The word of my day was woe.
"Woe is me." I heard from the specialist who's complaining that the other specialist at X Hospital is bad mouthing him to our patients. Who tells specialist this tale? The patient. Specialist has taken care of patient forever, before he/she ever even went to X Hospital in our system. Patient told Specialist the truth, and he decided to tell me.
Kids, haven't you ever heard that maxim, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."? "No surprise" I told our Specialist. "He (and his hospital) have done weirder things lately." Frankly, I'm surprised upper management isn't reigning them in yet.
It was woe for our staff, too. I couldn't believe it when I saw our home health nurse doing assessment documentation on a newly arrived patient. She's usually out on the road somewhere, but for some reason, she got called into an admission that should have been completed by the floor nurse. Not sure why the boss let that happen, but I'm so glad it wasn't me!
There was woe for one of our patients' families. Said patient died over the weekend. We really liked him (at least most of us did). Rudy was a very opinionated character who almost made it to his speed limit birthday, but he had a heart attack and never regained consciousness. He and I got along very well. I was the person who set up his Fritos whenever he was on our unit (he was a Frito maniac).
Rudy told me he wasn't afraid to die because, during one of his many spates of illness, he had had a near death experience. "Heaven is beautiful", he told me. "I saw it and I really wanted to stay, but they told me I had to go back. I saw the Devil, too."
"Really?" I asked. "How did you know it was the Devil?"
"He looked just like the pictures...and he had a bottle of Jack Daniels, trying to get me to go with him."
"No way!" I said. He just shook his head yes.
So from then on, it was our inside joke about Jack Daniels. I told him one night when he spiked a temp late in the shift, "Rudy, I know Heaven was nice, but could you just wait to go there until my shift is over? And whatever you do, don't take the Jack Daniels." Rudy eventually recovered and we laughed about it.
Happily, all of Rudy's last year wasn't a tale of woe. Rudy got to see his grandchildren born and he was so proud. I saw him from time to time and I always gave him trouble. On his last visit to the unit, I told him he had the most seniority (as in he'd been coming to our unit for so long) on the unit, so he'd better help us train our new staff.
"And Rudy," I told him, "if they say you're mean and quit, I'm gonna call you up."
He just smiled. I opened the last bag of Fritos I ever gave him during that stay while his family looked on bemused. Sure we spoiled him sometimes, but he was like our family. I figured out in the last couple of years, I'd spent more time on the unit with Rudy than I have with my own family.
Rudy was a Marine through and through. He loved the Corps and educated me that the Marines wear scarlet not red.
And like the old Marine saying goes, I send it out today to Rudy, not Chesty this time: "Goodnight Rudy, wherever you are." I'm praying you're in Heaven where it's beautiful and not with the Devil and Jack Daniels.
Godspeed, dear friend. I'll miss you and all your Fritos, too.
Showing posts with label Marine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marine. Show all posts
Monday, April 30, 2012
Friday, June 5, 2009
War stories
Yes, there was a lot of storytelling going on during my latest turn on the evening shift. It's kind of funny that way, when you're gone a day or two, and things are really different when you come back.
War stories are common on our unit, since we're a government-run hospital, but how you get the guys and gals to talk, or let them talk can be a whole 'nother story in itself.
One of our more cantankerous folks was rolling by on his way to getting something, so I stopped him and asked if he wanted his pills right now. Sure, he says, I'll take them. We chitchat for a minute and I keep doing my thing. Mr. C. starts talking about his time in the military during the Korean war. "See that scar" he says. Sure, I see it, because I'd just given him his heparin shot. "I got that on my way to Korea. I never made it to the front." I shake my head, therapeutically listen, and he keeps going.
Mr. C. never made it because he had a bad appendix and developed complications. An astute medic pulled him out of the crowd and when they landed in Europe, Mr. C. got a trip to the hospital. The docs didn't want him going too far once he was released, so they found a job there on a base to keep him busy moving supplies along to Korea.
We have also had some World War II vets hanging out with us. One of them was a Marine injured in the Pacific. He's a character and I'm sure his stature alone may have scared more than a few folks in that theatre. I think about some of my relatives when I talk to them, because they'd tell the stories of the war, when I was a child, and my brother and I listened very intently. Most of our relatives who went to World War II came back. One did not. I think of him a lot and the family he left behind.
Maybe it's just because of demographics, but we have lots of Vietnam-era guys at our place, including some of the employees. Lots of folks talk about the jungle and dreams they had while they were there. Some were more premonitions than dreams, but they colored their lives just the same. One guy told me about the lost opportunities from Vietnam--delayed families, deferred education, the bad attitude of some folks that often caused other problems in the jobs they came back to or started after their service. The angst among some who were injured, while other folks their age were in school and never drafted. The volunteers. Some people say, "Who'd volunteer for Vietnam?" and on our unit, you'd actually see some hands, proudly raised, almost defiant. "That was me," one guy told me. "Better to volunteer than be drafted," he thought.
Today, we see some of the Iraq and Afghanistan vets coming in with stories of their own. Swimming at Saddam's place. Guarding air fields in Kuwait. Driving through Afghanistan in the Hindu Kush mountains with snipers everywhere.
And while they're not my words, I leave you with a story I received recently from my husband's old dear friend who is at a southern US air base. His story is a short, but a compelling look at the life of an airman who lost her life recently.
I previously wrote many of you about the presentation of an Air Force Cross, the second highest medal an Airman can receive, next only to the Medal of Honor.
At 1000 yesterday morning, we met in the same hangar, not to pay tribute to a warrior amongst our midst but homage to one who would no longer be physically present with us. SrA Ashton Goodman was a 21 year old (22 next week), from Indianapolis, IN who served as a vehicle operator in the 43d Logistics Readiness Squadron. She had three short years in the AF but had already served as a truck driver, ferrying supplies and personnel from Kuwait into Iraq, been promoted to SrA six months below the zone, and called upon to brief the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
This time she volunteered for a one year tour working with a Provisional Reconstruction Team (PRT) in Afghanistan. SrA Goodman was killed last week when her vehicle was struck by an improvised explosive device (IED). Her funeral was Tuesday in Indianapolis. The Wing took up a collection and flew the family here for yesterday’s memorial.
It started with a slide show presentation, a speech by her squadron commander (it was obvious she had made a positive impact on him and the unit), presentation of the Combat Service Medal and Purple Heart to her parents and several comments from squadron members. One squadron member sang a gospel tune that started eyes watering.
Then came the final roll call. Names of squadron members were called and answered until they came to her, silence. Her name was called again with more silence. Once more, still silence and then her full name followed by a 21 gun salute and taps. I challenge any of you to sit through that with a dry eye or after attending such a ceremony to ever hear taps again without a deeper sense of pride and commitment to those who have paid the ultimate sacrifice.
War stories are common on our unit, since we're a government-run hospital, but how you get the guys and gals to talk, or let them talk can be a whole 'nother story in itself.
One of our more cantankerous folks was rolling by on his way to getting something, so I stopped him and asked if he wanted his pills right now. Sure, he says, I'll take them. We chitchat for a minute and I keep doing my thing. Mr. C. starts talking about his time in the military during the Korean war. "See that scar" he says. Sure, I see it, because I'd just given him his heparin shot. "I got that on my way to Korea. I never made it to the front." I shake my head, therapeutically listen, and he keeps going.
Mr. C. never made it because he had a bad appendix and developed complications. An astute medic pulled him out of the crowd and when they landed in Europe, Mr. C. got a trip to the hospital. The docs didn't want him going too far once he was released, so they found a job there on a base to keep him busy moving supplies along to Korea.
We have also had some World War II vets hanging out with us. One of them was a Marine injured in the Pacific. He's a character and I'm sure his stature alone may have scared more than a few folks in that theatre. I think about some of my relatives when I talk to them, because they'd tell the stories of the war, when I was a child, and my brother and I listened very intently. Most of our relatives who went to World War II came back. One did not. I think of him a lot and the family he left behind.
Maybe it's just because of demographics, but we have lots of Vietnam-era guys at our place, including some of the employees. Lots of folks talk about the jungle and dreams they had while they were there. Some were more premonitions than dreams, but they colored their lives just the same. One guy told me about the lost opportunities from Vietnam--delayed families, deferred education, the bad attitude of some folks that often caused other problems in the jobs they came back to or started after their service. The angst among some who were injured, while other folks their age were in school and never drafted. The volunteers. Some people say, "Who'd volunteer for Vietnam?" and on our unit, you'd actually see some hands, proudly raised, almost defiant. "That was me," one guy told me. "Better to volunteer than be drafted," he thought.
Today, we see some of the Iraq and Afghanistan vets coming in with stories of their own. Swimming at Saddam's place. Guarding air fields in Kuwait. Driving through Afghanistan in the Hindu Kush mountains with snipers everywhere.
And while they're not my words, I leave you with a story I received recently from my husband's old dear friend who is at a southern US air base. His story is a short, but a compelling look at the life of an airman who lost her life recently.
I previously wrote many of you about the presentation of an Air Force Cross, the second highest medal an Airman can receive, next only to the Medal of Honor.
At 1000 yesterday morning, we met in the same hangar, not to pay tribute to a warrior amongst our midst but homage to one who would no longer be physically present with us. SrA Ashton Goodman was a 21 year old (22 next week), from Indianapolis, IN who served as a vehicle operator in the 43d Logistics Readiness Squadron. She had three short years in the AF but had already served as a truck driver, ferrying supplies and personnel from Kuwait into Iraq, been promoted to SrA six months below the zone, and called upon to brief the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
This time she volunteered for a one year tour working with a Provisional Reconstruction Team (PRT) in Afghanistan. SrA Goodman was killed last week when her vehicle was struck by an improvised explosive device (IED). Her funeral was Tuesday in Indianapolis. The Wing took up a collection and flew the family here for yesterday’s memorial.
It started with a slide show presentation, a speech by her squadron commander (it was obvious she had made a positive impact on him and the unit), presentation of the Combat Service Medal and Purple Heart to her parents and several comments from squadron members. One squadron member sang a gospel tune that started eyes watering.
Then came the final roll call. Names of squadron members were called and answered until they came to her, silence. Her name was called again with more silence. Once more, still silence and then her full name followed by a 21 gun salute and taps. I challenge any of you to sit through that with a dry eye or after attending such a ceremony to ever hear taps again without a deeper sense of pride and commitment to those who have paid the ultimate sacrifice.
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