Mid-August 1948, Dear diary, The day was the usual hot, dry arid time although Autumn seemed to be approaching. I rose with a terrible cough that left me stranded in bed all morning. Which for my usual self is unheard of. I knew David had passed by my room at least once and heard me coughing like a dog, how couldn't he? I had been all morning. I did summon the strength to stand myself upright and only to set out the table for when the Hayden’s were to return. During the first few days of my illness Mrs Hayden was always there for me, providing me blankets, warm soup and comfort. Eventually Mrs Hayden determined I wasn’t getting any better. If anything I was becoming worse. She then immediately decided I needed to see Frank Hayden (Montana
I woke up at John Morris’ house, on his coach. As I knocked a flyaway hair out of my face I noticed my face was wet, with tears, and then it all hit me at once that my Dad and Mrs. Borden were dead. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I heard John Morris ask if I was alright, but that seemed like a completely different world, I responded with a meek okay, so Mr. Morris wouldn’t see me like this. That didn’t work though, I saw his tall shadowy figure ducking under the door frame with tea. As Mr. Morris sat down and put the tea on the coffee table in front of us, I turned my head and quickly wiped the tears from my eyes in hopes he wouldn’t see.
Being diagnosed with a chronic illness is a life-altering event. During this time, life is not only difficult for the patient, but also for their loved ones. Families must learn to cope together and to work out the best options for the patient and the rest of the family. Although it may not be fair at times, things may need to be centered on or around the patient no matter what the circumstance. (Abbott, 2003) Sacrifices may have to be made during difficult times. Many factors are involved when dealing with chronic illnesses. Coping with chronic illnesses alter many different emotions for the patients and the loved ones. Many changes occur that are very different and difficult to get used to. (Abbott, 2003) It is not easy for someone to sympathize with you when they haven’t been in the situation themselves. No matter how many books they read or people they talk to, they cannot come close to understanding.
My patient was assigned to Ms. Capace under the management of Roberta Costanzo RN NP. Since becoming involved in my patient’s care, Alicia has gone above and beyond to communicate with the patient, myself and my office, the patient’s insurance company, the ER and hospital staff, outpatient treatment
Loyalty is one of the ethics that is instilled in a person at a young age. Loyalty can range from loyalty to a family member, friend, teammate, ect. In Larry Watson's, Montana 1948, the summer of 1948 tests the loyalty of each character and is told through the eyes of a young boy, David. The picture was clear to David when Marie was Murdered. Through this tragic event David was able to read each family member determining whether they were loyal or whether they would betray.
Upon speaking to her brother, it was learned that her husband had died about one year earlier and that she had several new diagnoses in the last few months; including: Diabetes mellitus, anorexia (with marked weight loss), sleep disturbances, and mild dementia. She had been having difficulty with the management of these new illnesses and was still grieving for her husband.
... joy Mrs. L got from seeing her cat. Health in this scenario is shown mostly notably when Mrs. L got relief from Morphine and stated she knew she was going to die but felt “ok for now”. Health in this case was measured by an improvement in pain and not an absence of illness. Finally, nursing in this scenario is exemplified in many ways. In the paragraph above I begin by ensuring the patient’s confidentiality. Mrs. L was placed at the center of care. I collaborated with other nurses and all those in the environment to assure the best care possible. Through direct care, teaching and advocacy I delivered the exact type of care I would wish for myself, or someone I loved, if I were in Mrs. L’s place.
The arrival of winter was well on its way. Colorful leaves had turned to brown and fallen from the branches of the trees. The sky opened to a new brightness with the disappearance of the leaves. As John drove down the country road he was much more aware of all his surroundings. He grew up in this small town and knew he would live there forever. He knew every landmark in this area. This place is where he grew up and experienced many adventures. The new journey of his life was exciting, but then he also had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach of something not right.
The rain cried as if the heavens had torn apart and came down to Earth to show its sorrow, beating a gentle yet violent tattoo on the roof. The cool breeze blew fiercely through the shelter sending a shiver down Liesel’s spine, awakening her from her slumber. She peered through the rotten sheet of linen that barely covered her shrivelled, thin body as the sound of little feet and nibbling rustled through her ears. Not of the children, but of mice, eating their way through her pillow; an empty potato bag. She heaved herself up, and staggered off the cement floor, wondering if it was wet or stone cold. Her head spun as she stood for a minute leaning against the mouldy walls to get her orientation back.
Smith’s narrative embodies Eric Cassel’s interpretation of suffering, in his essay, “The Nature of Suffering and The Goals of Medicine, “This woman’s suffering was not confined to her physical symptoms, [the second] is that she suffered not only from her disease but also from its treatment, [The third] is that one could not anticipate what she would describe as a source of suffering” (Cassel, 8). During our conversation I did my best to let her lead and restricted my input to the minimum. She did speak of her treatment when I asked about it but in the sense of her overall story, it was surprising to find that most of her suffering due to her illness occurred outside of hospital walls. The pain and constant nausea were hard to tolerate but it was the consequence of these symptoms that affected her the most, it was the context of the illness that caused her the suffering she believed important to speak during our limited time. When looking at Mrs. Smith further than her physical body and rather as a whole person, the extra time it took her to get ready that caused her to be late to work in the mornings and those two SQF audit points is what really hurt her spirit. Likewise, the lymphedema itself caused her pain and discomfort, but the real suffering came from it permanently slowing her pace leaving her feeling like she couldn’t efficiently do what she considered was her great contribution to her
The wind whispered outside my flower curtains. My Rosemary garden swayed to the noiseless tune. I sit quietly watching their soft movement, the flowers I worked hard to nurse. The rest of my yard remained parched, with time it had given defeat to the hot Alabama sky.I glared at the cracked dirt, cursing it for giving in to the pressure, praying I won't do the same .I sip the cool lemon ice tea, the cubes of ice brush on my dry lips.
Upon my exit from the Rehab Center, I consider my interaction with the patient who had spin my new world upside down. Thrown completely off guard, I realized two things: sickness can change people into something you, or even they, might not expect, and the second, I don't take things personal. No one wants to be sick or in the hospital by any means, and as a nurse student it is part of my education and professional obligation to hold my anxiety and disappointments of my patient’s odd behavior. Finally I promised to myself to deal with people at their worst, and always have positive attitude toward them and try to heal them back to their best.
We all remember these grey gloomy days filled with a feeling of despair that saddens the heart from top to bottom. Even though, there may be joy in one’s heart, the atmosphere turns the soul cold and inert. Autumn is the nest of this particular type of days despite its hidden beauty. The sun seems foreign, and the nights are darker than usual enveloped by a thrill that generates chills to travel through the spine leaving you with a feeling of insecurity. Nevertheless, the thinnest of light will always shine through the deepest darkness; in fact, darkness amplifies the beauty and intensity of a sparkle. There I found myself trapped within the four walls of my house, all alone, surrounded by the viscosity of this type of day. I could hear some horrifying voices going through my mind led by unappealing suicidal thought. Boredom had me encaged, completely at its mercy. I needed to go far away, and escape from this morbid house which was wearing me down to the grave. Hope was purely what I was seeking in the middle of the city. Outside, the air was heavy. No beautifully rounded clouds, nor sunrays where available to be admired through the thick grey coat formed by the mist embedded in the streets. Though, I felt quite relieved to notice that I was not alone to feel that emptiness inside myself as I was trying to engage merchant who shown similar “symptoms” of my condition. The atmosphere definitely had a contagious effect spreading through the hearts of every pedestrian that day. Very quickly, what seemed to be comforting me at first, turned out to be deepening me in solitude. In the city park, walking ahead of me, I saw a little boy who had long hair attached with a black bandana.
I wearily drag myself away from the silken violet comforter and slump out into the living room. The green and red print of our family’s southwestern style couch streaks boldly against the deep blues of the opposing sitting chairs, calling me to it. Of course I oblige the billowy haven, roughly plopping down and curling into the cushions, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clings to the fabric. My focus fades in and out for a while, allowing my mind to relax and unwind from any treacherous dreams of the pervious night, until I hear the telltale creak of door hinges. My eyes flutter lightly open to see my Father dressed in smart brown slacks and a deep earthy t-shirt, his graying hair and beard neatly comber into order. He places his appointment book and hair products in a bag near the door signaling the rapid approaching time of departure. Soon he is parading out the door with ever-fading whispers of ‘I love you kid,’ and ‘be good.’
The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.
As I walked I let my eyes close and my feet feel the groove in the gravel. My mind, still asleep, dreamt of breathing. The lining of my father's old coat escaped inside the pockets and caught my fingers, which were numb from the cold. I would have worn gloves but the sun would be unbearable later in the day. The clouds would rise over the mountains and disappear and the birds would slowly become silent as the heat settled in. But for now it was just cold. I tried to warm my neck by breathing down the collar. It smelled like diesel and sweat.