This week's story is printed here by permission of Susan Spence (c) 1999 from Chicken Soup for the Nurse's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Nancy-Mitchell-Autio, R. N. and LeAnn Thieman, L. P. N. As a nurse, Susan is a caregiver, but her story is about a priceless gift that was given to her.
When I moved from Ohio to Arkansas, I considered it a blessing. After living up north all of my life, I was ready for a change. My house had burned down, my husband left me after 14 years and my very existence had disappeared into a black hole. Moving to Arkansas, nearer my ailing mother, seemed to be a great idea. I had nothing to lose. However, I was not prepared for the gifts I was about to receive.
I was very grateful to land a job right away at a Christian hospital, working on surgery floors. Then one day I was sent up to oncology. I protested to deaf ears. You will work where you are needed, they told me. I thought it was dreadful. I could feel death everywhere and my heart felt so heavy. Day after day, I was sent to the cancer floor.
To my amazement, after awhile I began to "need" to work on that floor. One day, I stood among my "babies" and realized that God had sent me here. This was my home. My patients were no longer room numbers--they had faces and names. I knew what they liked to eat, how many children they had, at what job they had spent most of their life working and how they felt about their cancer.
As with many nurses, I became close to these very special patients. I loved each and every one of them. At times, it was difficult keeping my emotions in check.
One day, a patient named Billy came to the floor. He was a large man with bone cancer and a great sense of humor. Though he was in great pain, he rarely complained. His loving wife watched over him with the greatest love one can imagine and made certain he received the best care. We all laughed and cried together, and shared family stories and jokes. They became part of our hospital family.
After coming in for chemo treatments and going back home several times, Billy's energy was spent. The last time he was admitted, he looked beaten. So did his wife. He was suffering so much that it was hard for all of us to care for him--we knew there was nothing much we could do. He was now terminal and his pain so intense that no amount of medicine helped. I think every nurse cried for Billy and his family.
It was nearing Easter and Billy had so many visitors it was hard for his wife to have any time alone with him. I felt so sorry for her. But she kept smiling.
One night, near the end of my shift, I made my last trip down the hallway and peeked in on Billy. I opened the door to his room very slowly so I wouldn't wake him. The light from the hall shone into the room and lit it up like moonlight. I looked towards the bed and a little gasp escaped from my mouth. There was Billy, lying on his back, the position I knew was most painful for him. Next to him lay his wife, nestled in the pit of his arm, all curled up like a baby deer next to its mother. She was sleeping so soundly, I could hear little whistles coming from her mouth. I stood there like an intruder. My feet would not move. As I tried to leave, Billy opened his eyes. He smiled a crooked smile and winked at me as if to say, "It's okay."
I closed the door, walked up the now empty hallway and went to the chapel. I cried a few minutes then thanked God for blessing me with this very special moment.
Billy died soon after that night, but not before he gave me new eyes and a special good-bye gift.