wise it wasn't a terribly demanding shift. We had plenty of time to go over paperwork and find things in cupboards and practice putting IVs in brown arms. I've always said that I must have been a teacher in a former life, because I love educating. There's something so satisfying about taking someone who's in the dark and being the one to turn on that little light, opening their eyes to something new. It was fun enough teaching Suey, but we quickly realized that there were some teaching needs far more profound on the ward.
One of our patients was a little old lady who just had surgery to repair an obstetric fistula. The card above her bed proclaimed her age to be thirty-five, but the lines on her face told a different story. I had to teach her how to train her bladder, to learn to control the urine that's been flowing freely for so many years. The instructions are actually fairly simple. For the first thirty days, go to the bathroom every hour. Increase that time by half an hour over the next two months, fifteen days at a time, until you can hold your urine for three hours. But this particular old lady has no concept of time. When we say measure your time in hours, we might as well be telling her to perform backflips and cartwheels. She was born in a small house in a village way up country, and that birth was never registered so she never went to school. She's spent her life ruled by the rhythm of the sunrise and sunset, pounding cassava and washing clothes in the river. How on earth were we supposed to teach her? Through two translators, from English to French to Yoruba and back again, we had the following conversation.
Each box on this paper is one day. Here is a pencil; each time she sleeps, she should mark one box.And if we thought that was difficult, our next task was to teach yet another illiterate woman (Maomai's mama, Pelagie), how to manage her baby's new g-tube when they go back to their village. It's hard enough for someone who can read the numbers on the syringes she uses to measure milk, who can run to the hospital at the first sign of trouble, who can jump on the internet and Google solutions to problems. Pelagie has none of those luxuries. All she has is an incredible love for her baby, a baby we've all fallen just a little bit in love with too.
So, she should mark each time she goes pepe?
No, each time she sleeps. One mark for one sleep. Is there anyone in the village who has a watch?
Yes, she thinks there is one man who has a watch.
Can he read?
She's not sure.
Can anyone read in her village?
She thinks there is someone who can read.
Okay, these directions are in English. We will translate them to French. She should have the person who can read and the person with the watch help her. There are directions for when to increase the time. See? The boxes are different colors.
She doesn't understand. The person who can read will have to explain it to her. She won't remember.
All she needs to do is make one mark every time she sleeps. The man with the watch and the man who can read will tell her the rest.
Nursing isn't just handing out medicines and checking off boxes in a chart. So much of what I do is connecting with people, finding ways to help them learn how to take care of themselves, concocting mad schemes for getting a skill to become second nature. It's a job that can so often be incredibly hectic, but yesterday my heart was singing because I actually had the time to teach.
Thank you for taking our 'Suey' under your well trained wing. I could just picture the 2 of you teaching your patients through these challenges. I'm sure there was lots of laughter mixed in.
I look forward to meeting you in September.
Suey's Mom
Diane
Every post you write, I am still amazed at what you do. Thank you for being God's hands and feet.