Page 7 - Scene Magazine 45-08 August 2020
P. 7

 The Way I’ve Scene I
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BY DENISE POYER
   determined that he had diverticu-some- thing-or-another. Following the orders of himself, he carried on with life as usual, lugging large sheets of plywood to the basement and jockeying the pontoon boat around on the trailer with a strategic shove or two.
It would seem that The Hub’s constant companion, stomach cancer, has been setting up shop in other places, one of which was the rib that broke. He was nice but delivered the news like he was selling us car options. We asked a few questions, thanked him, and he left the room. I said something quietly to The Hub, and Nurse Don’t Judge a Book By Its Cover looked from one of us to the other. “You knew about that cancer, right?” I said, “Well, we aren’t surprised, but we did not know that it had travelled.”
It was a Sunday, and he ended up sleeping in his recliner because of discomfort. By 3:30am, he was having problems with pain with every breath, and he was ready for a trip to E.R. Being the dutiful wife of 34 years that
I am, I managed to find every pothole between here and the hospital and came to a dramatic near-halt for a bumbling raccoon that was crossing the road, which made matters even worse. We thought I might need to wait in the truck, but it turned out that I could
Today, I honor our tired E.R. nurse who unknowingly put the care back into healthcare. I appreciate your long hours, difficult job, and am especially grateful for your giant heart.
A couple of weeks back, The Hub was com- plaining of a pain in his side (and it wasn’t even me). After a private consultation with Dr. Google, he
After The Hub was rolled down the hallway for a CT scan, I asked if she needed me to go to a waiting room. “No, you’re fine. You can stay here,” she replied, so I sat back down. We filled the time with chit chat about weekends and life and vacation prefer- ences, and when he returned, Dr. Young Enough to be Our Grandson, came in and delivered the findings of the scan.
And, her face melted. Her eyes prickled with tears, and she quickly swiped them away with her hand. She said, “I’m so sorry. We are not sup- posed to cry. I must be tired. This is really bothering me.” The random tear turned into a sob, and she apologized again. She said, “I’m so sorry. It’s just so sad. I can tell that you are good people, and I hate that this is happen- ing. I’m sorry for crying. We’re not supposed to show emotion.” I looked at her, tipped my head and said, “It’s fine, honey. Your job must be very hard at times like these. You are just fine. We would rather have a nurse who cries than one that is cold as ice. Don’t you worry about it.”
Give that Poor Girl a Tissue
 stay by The Hub’s side to jabber like
a magpie, which I’m certain he loved. We were seen right away, but it was still 7:30am by the time we checked out.
Oddly enough, Dr. Google was not on duty during the wee hours of the morning, so we saw a myriad of people instead. As we headed back to his bay, I noticed a nurse behind the seemingly quiet desk. She was sitting like a teen- ager in 7th hour and looked to be about as interested.
There was poking and prodding, hefty pain meds, and tests, and of course, the bored looking woman from the desk was our nurse. It did not take long to realize that she was exhausted and nearing the end of her shift. While not a bubbly woman, she was even- keeled and quite nice. We apologized for coming in so close to the end of her shift, and she waved it off explaining that it was no trouble. She said it was nice to see someone without a gunshot wound. It had been a rough weekend.
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