| OCR Text |
Show 329 My nurse is coming into my room, hastily closing my door as if to close the cries from my hearing. "She wants help," I am saying but my nurse is telling me that she knows. "Is there anyone who speaks her language?" I am wondering. "They're trying to find someone," she tells me. She checks my IV line, notes the rate of flow of the Versed, takes my vitals and turns to leave. "Don't forget, you have plasmapharesis again tomorrow morning," she is saying as she closes my door on her way out. How many times has she adjusted the Versed drip while reminding me of something? I wonder. It is a nursing paradox - maintaining the physician-prescribed memory-erasing medication while simultaneously meeting the nursing requirement of orienting the patient to daily life. My neighbor is crying still. Between sobs, she is yelling that her arm hurts. It is not an angry yelling. Rather, it is a simple plea for help, a small cry for comfort, an anguished wish to not remain alone. I understand her words. I understand her grief. I am wishing I could go sit with her. Just sit with her. |
