Angela Hunt - A Time To Mend

Jacquelyn moved toward the chattering voices at the end of the hall. She could claim to be so exhausted from all the fun she’d had on vacation that she couldn’t handle a squirming child as her first patient of the week….

“Dr. Martin, extension 210. Dr. Martin, please pick up.”

An unusual thread of exasperation echoed in the receptionist’s voice, Jacquelyn noticed as she checked her watch and pressed her fingertips to her patient’s pulse. “Pick up, Mystery Doctor, wherever you are,” she murmured. She paused to look up and smile at the woman seated in the chair beside her. “You’ll have to excuse my little wisecracks, Mrs. Baldovino,” she said, loosening the blood pressure cuff around her patient’s upper arm. “But Dr. Martin is new around here, and I’m beginning to think he’s the invisible man. I haven’t even seen him yet, but that’s the third time I’ve heard him paged this morning.”

“I like him,” the woman answered, her eyes darting nervously to the chart where Jacquelyn recorded the sphygmomanometer’s reading. Thin wisps of dark hair escaped from under the hat she wore and framed her pale face. “I saw him last week, and he’s the first doctor I’ve met who makes me feel like I’m not taking up too much of his time. How is it today—the blood pressure, I mean?”

“Pretty good.” Jacquelyn folded the cuff. “But a little on the low side. Of course that could be a reflection of the weight you’ve been losing.”

Mrs. Baldovino lifted her hands in apology. “It’s the chemo. I can’t eat after my visits here. I’ve tried everything from soup to crackers, but nothing will stay down.” She released a nervous little laugh. “I guess it’s to be expected, but sometimes I wonder if starvation will kill me before the cancer does—”

“We won’t let you starve, Mrs. Baldovino, I promise.” Jacquelyn turned away and studied the patient’s chart. “I see that you were given Adriamycin and Cytoxan on your last visit. Well, the antinausea medicines I’ll give you today should help. Emend and Kytril usually do the trick, and the doctor can prescribe a form of Compazine for you to take at home.”

The woman lifted one shoulder in a helpless shrug. “I know the drugs should help, but they don’t.”

“If you’re feeling sick, you should try not eating or drinking anything four to six hours before your chemo treatment. And when you eat, think of yourself as a grazing cow, not a hog at the trough.” Jacquelyn gave her patient a stern smile and took a deep breath for what felt like her ten thousandth speech about how to avoid nausea. She’d pestered her supervising nurse, Lauren Oakes, to put this and other standard lectures on videotape, but Lauren had insisted that personal instruction was more important than saving her nurses time and effort.

Jacquelyn pitched her voice to the tone she would use with a stubborn child. “Eat lightly, take in five or six small snacks a day instead of three traditional large meals. And if you experience uncontrolled nausea, vomiting, or diarrhea, you should pick up the phone immediately and call us. Ask for me, Lauren or Stacy, not the doctor. If you let the condition continue all day, you will become dehydrated and we’ll have to put you in the hospital. And I don’t think you want that, do you?”

Blushing, the woman shook her head.

“I thought not. Call us right away, and we’ll be able to get an antiemetic to help control your nausea.” She smiled to cover her annoyance. “So if you’re feeling sick, what will you do?”

“I’ll call you, Nurse Jacquelyn.” Mrs. Baldovino opened her mouth as if she would say something else, but Jacquelyn stood and snapped the chart shut. Unlike Lauren and Stacy, she never encouraged her patients to talk about anything but routine matters. Cancer patients tended to want assurances and answers and Jacquelyn had none to give. She was a medical professional, not a counselor or preacher. How many times had that been hammered into her head during nursing school? She could still hear the echo of her professor’s mantra: Let a patient into your heart, and you won’t last ten days in oncology.

“Let’s get you ready for Dr. Martin. I’m sure he’ll want to hear about this nausea.” Jacquelyn lifted her hand and gestured toward the examination room. “If the invisible doctor materializes, that is.”

Without waiting for her patient, she moved down the hall to the freshly prepped exam room. She slid the woman’s chart into the holder on the door and smiled at the efficient thunking sound the file made. Mrs. Baldovino was now Dr. Martin’s concern.

“Will he be long, do you think?” Mrs. Baldovino asked, one hand lightly gliding over the wallpaper as she moved with glacial slowness down the hall. “I’m feeling a bit nauseous now. I don’t know why, but I don’t know how long I can wait without having to—”

“I’ll get you a basin.” Leaving her patient, Jacquelyn hurried to the supply closet. She flung the door open, then blinked in surprise.

Stacy Derry, another nurse, stood with her back against the shelves, a wad of tissues in her hand. Her nose was red, her face blotchy, and a hint of tears still glistened in the wells of her dark eyes.

“Stacy! Are you all right?”

The nurse nodded, her dark curls bobbing. “I’ll be okay.” She dabbed at her eyes. “It’s just that Hospice called a few minutes ago. Alicia Hubbard passed away last night. Her husband wanted us to know about the funeral.”

“Oh.” Jacquelyn pressed her lips together in a sign of respect. “Wasn’t she one of Dr. Kastner’s patients?”

“Yes.” Stacy gave Jacquelyn a teary smile. “She was such a sweet lady. Always smiling, she never once complained. I know she was in pain, especially at the end, yet she never said a harsh word to anybody.”

As Stacy broke into fresh tears, Jacquelyn folded her arms and took a deep breath. She was used to the sight of tears; she’d cried more than her share of them when her own mother died from complications stemming from breast cancer. At sixteen, Jacquelyn had been a lot like Stacy—frightened, unsure and heartbroken. But broken hearts could mend…if you learned how to bury the pain.

“Listen,” Jacquelyn spoke with calm detachment, “I know it hurts to lose someone. But you’ve got to get past the pain. Trust me, I know. I lost my mother and then became an oncology nurse because I want to help people get better. And as a nurse, I’ve learned to detach myself from the hurt.”

The tissues muffled Stacy’s words. “That sounds impossible.”

“No, it’s not.” Jacquelyn placed her hand on Stacy’s arm. “You can’t help your patients if you allow yourself to be paralyzed by sorrow or worry. They need someone who can be objective, who can stay cool in a crisis. They aren’t asking for our pity. If you go out there looking like this, you’ll only upset the patients who are still fighting to survive. If you’re going to be a good nurse, a professional nurse, you’ve got to stop blubbering every time something goes wrong.”

Do whatever you have to, but don’t let the pain into your heart.

A cloud of guilt crossed Stacy’s face. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am.” Jacquelyn sighed. She’d never get that emesis basin for Mrs. Baldovino if Stacy didn’t surrender the supply closet. “Listen, I know you haven’t been here as long as I have—” she reached past Stacy for the stack of aluminum basins on the shelf “—but this is an oncology practice, and many of our patients die. Some of them live for years after treatment, some for months, but death is a part of life. We’ve all got to die sometime, and some of our patients die sooner than the others. But you can’t let it get to you.”