I felt the strain on my knee and leg as her bony foot struck me. It was not a good kick, but it was strategically aimed. Crunch! My knee, which was already a little wonky from the marathon, was suddenly in agony.
“Ah!” I yelped. But I stayed put, pressing my gloved hand firmly into her neck.
There was blood oozing through my fingers. I could hear sneakered feet and voices coming down the hall, it was only a minute before I would have help. I looked down into the sweet cornflower blue eyes that looked up at me.
“Stop trying to kill me!” she spat through gritted teeth.
I adored her.
I smiled and said in my most reassuring voice, “I’m a nurse. I’m not here to hurt you. Mrs (Smith), just relax. You are safe.”
Sadly, I don't think she was reassured. She narrowed her eyes and dug her nails into my arm. They were long and sharp, painted an orangy red color and she triumphantly grinned as got one of them into the skin. A trickle of my blood dripped down into her bed.
And I continued to hold pressure on the open wound on her neck.
I continued to reassure her.
The rest of the nurses descended on us, and I moved from “emergency pressure holder” to “hand holder”.
By hand holder I really mean, “I continued to allow that poor woman to try to rip the skin off my arm so that other nurses could apply bandages to her bleeding jugular.”
These are my people. Sweet confused people who are so ill that they think that I, the nurse, am not who I say I am. Patient’s who call me Morris.
Patients who believe that I am people from their past who’ve come to call on them. Or haunt them.
These are my people. And I really do love them.
Regardless of how truly fond I am of my confused patients, when I got up the next morning my leg couldn’t bear weight at 100%. Holy WHAT? I was limping for much of the day because it just felt so uncomfortable. Thankfully, I
totally panicked and reached out to TMB before most people are even awake spoke rationally to a friend who recommended I head to see the Witch Dr.
At least The Witch Dr could evaluate my situation.
And thankfully, after he treated me for a solid 20 minutes with some medieval torture devices and his thumb, he pronounced me “probably ok” with a promise to “re-evaluate next week if I wasn’t 100%”.
So there you go. Walking into a patient’s room is far more dangerous for my knees than running a marathon.
And you know what I’m going to do again in a few days? Walk into that “same” patient’s room. Even if it’s a different patient.
~savor the run~