You can usually spot the child of a nurse right away. They’re the ones fascinated by the blood trickling from their skinned knee after a bicycle wreck. They’re the kid always trying to mend a frog’s broken leg or bottle feed an orphaned burrow of baby bunnies. They’re the oddball kid using medical terminology amongst their bewildered peers.
I remember calling a bully boy on the playground in fourth grade an anacephalic. I naturally never got in trouble since no one knew what I was talking about.
My first water gun was a 60cc syringe.
When my mother worked in research I had white lab rats the size of a small domestic cat as my pets.
My little friends were impressed when I ran a tub full of dry ice.
I didn’t care so much about changing my doll’s dress as I did about changing her dressing.
There was always an abundant supply of bandage materials to be found. Packs of gauze. Differing rolls of tape. Alcohol pads galore.
I would sit on the floor sifting through my mother’s first aid bag in awe. More than a simple kit purchased at the store, it was a medic bag from the military filled with items collected over the years. Many expired but too fascinating to toss. Tourniquets, needles without safety devices, IV needles manufactured before the plastic sheath catheters came along.
Hemostats, other than the trusty pair she always carried in her purse, sat at the bottom of the bag. She kept one in her purse just in case. You never knew when you might encounter a severed artery after all. Many years later I would find I carried a pair in my purse too. Explaining what it was to a suspicious airport security guard post 9/11 would prove interesting to say the least.
I would sift through the bag of medical goodies, inspecting each item with interest and curiosity. I would start imaginary IV lines on my homemade cabbage patch dolls. Years later the holes in their cotton arms would make them resemble frozen-smiled heroin addicts.
We would eat dinner together while the topics of conversation centered around what they had found during an exploratory lap of the guy’s stomach who complained of persistent abdominal pain. Apparently watermelon seeds can sprout in there if the conditions are just right.
I remember as a young girl being so proud that my mommy saved lives for a living. I would watch in awe as neighborhood people came out of the woodwork seeking her counsel. I would even watch as they gathered her aid when tragedy struck nearby. I watched as they rode off with her to try and save a child’s life after a traumatic accident severed her limb.
I felt pride as I watched her drive away to save the day, but later I would feel her raw emotion as I eavesdropped on her conversation with my father after she returned shaken and covered with blood. I would hear the racking sobs as she recounted the horror of seeing a child drift away.
I would grow up seeing my parents leave notes for each other, the only conversation capable in a working world of night shift and 12 hour days.
I would see her perform the Heimlich maneuver on a choking victim. I would think she could do anything! I would ask her to draw my blood after continuous painful lab draws as a chronically ill child. Then I would be shocked that it hurt when she stuck me too. I never forgot the disappointment on her face when I said “ouch.”
I would see her laugh about her field of work. I would see her angry. I would see her cry.
When I inevitably chose to follow in her footsteps I would hear her question me, “Are you sure?”
I’d see the concern on her face as she knew the hard road I’d encounter with the profession. She knew about the long days, nonexistent breaks, and frustrations the field of nursing could bring.
I had heard her stories of drug-seeking behavior, rude or violent patients, and the risks to your own health when performing the job, be it physical and/or mental.
I had watched her look of concern change to a smile as I answered, “I’m sure.” She couldn’t help but smile because she knew the rewards I would receive from a job that became more than a career, but a way of life.
I had also heard her stories of happy endings, babies saved, and eternal thank you’s from lives touched by a healing hand.
I would watch her disappointment as illness forced her to leave the only job she ever loved even half as much as being a mother. I would see her renew her nursing license with the hope of one day being able to practice again.
I would complain to her about my job as a nurse and the unfair treatment I felt I received. I would watch her eyes glaze over with emotion as she replied, “I miss it so much.”
I was taking for granted the piece of her that was missing, the nurse that so desperately needed to practice her art.
Even as she could no longer perform patient care, it was still her life. I watched as she read her nursing magazines, kept up with changes in practice, and listened raptly as I discussed my day
If only I could be even half the nurse she was. Thoughts of her heart for others inspires me still. I suppose I never had a chance to be anything but a nurse. Her example drew me in like a moth to a flame. I only hope as she looks down on me from above that I make her proud carrying on her tradition of excellent care.
I see my own daughter with my stethoscope listening to her doll’s heart and I realize she doesn’t stand a chance. I worry for her too, but then I am also proud. I hope she will see that in me, the passion, the contentment in serving others as I saw it exemplified in my own mom.
She’s in for a challenge growing up the child of a nurse. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Jane Wood Hawkins, RN says
The things I remember so about my nurse mother was being taught by her to use the appropriate words to describe body functions, to make our beds with hospital corners and to wash our hands with regularity. Also, one had to be actually “sick”, preferably with a temperature elevation to stay home from school. She did however, also value the need for one to have an occasional “day of rest from school”.
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you for commenting and sharing personally 🙂
ruthiespage says
Love, love, love this!!! and loved, loved, loved your mom! you are so much like her.
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you!
Jan Liu says
Enjoy your blog! I, too, am a nurse, who grew up with a nurse. I gave my dolls “shots” with 3cc syringes and used lots of cotton balls and tape to fix whatever ailed her. My Mom’s lost much of her sight to macular degeneration, but remains the go-to person in her Senior living center when advice is needed and has become a “PACU” nurse for cats following sterilization. It’s hard for a good nurse to really retire!
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thanks for commenting! And also sharing personally. Your mom sounds awesome. They say with marines, once a marine, always a marine. And I think nurses are the same. Once a nurse, always a nurse!
Sarah Stein says
Years ago when I was studying for nursing school as a young single mother, my son wanted to know everything too. So I bought him his own children’s medical encyclopedias and he learned all the proper anatomy. He would sidle up to me, stroke his arm gently and whisper in his 3 year old voice “mommy, this is my epidermis”. Now he is almost 22, working as a CNA and preparing to go to nursing school himself! He has a heart of gold and is amazing with his patients. He wants to enter an area I shunned my entire nursing career- pediatrics. I couldn’t be prouder. But I admit, I can’t wait until he is finally studying, and I can sidle up to him and whisper “Jacob, this is my epidermis”. The circle will be complete. ???