Thirty Years in September
A Nurse’s Journal
Kate Genovese
Smashwords ebook edition published by Fideli Publishing Inc.
© Copyright 2011, Kate Genovese
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ISBN: 978-1-60414-427-7
Contents
Chapter One A Whole New World
Chapter Two Reality
Chapter Three Party Time
Chapter Four Fraanc
Chapter Five Moving On
Chapter Six Getting Comfortable
Chapter Seven Dog Days of Summer
Chapter Eight Nearing the End
Chapter Nine Graduation, 1970
Chapter Ten Another Change
Chapter Eleven Spring Fever
Chapter Twelve Downward Slide
Chapter Thirteen Courage to Change
Chapter Fourteen Back to Boston
Chapter Fifteen A Nurse with an Attitude
Chapter Sixteen A New Personality Emerges
Chapter Seventeen No Choice
Chapter Eighteen Another Episode
Chapter Nineteen Laughter: The Best Medicine
Chapter Twenty Oh, No, Not the Emergency Room
Chapter Twenty-One Forty Days and Forty Nights
Chapter Twenty-Two Light at the End of the Tunnel
Chapter Twenty-Three Graduation II
Chapter Twenty-Four Changes
Chapter Twenty-Five The Journey
Chapter Twenty-Six DRGs
Chapter Twenty-Seven My Awakening
Chapter Twenty-Eight No Respect
Chapter Twenty-Nine Is This For Real?
Chapter Thirty A Roller Coaster Ride
Chapter Thirty-One Had Enough
Chapter Thirty-Two HMOs
Chapter Thirty-Three Medicare
Chapter Thirty-Four Am I Burnt Out Yet?
Chapter Thirty-Five End of the Journey
Chapter Thirty-Six The Answer Is Yes
Chapter Thirty-Seven The Guiding Light
The white walls were sterile looking, the floors shiny, clean, even glistening as I entered into Canton Children’s Hospital. The smell of antiseptic was exuding into my olfactory senses.
There was an overweight nurse in a starched uniform, white nylons and a blue sweater. A white cap stood firmly on her head; I was frightened of her. She had a stern look, her body movements showing she was clearly in charge.
I was sixteen-years-old at the time. It was ten p.m. on a Friday night and I had talked my friend Richie into taking me to see my fourteen-year-old sister, Denise, in the hospital. She had been diagnosed with scoliosis two years before; she had a severe 90-degree curve up her spinal column that a brace couldn’t correct, so she needed surgery to straighten the curve. She was going to lie flat in bed for the next nine months; of course, I had to see Neasie! But I had to sneak in. Visiting hours were on Saturdays and Sundays only, from one to four p.m. Unfortunately, I had to work both those days as a waitress at the Continental restaurant in Cambridge. I was a junior in high school, and only could work weekends, so I planned to sneak in, see Neasie for the first time after her surgery.
Oh, how my heart ached for her! My little sister, she and I “the dividends” as my mother used to call us “the two children I never thought I’d have” as our mother Mary Connors used to say. So, of course, on that balmy April night I went to see Neasie.
Richie was hesitant, he said, “We have to sneak in, that’s not a good idea and my dad let me borrow his car, I might not have it back in time, let’s not go Kate.” But I begged, pleaded with him. “Please, Richie,” I said. “I only want to see Denise’s face, know she’s alive.”
But as we approached the building, I wondered if I had made the right decision. The lights were out … doors were locked. But I had courage; I pressed the doorbell to her unit as perspiration appeared on my forehead. “Nerves,” I said, “be brave, it’s for Neasie.”
I don’t know if the pounding was real but I heard the heavy steps of the large nurse appearing, both the cap on her head and her feet appeared bigger than life. She opened the door slowly, looked at me intently. I said, “Sorry to be here so late but my sister had surgery, back surgery and I want to visit, her name is Denise Connors!”
The nurse looked at me, then at Richie. Her large frame suddenly softened, a smile appeared. “I’m sorry,” she said, “the ward is quiet, Denise is asleep, and could you come back tomorrow?”
Tears came to my eyes. “No,” I said, “I have to work, please let me in; I just need to know she’s okay.”
I wish I could remember her name. But this scary nurse, this wicked witch of the west transformed herself into the good witch, as in the Wizard of Oz. “Okay,” she said, “be very quiet and only for a minute.” I slowly walked inside. My shoes sounded heavy as I walked on my tiptoes, looking into each room as I passed; darkness, quiet and peaceful. The nurse hugged me as she showed me Denise’s room.
“You’re a good sister,” she said. “Denise is lucky.”
I could see the silhouette of Denise’s body as the night-light shined on her. She was lying still, a back brace intact, and her breathing shallow. She looked so long and skinny, she had been through so much in the last two years. The doctors had stretched her body, literally put her on a board and pulled her spinal cord! Then a back brace for a year, hoping that would get rid of her curved spine. Instead, she was made fun of in school, laughed at and ridiculed. In the end the brace didn’t work, her curved spine never improved. Finally the spinal fusion, the last resort.
I walked over and placed my hand on her shoulder, her head turned towards me, her green eyes slowly opened. “Neasie, it’s me, Katie,” I said. “I’m here.”
I knew she thought it was a dream but she held my hand regardless. Denise looked over to her left side, towards the other bed that was occupied. She said, “That’s Mary Beth, she had the same surgery as me.” Mary Beth didn’t stir, her stillness made me wonder if she was breathing. But then I noticed her cast covering her upper torso, the slow movement as she inhaled and exhaled. She almost looked angelic.
Something clicked that very moment, I wanted to help make Denise and Mary Beth better, heal their shattered bodies and make them laugh. Their little fourteen-year-old faces looked so needy, so vulnerable. I couldn’t put words to my feelings that night as I left, but I knew I wanted to do more than just visit. I wanted to be part of that nurse’s life, the lives of the sick and helpless, to make things better. I wanted those fourteen-year-old girls to be walking again and I wanted to be part of it. Thus, my thoughts of a nursing career began.
Chapter One
May — 1969
A cloud of black and white mortarboard caps momentarily blocked the sun and floated down as the warm spring air filled with a tumultuous roar, the exultant cheers of 400 graduating Waverly High School students. I was one of them. It was reality. I was seventeen-years-old, embarking on a career as a nurse and ready to leave high school behind. It had been a tough senior year, college boards, NLN’s (National League for Nurses Exams) and trying to finish my senior year with a respectable grade.
The problem was I didn’t get accepted into any R. N (Registered Nurse) programs or college level schools. So, I applied to several
LPN (licensed practical nurse) programs and was admitted to all of them. I chose Shepard-Gill. Shepard-Gill, located on Newbury Street in Boston was an eighteen-month program that went right through the summer. Two prestigious women who were very successful within the nursing community ran the program.
So, in the midst of the Vietnam War, moratoriums and Wood-stock, I headed to Newbury Street to enter a whole new world. I was frightened about leaving home, my safe nest, separation from my family and friends. My father teased me. “Kate, you’ll be three miles from Waverly. What’s the big deal?” The fact was I was scared to death! Was this what I really wanted? I was so uncertain! I think I would have preferred to work for a year then go to school. But I wasn’t sure. My boyfriend of four years, Bill, was also leaving and joining the Marines. He was going to Basic Training that September. I would miss him and my predictable, comfortable life. Why did everything have to change? Yikes, I’m only 17; I don’t want to grow up!
I remember in mid July my mother taking me to the bank “Okay, Katie,” she said, “you need to withdraw some money, and you need to make the first tuition payment. You’re going to school.” I had argued with her for two weeks before on how I should wait, think it over, go to Woodstock with my sister Irene.
“No!” Mary Connors said. “You, young lady, are going to become a nurse!” God, did I hate her for about twenty seconds; her fiery green eyes were telling me I had no choice! Yikes again!
The middle of August we packed up my belongings and headed to Boston. My dad felt sad; he looked sort of guilty, possibly thinking maybe I should have taken the year off. He reached into his pocket; I heard the familiar sound of the change clinking around. The quarters were saying “give them to Katie.” He dumped out all of his change, handed it over to me and said, “You better study. This is your last chance; call me to let us know how you’re doing.” My dad had been unhappy with my academic performance in high school. C’s and B’s. He started to give up on me, told me I liked to party too much. He was a Harvard graduate and wanted excellence from his children. I had been the disappointment in the family. As he handed me the change the look on his face said, “This is your last chance, don’t screw up.”
Newbury Street is a beautiful section of Boston, full of two-hundred-year-old buildings rich with history and character. As we walked into 22 Newbury, I marveled at the place, the high ceilings and mahogany banisters that led us up to my third floor dormitory room.
My roommate Trisha had already arrived. She was unpacking, placing her pictures on her bureau. I immediately noticed her boyfriend was a Marine. She proudly held his photo in front of her; I wondered if she was as homesick as I was feeling. I already missed my friends! I pictured my old hangouts: Friendly’s, Victory Field, Palfrey Hill, I wanted to run back to my parents’ car, back to my old life. Before I wimped out, Trisha started to tell me her boyfriend was in Vietnam, had been for six months. I knew at that moment I would stay in school, not run; if Trisha could do it so could I. I told myself to be brave; the sadness I was feeling would dissipate.
My mother, who had been lingering, stood up and decided to go. “OK Katie you’ll be fine, toughen up; don’t forget you’re half Scottish.” I looked at my dad, full of County Kerry, and tears came to both our eyes. He knew my thoughts, what I was feeling; he knew the Irish in me was stronger than ever. He hugged me and said, “You’ll make a good nurse, just like your Aunt Teresa.” I pictured my Aunt in her white uniform, her large frame lumbering around her house, taking care of my Uncle Frank as beads of sweat appeared on her forehead, her smiling at me and saying, “nursing is hard work, no money in it, your feet kill you at the end of the day, you truly have to love this profession to get into it.”
I watched my parents walk down the steps and out to their car from my front window. The tears wouldn’t stop. I went to my suitcase; lifted out my Rosary beads my godmother had given me for my confirmation. I put them in the pocket of my jeans, hoping the Blessed Mother would give me strength for the next twenty-four hours.
From the minute I started nursing school to the very last day it was nursing, nursing, and nursing! From one clinical rotation to the next we lived and breathed life and death illnesses and healing. The first three months were all academics of the nursing profession. I learned more about Florence Nightingale and her friends then I needed to know. We learned about the history of nursing, medicine, had a tour of Mass General hospital showing us the first nurse, first doctor and the first Operating Room, all adorning one wall of the hospital. Our academics included Nursing 101, Pharmacology, Microbiology, Anatomy and Physiology, and Music! Music? We all said “why?” Trisha and I laughed so hard when we found out we wouldn’t graduate unless we passed music! Once a week, on Friday afternoons we had to sing as one of the instructors played the piano. The school dog, a little French poodle, would sit at the instructor’s feet, probably laughing, not keeping a straight face like the rest of us.
This scenario was too much for my personality. My laughing fits and bad attitude almost got me thrown out of school. But I begged, pleaded and promised to sing and not laugh. I apologized for being immature; I did not want to face the wrath of my parents if I got tossed out of school, especially in the first month! My father had told me I was a risk and probably wouldn’t stay in school, that’s why my parents made me pay for the first half of my tuition. So I knew I couldn’t screw up! I was learning so much in the first three months. While my homesickness would sneak back occasionally, I loved school and was too busy for my feelings to interfere with the learning process. I was intrigued with learning the function of every organ of the body and about diseases. How anyone stays healthy with all these illnesses, I thought. Pharmacology was my hardest subject; I always had trouble with math and I found it difficult to figure out dosages and formulas. But I had persevered and it started to become easy to me.
Boston could be a scary place too. I had grown up in suburbia and always had felt safe walking home late at night, but in Boston I felt I had to be with someone. Whether true or not, my imagination had bad people on every corner. I did feel safe in the cozy and student friendly pizza parlor across the street from school. My classmates and I would frequently go there for lunch or an early dinner. But come to find out there were drug deals going on … money being exchanged for marijuana, heroin and speed. I saw it at night from my large picture window and these longhaired men and women intrigued me, these bell bottomed entrepreneurs. Of course, it was a world foreign to me. I felt sorry for them, night after night exchanging money for drugs, sometimes the same people, and often time’s new faces would appear.
One fall evening, about two months into school, I ran across the street to use the pay phone. I saw this young handsome guy, looking weird, paranoid, swiveling his head from side to side, as if someone was after him. I went into the pizza place to get a Coke first and then headed to the phone booth. Once inside I dialed my girlfriend Nancy’s phone number. I had been talking for about thirty seconds when the young man started banging on the phone booth. “Get the fuck outta there,” he said, several times. He was becoming more and more crazed looking, his eyes wild, pupils enlarged. I knew he was high on something. I hung up the phone and moved out. Slowly. A wonder, as I was almost paralyzed with fear!
“Who were you talking to on the phone about me, I’ll fucking kill you,” he snarled.
I still couldn’t move, I prayed and then calmly said, “I was talking to my girlfriend. I wasn’t talking about you.”
He replied, “This is my fucking phone booth little girl, don’t ever use it again.”
“Okay, okay,” I said as I walked away, and then started running. Fear propelled me, as I was never so frightened in my life.
That was my initiation into city life … a scary life of the late 1960s and early ’70s. A world awash in new drugs, frightening drugs that brought a whole new meaning to “getting high.” As I started my nursing career, I never realized how devastating this was going to be for our generation and the next thirty years.
The homesickness I had experienced was gone, gone, gone! I was having so much fun I couldn’t believe I had been missing home a mere three months before!
At Shepard-Gill, we had a curfew of seven p.m. Seventy students would get their pajamas on, talk, laugh, study, and hash over our day. My cheekbones would hurt from laughing so hard! I felt I was at a pajama party every night! Before a big exam we’d study for hours on end, sneak into the kitchen about 10 p.m. and eat! Eat! Eat! I put on fifteen pounds the first three months.
The continuous academic life was coming to an end. December was near and we had to move on to the hospitals we would be training at. Shepard-Gill affiliated with three large Boston hospitals, Massachusetts General, Beth Israel and New England Baptist. I was hoping to go to Mass General, a world-renowned facility with over one thousand in patient beds. But I found out two weeks before our “capping” that I was assigned to Beth Israel. The good news was my roommate Trisha would be joining me. More good news was that Beth Israel was up the street from Kenmore Square, a section of Boston with quite a bit of nightlife, bars and dancing. My eyes lit up when I heard the stories from the girls who graduated before me. “Go to K-K-K-Katie’s or Lucifer’s,” one girl said, “These bars are great and the boys are hunks.” Although I was excited about this new era in my life, a way of socializing, meeting new people, having fun, I knew I had to buckle down and study, continue to do well in school or I would have to face the wrath of my father. I was expected to be another Aunt Teresa.
I managed to pull off a B+ average, which was very good for me. I felt good about myself academically and knew I would succeed. I would miss the friends I made at Shepard-Gill as they headed off to different hospitals. I knew we would see one another, visit from time to time, but we’d miss the camaraderie we shared on Newbury Street.
It was the middle of December. I was packing, getting ready to go home for the holidays. I couldn’t help noticing Trisha on her bed, tears in her eyes, looking at her boyfriend’s picture. He had been in Nam for nine months; I put my hand on her shoulder and said, “Only three more months and he’ll be home.” I realized my boyfriend Bill was coming home from Paris Island soon. Being a Marine, he would be heading over to Vietnam. I could feel it; there would be no escaping it. Trisha brushed her hand over her boyfriend’s picture and said, “He’ll be okay.” But we both knew that he might not be okay. My brother in-law, Paul, and some of his friends were in Nam, too, fighting, trying to stay alive. There had already been much causality, so we knew things might not be okay. I remember walking near the Prudential Center one sunny fall day. An Army nurse recruiter had a table outdoors and was recruiting nurses and encouraging future nurses to join the service, maybe go to Vietnam. I read through one of the pamphlets and how they made Army nursing sound so exciting! Go to war; help where you’re really needed! But I was in such denial. I said to myself, this war would be over before I’m out of school. They don’t need me. I was only eighteen not wanting to face death — the reality of the situation; but others were and I knew Bill would be over there soon.
So, we were “capped” on December 20th 1969. A capping is a ceremony that gives the student nurses a right of passage into the world of nursing, where she would embark on a new career of helping and healing. Candles were lit, caps were placed on our heads and I remember feeling so proud! The cap had a velvet blue ribbon across the front, signifying we were students; upon graduation, a black ribbon would replace the blue velvet.
My dad took me, some friends and family out to eat at a fancy restaurant after the ceremony and from there, a party at my house.
Two weeks later I was heading up Brookline Ave in my yellow Volkswagen towards Beth Israel; my car full of clothes, albums and pictures. I parked in front of the dorm, butterflies in my stomach, awaiting another change. I looked over at the hospital and realized I couldn’t wait to take care of my first patient! A really sick person I could help back to wellness!
I was in awe of Beth Israel as I took a walk towards the hospital. Its building took up part of Brookline Ave abutting Massachusetts College of Art. I would be in Boston, one of the biggest medical Meccas in the world.
Beth Israel was founded in 1916 by the Boston Jewish Community to meet the needs of the growing Jewish immigrant population. It had over 500 in patient beds, largely made up of medical/surgical patients with a growing pediatric and obstetric unit as well as an Emergency Room. I looked over and saw an ambulance, its siren wailing, screech to a stop. The paramedics quickly rushed a patient into the Emergency Room. God, I thought, I can’t wait to get started, I just want to be part of this crazy, exciting world!
I unloaded my car and attempted to pass the House Mother in the dormitory but she wouldn’t let me by without a lecture. She was a middle-aged woman, who looked slightly disheveled and grumpy, but once she smiled at me, her personality changed. Her name was Maggie and she had been House Mother to nursing students “forever” as she put it. “Listen Sweetie,” Maggie said, “the curfew is at 7 p.m. on weekdays, 11:30 p.m. on weekends, and I get cross if you disobey.” I started to laugh. She said, “I can tell by the look in your eyes, you’re going to try and break the rules.”
I teased her back and said, “You know me already? Uh, you’ve been talking to my buddies back home?” We laughed together but I knew she wouldn’t be an easy one to fool. She looked older than her fifty years; worn out, but she turned out to have a joyful spirit. When I loaded the elevator with all my belonging and was about to close the door, I saw Maggie flirting with the janitor, not a care in the world.
When I reached my dorm Trisha was already there and my girlfriend Sue. We didn’t have to be in the hospital until Monday morning, in uniform to meet the administrative people at 7 a.m. Sue and Trisha looked nervous, anxious. I said, “Okay, guys. Get on your dancing shoes. We’re going to K-K-K Katie’s to go dancing!
Trisha said, “Oh, Katie, you’re already starting. We should get ready for Monday.”
“Oh, no,” I repeated. “It’s Saturday night we’re going out.” As we were leaving, I told Maggie we’d meet curfew.”
“And if you don’t?” she replied
“We’ll be on time; God knows I don’t want to deal with your Irish temper!” She only shook her head as she saw the three of us head to Kenmore Square. I remember my eighteen-year-old mind thinking I was totally ready for excitement, fun, challenges and risk taking (which I did best) and learning how to be a nurse. Nothing was going to stop me. Two mornings later, I was raring to go as I dressed in my starched uniform blue and white striped and a long white bib covering the uniform. And of course, a sweater, a blue sweater was mandatory with white nylons and white nursing shoes. Trisha told me to get the full affect of our $6-a-pair nylons (that helped the blood flow to our legs) we had to lay on the bed and keep our legs straight as we put them on. The two of us with our uniforms and white bibs, struggled, legs in the air trying to get these nylons on. I was laughing so hard and hoping no one would walk in and see our legs flailing in the air!
We met in a large solarium on one of the floors, being greeted by administrators and their welcoming committee. As the days went on with all these meetings the only thing that kept going through my head was let me take care of somebody, that’s what I’m here for. I wanted to scream with frustration. But there was a whole week of meetings, introductions, rules and a tour of the hospital and finally our schedules for the following week. All the students would be starting out on medical surgical floors for the first three months and gradually move on to the different areas such as Pediatrics, Obstetrics and Psychiatry. By Friday night, I was ready to roll! “Okay, guys. K-K-K-Katie’s again!” So, that was it, weekends in Kenmore Square, partying, some drinking but not getting out of control. Well not that out of control, at least we were always on foot.
By Monday, I couldn’t wait. I was assigned to two patients. We had learned in our first clinical rotation about bed baths, bed making, (mitered corners girls!) taking blood pressures, a patient’s pulse and respiration and ambulating with them. Looking back, I realized how slow moving this all was and how they stressed bed making! How tough can that be? The fun part was reading the patient’s chart. That was a detailed account of their present illness, past medical and surgical history and something about their personal life if necessary. I spent two hours the night before reading my patients’ charts and jotting down appropriate information. I was so excited I could barley sleep the night before!
The first patient I was assigned to was fifty-five-year-old Frank, only he pronounced it “Fraanc” with a French accent. I distinctly knew his real name was Frank. He had to be from the North End of Boston and was very Italian, but I let him think I believed he was “Fraanc” from Paris. Didn’t he know his dripping gold chains were a dead giveaway?! Anyway, “Fraanc” had had a heart attack, damaged one of his coronary arteries and was now in the healing process. He had already been in the hospital a week, was ready for discharge when he developed chest pain again; was sent to the coronary care unit where the doctors ruled out another heart attack and sent him back to the regular medical floor. That’s where I came in. I was his student nurse until discharge.
I was instructed to help with his personal care, take his vital signs and follow-up on all other doctors’ orders under my instructor’s supervision. The first two days went well; I made his bed, took his blood pressure every two hours, gave him a back rub and offered support. “This is a breeze,” I said to Trisha. “He’s a nice guy, easy to take care of.” But the next day “Fraanc” was waiting for me, said he didn’t feel well, was too tired to “wash up.”
Um, I said to myself. Not according to the report I received from the night nurse. She said he was fine, slept all night. I said, “Okay, Fraanc, I’ll report this to the charge nurse, or your doctor right now.” I had already taken his vital signs and he was stable.
“No,” he said. “Just get me a basin and I’ll wash up.” So, I proceeded with the daily routine, placed the basin with hot soapy water in front of him with the face cloth and towel and started to leave the room. He called to me. “Katie, I really need help, please wash me.” He preceded to hand me the face cloth and pulled down the sheet where he was totally naked … genitals exposed. He pointed and said, “Please, wash me.”
I started to stutter. “Fr-Fr-Frank, I need to ask my instructor,” and I backed out the room, turning totally red. I caught my instructor before she headed into another patient’s room and told her the story.
“Do you think he’s capable of washing himself?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I don’t want to go near him.”
My instructor came back into his room with me, retook his vital signs and pronounced him healthy enough to wash his own groin. In her kind, firm way she told “Fraanc” to back off and stop trying to take advantage of an eighteen-year-old nursing student. Things were never the same between Frank and I. I’d catch him leering at me, winking, making me feel uncomfortable. It was 1969 and sexual harassment was in no one’s vocabulary. I breathed a sigh of relief two days later when he was discharged.
My second patient was a lady who will always remain in my heart. Her name was Mary Hill. Little did I know at the time I would be taking care of her again during one of her several admissions within the next year.
Mary was fifty-years-old, divorced, the mother of three loving grown children, two boys and a girl. Mary had found a lump on her breast and was in the hospital to be “worked up”, meaning blood tests, mammogram and probably a biopsy. I introduced myself and she was thrilled to have a student. She was nervous, apprehensive and in need of someone to talk to. I was that link. I proceeded to write down her medical and surgical history, which consisted of three normal vaginal deliveries of her children and an UGI series (upper gastrointestinal) the month before because of continued nausea and stomach discomfort. All tests came back negative; the doctors found nothing wrong.
The next day when I saw her she said, “The lump is suspicious. They are going to do a biopsy.” Mary went to the operating room about 9 a.m. Two hours later, she was back, the preliminary results didn’t look hopeful but the doctor was waiting for the final pathology report. He wanted her to think about surgery. Mary was crying when I went into her room. It was the first time in my life I felt helpless; there was nothing I could do to make her better. Her daughter came into the room to visit. She was not much older than me, maybe twenty. She was full of hope for her mother. How would I feel if that was my mom?
When I left the hospital that day I needed to be alone. A light snow was falling as I headed down Brookline Ave. With just a sweater on, I thought of my mother saying, “Katie, get a coat on, you’ll catch a cold” or when I was little I’d come in from a wintry day, having just built a snowman with my sister Denise, our cheeks all rosy, our mittens frozen with icicles hanging off them; our hands would be so cold we’d cry. My mother would slowly take our mittens off and gently rub our hands and put them under her “wings” her arms, until we had warmed up. Oh! How I had taken all that tenderness, caring and love for granted. I sat on a bench, put my head in my hands and just cried. I cried for Mary, her daughter, her sons and how life can be so unfair.
When I got back to the dorm, I called my mother. I heard her cheery voice, her singsong voice, “Hello!” I could feel her sadness as I told her about Mary. This was the first time I realized my mother could get sick, she could die. Somehow, I thought of my mother above everyone else, she’d never get sick; mothers don’t die. But she was vulnerable like everyone else; she could be Mary in that bed. I went to sleep that night more appreciative of my mom, and the things I had.
It was Friday, the end of February when a bunch of us ventured to Lucifer’s, another bar in Kenmore Square. None of us were twenty-one and we all had either our older sister’s IDs or fake ones. There were no picture licenses at the time so we could get away with it. We had a curfew of course, but the few hours we had helped relieve the tension of the previous week.
The six of us joined a table of guys about twenty minutes after we got there. The boys were students at Boston University and Boston College. It was a festive and fun two hours. We felt cohesiveness, a coming together after a long week of school. One of the guys I was talking to was twenty-five; he was a medical student at BU, wanted to become a surgeon. I talked to him for over an hour, told him about my patients, and had him laughing when I told him about “Fraanc”. “This guy is so mature,” I told Trisha on the way home. “How am I going to stay faithful to Bill?”
Trisha replied, “Face it, Katie, you’re not.” We both laughed. But the fact was I felt guilty. I was home, getting an education, having fun while Bill was over in Vietnam, not knowing if he would see the next twenty-four hours. Trisha said, “Kate, you’re eighteen. Live your life, give yourself permission to have fun.” So, I did my best; I tried anyway, but I was growing up, moving away from the past. I was at a crossroads in my life, I wanted more; I deserved more. So I gave myself permission to live my life, have fun as a nursing student, work hard and reward myself. No harm in that.
The spring days of April arrived. It was 1970. Boston was starting to blossom. Trees were budding and the crocuses were appearing. I loved school, loved nursing; I was happy in my new life. But I had no money. I took on the responsibility and ownership of my sister Kerry’s car. It was a yellow Volkswagen and I would have to pay $90 a month. My savings were dwindling. I called my dad on a Friday night to tell him my dilemma. His reply was, “Go to work.”
I said, “Dad, I’m in school.”
“Yeah. So?” he said. “You have a B+ average, your teachers told me you could work in the hospital as a nursing assistant if you maintain a B average. Get a job, Kate.”
I wanted to kill my father! I hung up the phone on him and yelled, “Cheapo!” In years to come, I thanked my dad for what he did. It was one of life’s lessons about responsibility and not depending on someone else’s money.
The following Monday I went to the nursing office at Beth Israel, got a job as a nursing assistant and started the following week. My schedule was busy. I had clinical practice for school three days a week, two full days of classes, then I went to work on those two days as an aide, plus one day over the weekend. The nurses on the floor gave me more responsibility because I was a student. My shift was three p.m. to nine p.m. on one of the surgical floors. After the patients had their surgery and spent a few hours in the recovery room, they would arrive on my floor. I loved this job! I listened and learned; my brain was like a sponge. I absorbed everything the nurses and doctors taught me and never forgot. There were also medical patients on the floor, those who didn’t have surgery but needed to be hospitalized for medical reasons, such as strokes and heart attacks.
A patient I remember was Lilly, an 83-year-old lady who had a CVA (cerebral vascular accident) or better known as a stroke. A CVA is when a clot forms and goes to the brain; a hemorrhage occurs or even a spasm that narrows the blood flow. Lilly was an active 83-year-old who was driving every day. She had been having occasional numbness and tingling in her hands and feet but ignored the symptoms. What she was experiencing were “TIAs” or “trans ischemic attacks” — little strokes cutting off oxygen and blood supply to the brain for a short period of time, but the symptoms would come back.
Lilly had been out to lunch with her two girlfriends at a local restaurant when suddenly she stopped talking, her mouth started to droop and she couldn’t move her right arm. Her friends called an ambulance. I took care of Lilly for two weeks before she died. She would stare up at me with her big brown frightened eyes, unable to speak, communicate or turn over in her bed by herself. She was totally dependent on the nurses for her care. Lilly was so tiny I could care for her alone, turn and position her in bed, clean her up when she messed the bed.
I felt helpless, no matter what I did or the doctors did I knew Lilly would die. After only seven months of school, I was beginning to accept death, remembering from my Catholic upbringing that God has a greater plan for us all. Growing up I was used to my parents going to wakes, especially my dad. I remember him coming home one night from a wake in a really good mood, whistling. I said, “Dad, someone just died. Why are you so cheerful? Aren’t you sad?”
“Kate,” he said, “Mr. O’Toole was eighty-five. He had a great life. It’s a celebration, and he’s in heaven now.”
Somehow I couldn’t imagine being so joyful, but I’d glimpse at my father reading the death notices in the Boston Globe, the “Irish Sports Page,” looking for friends and acquaintances who had passed on.
Lilly died while I was at supper the following night. I didn’t get to say goodbye. She experienced another massive stroke and no heroics were performed. This was the first death of a patient for me. I was afraid to be in the room alone with her and I wasn’t quite sure why. I kept thinking she would breathe again, and when I’d look over at her I thought I’d see her take in a breath; it was my imagination.
When I was little my brothers used to tell me to look up at the wall when I was lying in bed and I would see my grandmother (who had died years before) in the dark. Her face would be on the wall. “Spirits come back,” my brother, John, would say. My sister, Denise, and I would lie in bed shaking, scared to death, thinking we were seeing Grammie. My brothers would be laughing at us in the other room.
I looked over at Lilly and wondered where her spirit was. Could it still be in the room? Suddenly one of the nurses walked in the room, startled me and I screamed “Ahhh!”
She in turn screamed “Ahhh,” back. We both stood in stunned silence, staring at each other, and then we started to laugh.
“Meg,” I said, “you startled me. I thought you were Lilly’s spirit.”
Meg said to me, “Is this the first death for you?”
“Yeah,” I said, “my first.”
Meg replied, “It takes time, Kate. You’ll get used to it.”
“My Aunt Theresa told me that when a person dies, their soul leaves their body through their feet,” I said to Meg, hoping for a response.
Meg had a smile on her face; she was a seasoned nurse and had probably seen more than she’d care to remember. She was packing up Lilly’s belongings, emptying her drawers and throwing different items away when she replied, “I think that is an old tale our grandparents believed, something to make them feel better when a loved one dies, that their soul travels to somewhere special.”
We had to wait for Lilly’s family to arrive before post mortem care could be done. Her kids needed to say their goodbyes, clear her room and get her belongings. The head nurse never made me do post-mortem care with Meg. Fortunately, they knew I was upset. After all, this was my “first.”
Chapter Six
Getting Comfortable
As the months passed, I became more comfortable with all aspects of health care. Sickness and death came with the territory of being a nurse, and when patients got well, recovered from surgery you felt as if you were part of the healing process. I no longer cringed at the sight of open wounds or blood, no longer gagged at certain bodily fluids, and I learned to communicate with stroke victims when they couldn’t speak. My legs would ache at the end of a shift, after running around on the floors, answering call lights, emptying bed pans, changing dressings, getting people in and out of bed all day; the ache in my back was a good ache after a day’s work, a day of accomplishments and satisfaction.
My grades were good. I loved Anatomy and Physiology, wanted to learn more and more, not like in high school. I found something I could do and do it well. I cared about my patients. The nurses on the floors, my fellow students and even Maggie, the housemother, became my family. I met so many people from all walks of life; it was an eye opener a definite learning experience.
There was a classmate of mine, an adorable petite Jewish girl named Barbara, who knew everything! She was a few years older than me, beautiful, knowledgeable and sophisticated. I loved talking to her because she was so worldly! We were on a clinical rotation together when she told me her real reason for becoming a nurse … to find a Jewish doctor. My eyes widened! “You know what you want already?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll get what I want.” She told me the way to a man’s heart (particularly a Jewish man’s heart) was to be seductive and sexy, make them think they are the most important people on Earth! None of this had ever entered my mind. Barbara said, “Don’t you want a rich husband? Or haven’t you thought about it?”
“No,” I said, “I just got out of high school.” She told me you had to walk a certain way — a “sexy” way — and she grabbed my hand and brought me to the utility room. And in her long blue nurse’s uniform, bib and all, she transformed herself into a sexy-looking older woman. She pursed her lips, threw her chest out and swayed her hips. I was mesmerized.
She said, “Okay. Now you try it.” So, I imitated Barbara, practicing for ten minutes. I knew I looked stupid, it just wasn’t my style to purse my lips and swing my hips to look sexy. But I never forgot that day, an initiation into the world of finding a husband.
Two weeks later, the beginning of May, I finished working on a particularly difficult floor. I was exhausted after taking care of a man who had a gunshot wound in his abdomen. The bullet went right through his gut and somehow damaged his spinal cord. Hence, he was paralyzed. When I took care of him he was four days post-operative after removing the bullet. He was thirty-five-years-old, from a tough section of town, had been at the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up with a bullet in his spine that was meant for someone else.
His name was Max. He had two small children and a wife who wasn’t dealing with his accident very well. It was overwhelming and she was still in a state of shock; she also couldn’t deal with Max’s anger. He would scream at us as we turned and positioned him in bed. Scream at his wife for no reason at all. He was a tough patient to have to care for, physically and emotionally. I wanted to support his wife as well. I listened to her vent her feelings and cry and scream. I was new at this and didn’t know how to respond, so I just held her hand and shook my head in understanding, listening to her every word and validating her feelings. Max eventually left the hospital and was transferred to a rehabilitation facility. I never heard from him or his wife again.
I headed back to my dormitory the night after taking care of Max. I went straight to my mailbox hoping to receive a letter from Bill. He had been in Vietnam for three months; it had been three weeks since I’d heard from him. Weird, I thought as I opened and shut my empty mailbox. I called my parents when I got to my room. When my dad answered, I asked if I had any letters from Bill.
“No,” he said hesitantly. The country knew that the war in Vietnam was getting worse. More and more casualties each day; the whole war sucked! Why were we there anyway? I told my father I’d be home for the weekend and Trisha would be with me.
The next day, Trisha and I jumped into my Volkswagen and headed west onto Storrow Drive. I had a restless, uneasy feeling about Bill and I was going to call his family when I got home. As I turned my car onto Longmeadow Road, heading toward my house, I saw Richie, Bill’s brother, parked in front of my house. Something was wrong. I walked in the front door and looked at Rich and my parents sitting solemnly on the couch, awaiting my arrival. Rich said, “Bill’s been hurt. He stepped on a mine and lost his leg.”
I was shocked and didn’t want to believe what I had heard. “Why, why, why?” I screamed as I heaved one of my shoes through my parent’s window, shattering the glass all over the floor. I fell on my knees, put my face in my hands and cried. Cried for Bill, for the senseless war and all the pain, injuries, and deaths it was causing.
Two months later, I went to visit Bill at Philadelphia Naval Hospital along with his two brothers. The doctors, nurses and support staff were helping young men, all injured from the war, back to reality. I looked around at these young men, some of them not even twenty-years-old, their fresh wounds, the look of hopelessness and despair in their eyes, and the nurses who arrived each shift to help them heal physically, mentally and spiritually.
What I noticed most about the staff was how they projected hope, their wonderful attitude and sense of humor. They wouldn’t let their patients give up; they helped the soldiers see that they would get better, the pain would go, depression would dissipate and they would be home with their families soon. My eyes never left these nurses who encountered new casualties every day and how they bravely did their jobs, bringing light and love to all these men.
I went back to school after visiting Bill and was never quite the same. Nursing suddenly seemed like an awesome responsibility. I realized to be a good nurse you had to heal the body, mind and spirit in order for the patients to get well, a balancing act. I tried to describe to my colleagues and staff nurses what the veteran’s hospital was like, and the responsibility of the doctors and nurses as wounded men would arrive everyday. But it was so tragic it was almost indescribable. Even now, thirty years later, I remember those nurses, their healing hands, open hearts and positive attitudes.
Chapter Seven
Dog Days of Summer
Hot August days. Wartime. Moratoriums. Four months to go until graduation. The humidity was unbearable as we left our dorm and headed to the Boston Common to be part of the moratorium, which is a peace rally, a group of people making a statement against the Vietnam War, a get together of like-minded people. The pungent smell of marijuana pervaded the air as longhaired men and women, in bell-bottoms and love beads chanted, “No Nam” and prayed for peace. A demonstration to show the president they wanted the country out of Vietnam; these Americans wanted Nixon to take them seriously. Speeches were made, people held up placards with the names of the dead on them as candles were lit and church bells tolled.
The moratorium was on national TV that night, and as I watched it I had such mixed feelings. I wanted to believe our men were over there fighting for a reason. If not, why did Bill lose his leg? But yet, it felt wrong; thousands were dying.
I felt depressed after watching the news and decided to go over to the hospital and see if any of the floors needed help. As I learned later in nursing, that was a dumb question; they always need help! When I went to my favorite surgical floor and asked the charge nurse if she needed some assistance, she looked at me and said, “Is the Pope Catholic?” I ran back to the dorm and changed my clothes, and fifteen minutes later, I was giving back rubs, changing dressings and trying to make sick people laugh. That was how I dealt with my personal problems at the time; I escaped into someone else’s problems. I was aware of what I was doing, but said to myself, If I’m not here I’d be at K-K-K-Katie’s drinking!
When I went back to the dorm at 11 p.m., I heard hysterical laughter coming from one of the rooms. I walked down the hall to see what was so funny! About four of my fellow students had a sphygmometer (blood pressure machine) and they were taking each other’s blood pressure and laughing hysterically! I sat on the bed trying to figure out what was so amusing. Then I realized they were all stoned! I laughed and said, “You guys smokin’ some good shit?”
Lori beamed and said, “Watch the mercury go down when I take Kim’s blood pressure. It’s intense!” So, I watched, they killed themselves laughing. I was having more fun watching them crack up, and I was not stoned!
As I walked back to my room, I laughed and thought the four of them would have enjoyed Boston Common and that marijuana was very much alive in campuses all over the country. What was so appealing about marijuana? It loosened a person up after a busy day; the drug brought peacefulness to the psyche that alcohol couldn’t do. More and more people were choosing pot over alcohol. Some of pot’s appeal was its illicit status. There were campaigns going on for its legalization but it still seemed a far way off and the government was strict in certain instances. In July of 1969, a twenty-year-old former high school track star got twenty years in a Virginia jail — the minimum sentence for drug possession —exactly the same for first-degree murder. Legalization definitely was not in the forefront of the Nixon Administration.