Almost every veteran I know is extremely stoic when it comes to his or her health. Suffering in silence, and not seeking medical help are common threads that any healthcare provider recognizes in this population. Blood pressure rises and stay up, fevers burn, pee stings, stomachs ache, and sores fester, and the tough vet says “I’ll be fine” until a fed-up spouse, child, or paramedic shouts “Enough!” and carts the veteran off to the emergency room.
I was fortunate (though I thought at the beginning unfortunate) enough at the age of 22 to be caring for one such health-procrastinator. He was a crotchety old WWII soldier, in the hospital with a ruptured appendix. His surgery to remove the “damaged equipment” was successful, but afterward the incision itself became badly infected, and the old guy was not a happy camper.
Mr. B. was mean and nasty to all of his caregivers, which wasn’t what actually bothered me the day that I found him on my daily assignment. I was okay with awful behavior and shouting, but totally grossed out by infected wounds. They look disgusting with all kinds of pus-filled discharge, brown, yellow, orange, and green; and smell even worse. If you’ve ever left lunch meat in a box outside for three days in August, you know what I mean.
I gathered my courage and steeled myself when it came time to change Mr. B.’s bandage. Knocking on the door, I pasted a smile on my face as I stepped into the room, only to be shouted at by my patient. Mr. B. cursed at me, ranted, raved, and pretty much let it be known that he felt I was a worthless, useless piece of crap.
Instead of running from the room with tears in my eyes, which many nurses would do, I met my difficult patient’s eyes and said matter-of-factly, “Mr. B., it’s time for me to change your dressing.” After calling me several more choice names, Mr. B. slowly drew down the sheet to expose his sore belly. I gulped as I looked at the pus-soaked gauze on the right side of his stomach, and felt my own stomach turn in response.
Sensing my hesitation, the old soldier again began his litany of insults, coming up with names for me and all of my family members I had never even heard before. I blocked them out as I washed my hands, prepared my supplies, and reached out to remove the dirty dressing from Mr. B.’s incision.
Once Mr. B. realized I wasn’t going to react to his constant stream of verbal abuse, he quieted down, lying in the bed with an angry scowl on his face. I wondered why this man was so sour, and thought to myself that maybe the infection was actually his personality seeping out through the wound. Meanwhile, I took off his old dressing and wanted to puke. Underneath was a disgusting mess of foul tissue, a gaping, festering, stinking sore on this poor man’s belly.
Choking down my gorge, I shifted my focus to Mr. B. himself. “That must hurt.” I said, and he looked away and just grunted. On his stomach, the green pus oozed like old pea soup from the depths of his wound as I cleaned it- gross! “I used to have six-pack abs” muttered Mr. B. as he watched. As he said it, his stomach muscles pushed out even more drainage- sick! I felt like I was really going to lose it, embarrass myself and humiliate Mr. B.
“How did you get those six pack abs- not by drinking too many six packs, huh? Did you do it to pick up dames? I bet your wife loved them!” I responded with a smile as I began the nasty job of packing the open wound with sterile gauze soaked in saline.
Mr. B. met my eyes and said “Nobody here has ever cared to talk to me about anything other than my sickness- they all seem to think that I am just a patient and not a person. Thank you.” We went on to have a very personal, fun conversation during the rest of the bandage change. Mr. B. turned out to be a very intelligent, humorous man who was able to keep my mind occupied as I went about the unpleasant task of caring for his festering wound.
During the rest of his stay at the hospital, Mr. B requested that I perform his wound care whenever I was working, even when he was not on my assignment. I found out later on that the reason he requested me was that I was able to keep his mind occupied during the bandage change, and even though it was not pleasant for him, at least he was able to have a diverting conversation. I laughed to myself when I learned this, since he was doing exactly the same thing for me!
Eventually, through excellent nursing care, (emphasize care,) Mr. B’s infection cleared and his wound healed. I like to think that he learned from me that it is okay to admit when you are not well, and to allow someone to help you. I learned a more valuable lesson from him, though, which is that if you are open, even to a cranky, grouchy jerk, and try to see that jerk for the person he really is, he may be able to touch you in a way that helps to see you through some extremely awful circumstances.
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