My amazing mother was in McNeese State University’s first graduating nursing class. As a child, it was not uncommon at all to discuss all sorts of medical issues and stories with great detail around the family supper table. Mother was quiet, strong as iron but compassionate and nurturing. She was always the one to be consulted by family, neighbors and friends when any sort of health or medical issue arose.
One such person was Ms. Macy. Ms. Macy contracted MS as a young mother and lived down our street with her husband and boys in a lovely brick home, the rolling green yard surrounded by a long white fence. As young girls, we would go pick big, bright camelias from Ms. Macy’s bushes when they were in full bloom. Mother frequently would make her way down our street, alongside the white fence and up the curvy drive to go check on Ms. Macy – I was right beside her. I remember so vividly Ms. Macy’s husband would answer the door, his jet-black hair slicked back and with an unlit cigar in the side of his mouth. With me right at her skirt-tail, mother would stand at the side of Ms. Macy’s hospital bed, talk with her as she assessed how she was doing. She gently, with those amazing, knowing hands, would check for skin break-down, fluid retention, listen to her heart and lungs, then would give the injection that Ms. Macy so needed. I was intrigued by the whole scene every time; the cigar, Ms. Macy’s dark hair against her pale, dewy skin, the clank of the rails of the hospital bed as mother lowered them, staring at mother in amazement at how she knew exactly what to do next.
Mr. Henry was another. He had been diagnosed with ALS – and in the mid-70’s, there certainly wasn’t the information and treatment protocols we have today. I so clearly remember making visits to Mr. Henry – his hospital bed was in the den with a big window at the head of the bed. To his left, my right, sitting on a table, was a large glass 2-gallon container that held the secretions from his deep lung suctioning. I remember watching mother suction his lungs through his trach – I can still see in my mind the sun shining through the contents of the glass jar and hearing the sounds that accompanied. I always stood at the foot of the bed, transfixed by the tube mother would put into Mr. Henry’s lungs. Mother’s hands were so steady and knowledgeable, and I stood quietly observing every sound and every movement, stock-still, watching this phenomenon.
And red-headed Colleen, born with severe Cerebral Palsy, was another that mother so faithfully visited. She was a young adult, non-verbal and quite contracted. So it was recommended therapy that Colleen pattern crawling, even as a young adult. So many afternoons I sat on the floor, watching Mother, on the floor with Colleen, grasping an arm and leg and physically moving “Colleens body” in a crawling pattern, over and over and over and over. It was grueling and physically taxing. Colleen would be so emotional and agitated, not understanding. She would cry out at times and thrash against that task at times. Mother, patient and strong, was undaunted and I watched the patterning continue until exhaustion. I remember not truly understanding it all – I was a bit fearful at times with “Colleen’s loud” growls and what seemed like fighting in my young mind. My heart would race sometimes because the therapy seemed harsh but I knew I trusted my mother – I just didn’t understand it all. I didn’t dare speak or come close during those times, but Mother would finally stand up, hair a bit disheveled and her face red from exertion, help Colleen back into her special chair.
These visits with my mother are so vivid to me. I am sure my siblings often went along as well but truthfully, I have no memory of it. I was so in-tune, so mesmerized and curious, I don’t remember anyone else but me, the patient and mother. It was overwhelming emotionally at times because of my youth to observe such physically involved and medically complex tasks. What stands out so vividly to me was the quiet strength and compassion of my mother, caring for friends that had such medically complex issues, visit after visit, giving of her heart and her time. She fleshed out right in front of me what private nursing looked like at it’s best. In the early 70’s, private care didn’t exist as we know it. Little did I know at the time what my future held, but a standard of excellence in care, advocacy and compassion had been firmly set.
How fortunate I was and how wise of my mother to bring me along and allow this curious little mind to experience such medically complex scenarios and observe her lovingly providing the nursing care they needed. These experiences ignited a strong curiosity of diseases and maladies, but more than that, making private rounds with my mother planted deep within me a strong sense of compassion, advocacy and service. And how could it not?! I had held onto the hem of the best.
Author: Laura Cook
