Tag: nurse

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Signposts

The spindly lady of the Bluegrass State bought me time.

Mrs. Hottenstein’s sponsorship gift achieved what she’d hoped. Freed me to attend more to my college work at hand. And the extra hours away from the teletype keys meant added time with my young nurse-student wife. That meant a lot. Our ships-passing-in-the-night could sit a few more minutes each day in their common harbor – the thirty-five by eight-foot rented house trailer we called home.

The added margin freed me to drive northward. To a meeting I felt strongly drawn to make.

“Hey David, I feel I should visit my home church in Oklahoma. Special meetings are going on next week. If you’re free to come, it would be great having time together.”

The nine-hour road trip brought us to the sanctuary of Living Way Tabernacle, my place of worship from childhood. What followed set the course for decades of adventure to come.

Vigorous hand-clapping accompanied robust singing as organist Ragsdale’s nimble fingers brought life to the instrument. Monday night, first evening in a string of special meetings.

Rev. G.C., a pastor hailing from the deep south, was handed the mic. He was a large man, gigantic by any standard I knew. I had never met him. It was preaching time.

Over the past two weeks my thoughts had pivoted back and forth between two topics. An African language whose sounds I wouldn’t recognize if I heard it. And a phrase, leadership training. A seemingly random visit with a former missionary had spawned these musings and the themes wouldn’t let go.

Rev. G. C.’s deep, graveled voice thundered away as he moved deeper into his message. Rivulets of sweat glistened on his broad face as his three hundred or so pounds of Georgia preacher-man paced across the front, up and down the center aisle. His command of sacred text was impressive. His passion ran deep.

Twenty minutes into the sermon it happened.

G.C. paced into center aisle, his preaching on a roll. Suddenly, in mid-sentence, he halted. His head tilted upward. The pause continued. Then the preacher man uttered a single word no one expected.

“Swahili.”

I stared his direction, astonished at the sudden turn in his message. And especially that word. Swahili. The language I had encountered days before. I felt a mist of tears form, a hint at a gathering stream. The preacher went on. “I am hearing the Swahili language.” He scanned the audience.
“Someone in this room is called as a missionary to east or central Africa.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Clearly he wasn’t finished.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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Thin Places

“Stung! . . Bee stings! . . Stings! . .Stung by bees!”

The words tripped over each other, spilling from Margaret as she broke through the clinic’s entryway and called to a nurse – steadying her woozy husband as best she could. Desperation turned to near-panic when she took in the sympathetic nurse’s response – her East Africa English clear, crisp.

“I am sorry, ma’am. The doctor has gone out. He should be back soon. . .”

A moment’s pause, Margaret wheeled about. “Ray, we can’t wait. We have to get help now.”

Outside they moved only a few steps when the resident doctor rounded the clinic’s corner, meeting face-to-face with the disheveled couple. A rush of relief swept over Margaret. Taking in a short breath she gave voice to their crisis. The doctor’s action was swift, decisive. He whisked Ray back inside.

“Come, quickly, into this room.” Dr. Mwangi’s orders came clipped, strong, no less commanding than if barked by a military officer.

“We’ll get you up on this table, Mr. Ray.” A glance toward Margaret, “Let’s help him onto his back please.”  Margaret aided the good physician, noting gratefully the urgency and professionalism of the man. Soon a syringe was in his palm. He held it up, eyes and hand in synchronized union. “Mr. Ray this antivenom should help once it’s in.”  But Ray had gone quiet.

Margaret caught a troubled look clouding the doctor’s face on seeing his patient go unconscious. 

Agonizing moments lingered, snailing by, second-on-second as Margaret gazed tensely at her husband’s still form. The syringe found its mark. Antibodies flowed. Suddenly Ray’s chest lifted. He’s taking in air.

The big man’s eyes fluttered.

***

Christian writers of long ago referred to a curious but inviting place – elusive but in their understandings a very real place – a zone, so to speak.

Where the immediate presence of the spirit world, seldom detected by mortals, could seem for some moments anyway, very close by. So nearby that hardly a distinction is made – a crossing over back and forth, an intermingling of the physical world we’re used to and the mystical or invisible world – beyond and yet at hand. The old writers spoke of it as the thin place.

“Jerry, you’ve heard of something they call an ‘out of body experience’, right?” Ray posed the question next time we met.

“Yeah,” I lifted an eyebrow.

“That was me, bro.”

He had my attention.

“Yeah, really. It happened. . . Lying there on my back before the doc’s syringe went in I sensed myself rising. Yes, I was rising. But my body was not. My body just lay there, still. I know because I saw it. Soon I was up somewhere near the room’s ceiling, man. . . looking down on the scene.

“The thing only lasted seconds, though. When the needle went in my body and the the dawa took hold I was instantly back,” Ray exclaimed, clapping his hands in a brisk pop.

“Before that though, for a few seconds I guess, I was watching all from there.” His head cocked upward.

“. . Watching the doc. . . seeing Marge. . . seeing me – my body – yeah, me. Just lying there.”

By the time my friend left the clinic for his return home, some 130 stingers had been extracted from his body.

The mission family was more than grateful. Prayers were heard.

Ray came back.

©2018 Jerry Lout

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Prescription – Pain. Somber Prediction

 Mom’s fly swatter instruction of past times over my use of bad words met with failure in Hillcrest Hospital’s therapy room.

 Hold his hip firm against the table. Steady now. Here we go – Up with the right leg.

Two people in white – a spindly man and a large-boned woman – stood opposite each another at the therapy bench. I lay face-up between them. They applied stretch treatments to paralysis-affected limbs. The therapy helped arrest stiffening of the muscles.

I took in their words. The stretching maneuver was underway. The leg in motion, kept straight as a board by pressure of a hand on my kneecap, rose upward. The stiffer the muscles the greater the strain. And the pain. Up, up until a searing sharpness passed through my leg, prompting me – their child-patient – to bark *%#$!  Though not loudly. 

The therapists shared knowing but not unkind smiles. Neither spoke. Their tasks – these disguised angels – inflicting pain on helpless children. Surely this brought pain their way.

An Australian nurse, Sister Elizabeth Kenny, had devised an effective treatment to limber up the muscle tissue of paralyzed limbs. Nurses at Hillcrest wrapped me, along with my polio peeps, in confining, steaming hot packs (I close my eyes today and smell the heavy, moist odor of sweltering chamois-like blankets). Mercifully the blankets held my body in their constricting grip for only short periods.

I never swore about the hot packs. As I grew older I extended myself grace over the therapy-table profanity lapse. Though not justified, cursing can slip through a set of teeth in a moment of sharp pain.

Remedial pain. Our world is rich with special Wisdom Sayings when we pause to listen. Some of these coach us about preventing needless pain; others on the actual usefulness of it.

Our limpings – whether of a physical or of a nonphysical nature – can meet with useful pain at times. Yet, we have to pay attention to detect the usefulness.

He who will not be taught by his elders will be taught by the world, African seniors counsel their youth.

No discipline is enjoyable. . it’s painful! But afterward there will be a peaceful harvest of right living for those who are trained in this way.    the Bible’s ‘Book of Hebrews’.

My father and mother didn’t discipline me perfectly. Nor have I my own children. Yet, we do our children no favor by withholding loving – and yes unpleasant – correction when needed. Emphasis – Loving. Just as failing to administer pain-inducing treatments to better a patient would, in fact, be unkind.

Still, my condition worsened. From waistline to feet my limbs went useless.  My upper body declined, my respiratory muscles weakened. An attending doctor informed my parents I would not walk again. Regardless.

A stuffed black Terrier Pup consoled me – along with one particular nurse. While specialists discussed my case – and the Iron Lung.

 

Polio. Hot Packs (2)

 

Question. What caught your interest most in this post? I’m very interested in thoughts, feelings of any readers.  Thanks again for following!   Alert! In part due to reader requests, Soon we’ll post Running Life’s Race Twice weekly instead of one per week – doubling the episodes.  🙂

*hot pack photo.nurse: OHSU Historical Collections & Archives

©2015 Jerry Lout

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Falling

My brother Tim and I fought. Not excessively but – as with many close siblings – enough.

By my second year in elementary school I learned more than counting and reciting the alphabet. To my communication skills I added profanity. Never mind my ignorance of definitions, my enlarged vocabulary was picked up mostly on school playgrounds.

I practiced cursing on my brother at least once. Angry with Tim over nothing noteworthy I unleashed a stream of language at a far higher volume than was wise. My mother overheard the rants and seized an educational opportunity. About two things. (1) Resourcefulness. The wire-handle end of her fly swatter-turned-switch. (2) Awareness. Of a zero-tolerance policy for profanity in our home. From that day if I wasn’t fully cured I was clearly more discreet.

Mother was also compassionate. Back of our house the ground sloped gently downward, to a simple red barn where we boys often played. Beyond this was a pasture. I had recently turned nine. From a window mother saw my struggle.

I ambled from the barn toward the house. In mid-step my leg gave way. I fell. Lifting myself up I walked a short distance, then went down again. By the third or fourth tumble my mom was hurrying my way. She helped me to the house. My dad responded to her call and we were soon en route to the local doctor’s office.

Learning of my earlier polio bout the physician assumed this was not likely the same affliction. By now both legs entirely failed to work. I was admitted, limbs weakened and stiffening, into our local hospital. My condition worsened. Another physician was called in. He ran tests and soon conveyed his findings.

Poliomyelitis.

Hillcrest Hospital occupies a spot near downtown Tulsa on historic Route 66. The virus spread rapidly across the country. Hillcrest administrators concisely labelled one of its wings the polio ward. The patients – mostly children – were confined to beds positioned at varied elevated angles. Specific treatment of the patient seemed to dictate the bed’s positioning. A freer flow of air was critical for those with strained breathing muscles.

Through an open doorway I glimpsed a daunting, one-occupant contraption (a word my dad used for any curious object). It reminded me at first of a greatly-enlarged tin can lying sideways. Several patients lay each in their own iron lung – their exposed head wresting on a pillow atop a small extended platform.  In most cases the iron lung was critical for staying alive.

We entered a multi-patient room. With the help of my mom, a nurse settled me into a designated bed. A sudden cramp assaulted my limbs. I grimaced. After a time the pain lessened.

I relaxed a little. And guessed I would be here awhile.

Note: In ‘Comments’ I’d love to hear from anyone who’s experienced polio or perhaps a family member? Be free to share a little insight/experience if you wish.

©2015 Jerry Lout