Thorns

Working with kids, I tend to see a lot of minor (and a few major) injuries. And I have discovered that I have two very specific ways of dealing with minor injuries that require nothing more than a band-aid: either tell the child that we're going to have to "cut it off," or explain the reason for their pain. The first method was effective enough on me as a child - "Daddy, I hurt my finger!" "Oh no! It looks like we'll have to cut it off!" And that always worked for me. Either it convinced me not to make a big deal out of an injury for fear of losing a limb, or it just seemed so absurd that it made me laugh and realize my paper cut was not that big of a deal. This is the same tactic I use with my nephews, and it usually works pretty well. But I've learned that there are some children who are a bit more sensitive, and don't laugh when I jokingly try to eat their fingers or start looking for the scissors. This is when I try the second method: education.

Two weeks ago, while hiking with a group of young students, one got a few thorns tangled around her leg. She untangled herself and came away with just some surface scratches - no blood. But she kept telling me how much her leg hurt from the thorns. I tried to be sympathetic, but in truth that is really hard for me. Instead, I just told her why scratches on the surface of the skin tend to hurt more than if the thorns had gone further in. And then I kept on hiking, feeling a sense of accomplishment for educating her on the reason for her pain. But the rest of the hike, she kept mentioning those thorns. Now, there was nothing I could do to ease her pain, and there was no risk of infection or further injury. I was at a loss: I had told her the reason for her pain, why was she still feeling it? What else did she want?

There is one instance where you'd think that I learned my lesson that not all people respond well to my "get well" methods. It was several years ago, and again, I was hiking with a group of students. There was a little boy who got a thorn prick on his finger. (Okay, seriously, what is it with thorns?) He howled like it was the end of the world. I looked at it, and there was no blood; just a small white speck where the very tip of the thorn had gone into this finger. I told him he'd be okay and we kept hiking. And he kept howling. And holding his finger like it was going to fall off. Every time I stopped to point something out, he distracted the whole group with his "I'm in pain" breathing and moaning. Still, I did not give him a bandaid. That would involve filling out paperwork, and there wasn't even a drip of blood. Finally, I submitted and gave him a bandana to hold over the "wound." It was pink. He held it there for the next two hours of the hike, and then didn't want to give it back once the hike was over. It was now his safety blanket. In hindsight, I realized I could have spared myself and all the other students hours of moaning if I had just given the kid a darn band-aid. But to me, that was legitimizing his "injury," which was so minor to begin with.

This might be the point where one begins to realize that I have a horrible bed-side manner. And that is true. If the "cut it off" jokes or the "let me tell you why it hurts" methods don't work, I'm out of ideas. Nurturing does not come naturally to me.

Today marks Day 6 in the hospital after D's fourth major surgery since 2010. He is a model patient - he does everything the doctors and nurses recommend, he doesn't complain about the pain, and he is always appreciative of the care he receives (he is the nurses' favorite).

I, however, am not the model caregiver.

I am awesome for the first twenty-four hours or so. Incidentally, this coincides with the time it takes the anesthesia to wear off. I am attentive and cheerful and do everything he could possibly need. Ice chips? Got it. Back rub? Sure thing. How about a cold cloth, a funny story, or the six-minute pain pump reminders? I am all over it.

Then, after the first whole day and night at the hospital, something inside me starts to scream. I don't know if it is just the monotony of being in the same room, or the uncomfortable sleeping conditions, or just trying so hard to be Super Wife, but I just crash. I get cranky. I stop anticipating his needs and just begin to zone out.

It is usually at this point that I need to get outside and do something different. But when I am gone, I want to be back at the hospital taking care of my husband. So then I go back, and after about an hour I get antsy again. I watch repeated episodes of Say Yes to the Dress and check Facebook obsessively, wondering why no one else is updating their status every three seconds. My walks down the hallway get longer and longer. My Super Wife title is officially gone. By the end of day two. And there are still many more days to go.

If my lack of a nurturing instict was not obvious enough through the various thorn incidents, it has become increasingly evident with each successive hospital stay. I go in telling myself that this time will be different. I will be patient, helpful, and I will not cry. I will be alert and responsive to his every need. I will be encouraging and loving and tender. And every time, I set myself up for failure. I wonder, where is the magic switch that will turn me into a great nurse for the man I love? No matter how intentional I am about my attitude, I always fail.

I can't make "cut it off" jokes, for obvious reasons (mainly: they already did - well, cut it out, not off). And the doctors and nurses are already great at explaining the various reasons for the pain or discomfort. Sometimes, I try to re-emphasize these reasons ("The doctor said it was normal to feel nauseated because..." or "The pain in your side is from ..."), but that never helps. So instead I flail around, doing my best not to annoy him or spill anything on him (both of which happen a lot more often that one would hope). With children, I struggle with helping them feel better about the thorns; with D, I work hard not to become the thorn. Sometimes, especially after days in the hospital, after days of wanting to be able to fix it, all I have left in me is the ability to say, "Hey, here's a bandana. I hope that helps."

It never does.

That is when I am blessed by an awesome nursing staff and caring doctors. Because they have the skills that I lack; they are able to be attentive and caring and supportive. They know when to push him, when to encourage him, and when to let him rest. And that kind of support (especially when you're stuck with a wife like me), is one of the most valuable gifts someone can give - to both of us.