words

Friday morning - Mrs. A presents with a dx of a stroke in the late hours of the previous night. up until a few hours ago she was completely independent, living by herself, making daily trips to visit friends at her local community center. This morning, she is unable to speak, follow commands, and her only movements are facial grimaces of pain and frustration combined with minimal arm movement. She is unable to communicate in any way. She is surrounded by worried adult children, and her heart rate spikes when she scrunches her face in frustration. Towards the end of the shift she can move her lips, but no words come out, and she knows it. Her heart rate spikes again.

Test after test reveal no evidence of a stroke - health care professionals are baffled as to why she has presented as a perfect stroke patient with no stroke. They guess adverse affects from medications.

Pastors come into the room to pray over her, family members stay on their cell phones constantly with other worried friends and family members. I say goodbye to them, tell them that I'm praying for them. I squeeze her hand and say goodbye to her. We've held hands many times today, as this has helped to calm her down when her heart rate peaks.

Monday morning - it's too early, and it's a holiday, but I've got a 12 hour shift. the volunteer in the lobby says good morning and comments on it being a good holiday in a slightly sarcastic manner. I tell him in a confident voice that today will be a good day. I tried to get us both excited. I throw my lunch box (cause I'm a cool kid who packs her lunch) in the refrigerator and wait for my preceptor. we listen to report and I notice we have Mrs. A again. I walk into the room to do a morning assessment and I find her sitting in her chair like a queen - TALKING. I find her just as sweet, strong, humorous as I thought she would be, and that hint of a stubborn streak I imagined was present as well. She is brushing her teeth. She is wiggling her toes. She is walking with assistance. She is squeezing my hands and following commands. Best of all - I can hear her speak. I hear her words. And she will get to go home soon.

Most times, I shouldn't be allowed to speak - my words are harsh, ungracious, unforgiving - they are tense, full of pride and selfishness. They shoot forth from my mouth before my brain has even processed them. Most times I shouldn't be allowed to speak.

Words are powerful - with one word you have the ability to completely wound someone and annihilate their sense of self worth. With one word you have the power to unleash a fountain of healing and love over someone. This isn't anything new - but what happens when we lose our ability to speak and communicate? In one moment, and who knew for how long, Mrs. A lost her ability to utter curses in pain, cries of confusion, and comfort to her worried children.

Tonight I was wounded by some one's words - a someone so familiar that's both wounded me and spoke encouragement over me throughout my life. Lately, it seems as though all we've done has been to wound each other. We've succeeded. I sit here in this empty living room with echoes of slamming doors ringing in my ears. Remnants of explicit and foul words accompany them. I pretend to be angry, but I'm really just hurting.

Caring for Mrs. A reminded me of why I fell in love with nursing when I was beginning to think I hated it. Seeing her up in a chair getting her hair combed and brushing her teeth - then hearing her say good morning and telling me how she was feeling was the highlight of my day - and so far my week. She reminded me of the power of words... the power of speech.

Tonight - words were flung like hot arrows followed by cold, bitter silence. They cannot be taken back, but they can be forgiven.

Tomorrow is a new day.