First, thank you, thank you to all who’ve signed up for this newsletter and passed it on to friends.I so appreciate it.
My first job out of nursing school in 1994 was at the Lebanon VAMC. I had received a scholarship from the VA that paid for nursing school. In exchange for tuition, books, and a stipend, I owed them two years of employment upon graduation. It wasn’t that easy to find a nursing job in 1994. The jobs were out there, of course, but it took time and most of my fellow classmates struggled more than you might expect. There were a fair number of jobs for new nurses in the VAMC system, but I didn’t want to work at Philadelphia VAMC (I have no idea why now) and I didn’t want to go too far away. Eventually, I found a job at the Lebanon VAMC, which is in Pennsylvania Dutch Country.
At that time, the VAMC teated its nurses a bit like soldiers get treated, that is, you don’t have much say in decisions that effected you. When I applied for the job, I was basically applying for any open nursing position and management decided where to put me, whether I liked it or not. I ended up on a Med-Surg/Hospice Unit. I wasn’t happy, but it didn’t occur to me that I could do anything about it so off I went. It ended up being really wonderful in a lot of ways, especially the patients, who were amazing. The acuity wasn’t really very high (which is why I eventually left that position), but hospice was a relatively new field and I learned so much about caring for patients, as opposed to providing care. The two things are very, very different. But, mostly, I was able to spend my first year as a nurse with these incredible men. The majority were World War II veterans, though a few had served in Vietnam and Korea, and one had served in World War I.
One of my favorite patients was Walter H. He’d wanted to be a Franciscan Brother, but WWII intervened and Walter went off to war. When he returned, he tried to enter the Franciscans, but by that point he was exhibiting signs of schizophrenia. Apparently, he spent a fair amount of the subsequent years in various VA institutions. By the time I met him, he was dying of cancer. His schizophrenia seemed to have burned itself out. While he occasionally heard voices and had hallucinations, he mostly sat looking out his window, praying and talking to the birds and other animals. He had no living siblings, but he had several nieces who came to visit and doted on him. He was a lovely man. He particularly liked me because, as I’ve been told, I have the map of Ireland on my face, and Walter was very proud of his Irish heritage. I was his Colleen and he sang songs to me like My Wild Irish Rose and Danny Boy. He also liked me because of our shared Catholic faith.
Walter often asked me to take him outside for a walk after my shift ended so he could smoke and we could say the Rosary. While we sat outside, he’d often talk to the birds and the animals and tell me about his dream to be like St. Francis. It was heartbreaking and beautiful to see how deeply he loved St. Francis and God, how that love survived a war and schizophrenia, how it remained through years of sickness and institutionalization, and how it must, even (especially?) in death, be soaring like the birds Walter so loved.
I’ve written several poems about being a nurse, here's the one I wrote about Walter.
The Robin
You were my favorite patient that first year
You were my favorite patient that first year
and robins were your favorite bird.
You loved them for the way they greeted
the day with song. Every morning
at sunrise, undaunted by the hour, you sat
at the window and listened to them sing.
One of your nieces told me that during the war
you’d thrown your body over a barbed wire fence
so the medics could slide a half dead soldier
over your back. I think she wanted me to know
that war was what was wrong with you,
the booted foot that trampled your life.
You asked for so little. Cigarettes, the rosary,
birdsong. At the end of my shift, I’d wheel you
outside so you could smoke one cigarette
after another while we prayed and listened
to the birds singing. I remember the sun
and the wind felt good after those cooped up hours.
It was a robin, you said, who went to Christ’s ear
on Good Friday while he hung on the cross
and sang to him to ease his suffering. It’s the blood
of Christ that reddens the robin’s breast. Your dream
was to be a friar like your beloved Francis, to wear
the plain, brown habit, to give all of yourself for God.
But some unspeakable thing broke you
and you were turned away, left alone with only
cigarettes, the rosary, birdsong. Sometimes, as you lit
your Marlboro from the one before, a bit of ash
fluttered and landed on your shirt, it was then
I saw a flash of red glowing upon your chest.