“Constant attention by a good nurse
may be just as important 
as a major operation 
by a surgeon.”

~ Dag Hammarskjöld

Other than the time of my birth, I’ve been fortunate to have avoided frequent hospital stays. In my early elementary school years, I had my tonsils removed at Saint Mary’s Hospital in San Francisco. In the pediatric unit at that time, I don’t recall there being a “call button” to summon a nurse. What I do recall is that the young boy in the bed opposite mine in the 8-bed ward was constantly yelling, “Nurse! Nurse!” day and night. While it may have been annoying, I couldn’t be upset with him. He was suffering from severe burns over much of his body. The poor kid was in constant pain. The nursing staff responded to his call every time.

In my sophomore year of high school, I had all four impacted wisdom teeth removed. The oral surgeon required that the procedure be done at Saint Mary’s Hospital. I had only one roommate for this three-day visit. He, too, was a student from Saint Ignatius who was also having his wisdom teeth extracted. I don’t recall ever needing to call a nurse.

In June 1971, just a week after the conclusion of my junior year at S.I., I found myself back in Saint Mary’s Hospital with an infected blood clot in my left ankle. Apparently, it was much worse than I thought it was. My Mom happened to notice that I was favoring my left leg and asked me what was wrong. I tried to blow it off, but she insisted on looking at it. Next stop: the emergency room at Saint Mary’s Hospital. This time, I was in for a full 10-day visit. This hospital experience was unlike the previous one. I was in a room alone, and for a long time. 

I recall the daytime nurses being pretty good, though I doubt that I ever expressed my gratitude to them. The nighttime nurse, however, reminded me of the wicked witch of the west. She would fly into my room in the middle of the night, wake me up, tell me to roll over, and then stick a needle in one of my butt cheeks. This happened every night for the first week. One night, however, things were different.

Having been in bed for so long, I was uncomfortable. My body ached, especially my lower back. I was having a difficult time sleeping, so I turned on the television. Around 2:00 a.m., the door to my room opened. I expected the witch,… um, I mean the nurse. Much to my surprise, the nurse who walked into the room was young, attractive, and quite friendly. She asked me why I was awake at such an hour. I told her about my aches and pains. She had me turn over for my shot, but then told me she would be right back.

When she returned to the room, she was holding a bottle of lotion. She explained that long hospital stays often result in body soreness. She instructed me to roll over. She untied the top of my fashionable hospital gown and began to apply lotion to my back and shoulders. For about fifteen minutes, she gave me a massage I have never forgotten, and we talked as though we were long lost friends. Needless to say, I thanked her profusely.

Unfortunately, that was the only night she visited my room. Now, fifty-two years later, I still remember her, and I’m grateful for her compassion, her professionalism, and for going above and beyond the call of duty to make one patient feel special. I’m also grateful to know that this nurse will have the opportunity to read this blog post, as I am Facebook friends with her sister.