The Nurse

(Community Matters) I tell myself that.  Do you think it’s true?  Do we revisit these traumas with perspective and somehow make peace with them?  Or do we just scar on top of scar?  If so, I’m just giving kids one more thing to carry.  Something else they may never learn to let go.

– Steven Tomlinson

THE NURSE

©2011 Steven Tomlinson

I’ve been vaccinating kids for 25 years.  I’ve done this 50,000 times.  So you are in good hands, Little Man.  Yes, you are.

Those people in the waiting room?  I help them survive.  See that three-year-old?  The scared one?  He’s next.  Even that tough guy watching me from the corner.  Somebody gave him shots.

But right now, Little Man, it’s all about you.  He suspects something.  Don’t you?  Don’t you?  Now, watch the kitty on the wall.  That clock’s as old as I am.  The tail swings one way as the eyes go the other.  Ever feel like that?  Not you, Little Man.  You’re so happy — and you’ve got a chubby little leg.  Let’s dab some alcohol right here.  Yes, that’s funny! 

Now watch kitty on the wall.  Tick, tock, tick.  And then, there.

Oh!  Oh!  I’m sorry.  So sorry, Sweetheart.  Let’s give you to Mama.  We’ll see him again in six months.  Seis meses, OK?

I hate deception.  I never say it won’t hurt.  But you can lie without words:  reassuring sounds, caresses, distraction, betrayal.

That baby just decided you can’t trust people.

Look, I never doubt that what I do makes a difference — shots are instant and effective — and I never felt that way when I did health ed.  You warn people about smoke and cholesterol and they nod, and an hour later they’re having a cigarette in the parking lot at McDonalds.

But if I weren’t here, these kids wouldn’t get shots.  Have you ever watched a kid die of measles?  You just have to see that once, and you’re all for shots.

It just shouldn’t hurt.  At what age do we finally understand that a lifetime of protection is worth a moment of pain?  In a perfect world, that’s when we’d get our shots.

And here’s three-year-old Mr. Lucas.  Look at his face.  He’s already a little tougher.  In 20 years, he’ll look like that guy in the corner.

How are you today, Lucas?  Wonder what his mother told him this time, how she got him here.  He sees her look at me.  He sees conspiracy.  Can you blame him for screaming?

Lucas, watch the kitty.  Watch his eyes, and it won’t hurt so much.  Of course, I’m saving children’s lives, but I’m also pricking their innocence, inoculating them against all the cruel ways that life exploits blind faith.

It is hard to watch, isn’t it?  The sound of anguish is supposed to move us.  But you can’t always trust instinct.  In my job you have to override sympathy to really love people.

There, Lucas.  It’s over.  You’re safe.  Someday you’ll understand.

I tell myself that.  Do you think it’s true?  Do we revisit these traumas with perspective and somehow make peace with them?  Or do we just scar on top of scar?  If so, I’m just giving kids one more thing to carry.  Something else they may never learn to let go.

The man in the corner is coming over to us.  I always have a flash of panic.  The sound of fear can unlock things.  Trust me.  I can handle it.

THE MAN:  Excuse me, Ma’am?

THE NURSE:  Yes, Sir.  May I help you?

THE MAN:  I remember you.  You gave me shots.

THE NURSE:  You remember that.

THE MAN:  Well, I don’t remember much, but I recognized your voice.

THE NURSE:  The shots.  Did they hurt?

THE MAN:  I don’t remember the shots.  I just remember your voice.  And the clock.  You said:  Watch the kitty.  That’s my wife over there.

THE NURSE:  You’re having a baby.

THE MAN:  A little girl.  So we’ll be coming to see you.  You still have that clock?

THE NURSE:  I do.  Believe it or not, it still works.

Somehow things that matter manage to survive.

Second of Steven’s four vignettes written and performed for People’s Community Clinic after hours spent shadowing doctors and nurses at their clinic. The Doctor here