Below is a short story by junior nursing student Sarah Groh. Sarah was the winner of the National Day of Writing Contest sponsored by Cedarville’s Writing Center.
I worked here last summer, too, but of course they don’t remember me. As long as I remember how to take care of them, I don’t mind.
I wear my hair in two French braids, which make me look ten years younger. Jerry wants to pull one, and Bernice says they could have been done better. As I walk past her room, I hear Clara talking on the phone about her “New Little Girl.”
That’s me. I am the New Little Girl.
The other aids—“the girls” as the residents call them—tell me to avoid Ronald, the crankiest man in the nursing home. They’ve been wrong before, like when they call me inexperienced, so I don’t always believe them. And his call light is on, so I go in and help him pull up his pants.
“You’ve obviously never done this before,” he grumbles as I pull his feet through the pant legs. “Are you new?”
“Kind of.” My spine stiffens, but I pretend I’m not offended.
He stops complaining about me when I help him into the shower and turn it on extra hot the way he likes it. I rub soap on his back and pat his feet with the washcloth, lining his wheelchair with the bath blanket and laying it over his wet shoulders when he gets out.
“You must be the New Little Girl,” his wife says when she comes to visit.
“That’s me.”
“He says he had a shower this morning. Thank you. I was an aid before I was a nurse, so I know how hard you girls work.”
“No problem. Glad I could help.” I can’t help smiling because his shower was so memorable he told his wife about it.
“What’s this?” he asks, uncovering the cabbage soup on the lunch tray I brought.
“It’s soup, Ron,” says his wife.
“This is criminal.” He shakes his head at the tray.
“Do you want me to bring you something else?” I ask.
“Don’t bother. He’s been in a mood lately,” his wife mutters with a roll of her eyes, knowing he’s too hard of hearing to understand.
I bet he was different once, when there was less to complain about.
Like not being able to breathe.
One month later Ronald wakes up saying he can’t take a full breath and the meds aren’t working.
“I’ll get the nurse.”
Jan comes, holding her bright pink stethoscope to his back while I work the vitals cart. They didn’t teach us what to do about congestive heart failure in nursing assistant training.
“Raise the head of the bed higher,” she says, but he’s slipping down too far. I lower his head, and, feigning confidence, take hold beneath an arm and a leg and pull. By some miracle, all two hundred and sixty pounds of him moves six inches towards the head of the bed.
Jan’s eyes widen. “Girl, you’re strong for being little.”
I try to suppress the pride spreading my lips into a smile.
I raise his head and feet. His face is turning blue.
Without waiting for the nurse’s direction, I swing his swollen legs over the edge of the bed and support his shoulder, watching the pink return to his face.
“He needs oxygen,” Jan says.
I’m not certified to use oxygen tanks, but there’s one behind me, and Jan doesn’t stop me as I reach for it and press the first button I see. It turns on with a hum and a gasp as I exhale relief. My fingers shake as I stick the tubes in his nostrils, backward at first, then the correct way.
We watch as his oxygen level climbs, barely, and settles below normal.
The other nurse, the nurse managers, and the receptionist burst through the door.
“The oxygen’s not working fast enough. Get a mask.”
“Call 911.”
“His daughter wants us to wait to do anything until she arrives.”
“We can’t wait. Call now.”
“Record his vitals.”
“I’ll get his papers for transport.”
And they’re gone, leaving us alone.
There is nothing to do now but sit down beside him, waiting in silence for the EMTs, the nurse with his transport papers, his wife.
“Is there a cold—washcloth—for my—neck?” he asks between gasps from behind the oxygen mask.
“Sure.” I run cold water over a towel and rub it back and forth across his neck, feeling the knots in his muscles from straining to breathe.
“You know,” he says, “for a new—little girl—you’re not bad.
Posted in: B.S.N.