The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine    

Nursing: Telling Our Stories

My First Patient

Clifford C. Wilson

You called it Walton's Mountain
Your doctors called it Waldenstrom's macroglobulinemia
You said they would keep giving you blood,
you didn't know what was happening to it
you didn't know where the blood was going.
You told me your doctor gave up on you
you said he threw his arms up

I asked you if it was Ok for me to help you
I heard you tell me you needed all the help you could get
I felt the despair in that and hoped to give you strength
I told you I would study your chart and learn as much as I could
I wanted to explain this away, I wanted to get things under control
I was scared of the basics: bathing you, following the protocols
I didn't think I could hurt you as long as I didn't try too much

The blood in your body had a rogue clone of cells in it
They were spilling protein into your blood making it thick
Everything was getting clogged up and your body stopped fighting
The cells couldn't be stopped; they had to be taken out
The protein had to be cleaned out and you needed to clear the infection
You will need this again and again; you may keep ticking for a while

When I gave you your bath, it started with your feces
You had to show them that you deserved Imodium for diarrhea
They wouldn't take your word--was that too much to ask for?
Your son left the room as we helped you to the toilet
All you wanted was to be clean and have some dignity
You said you would wipe if you could and you were sorry
I was able to get you clean and used the warm soapy water.
I had to double glove because of the chemo;
brown stained cloths filled the biohazard bucket.

I had completed your physical exam and bathed you.
You were fine, just wheezing a little in the left.
When I washed your feet at the end of your bath
It was after they had soaked for a while
The doctor had just left the room, there was silence
and it was just you, your son, and me and your feet.
I crouched and put your heavy swollen leg on my knee
mopping and drying as skin shed and sprinkled onto my scrubs
Your son said, "it's best this way, Dad."

The doctor told you that there was nothing else he could do
He said he would like to have you go to hospice home care
you looked at me for a long pause and I simply returned your gaze
you looked back at the doctor and said "Dig a hole."
He said something about God and then made a joke. He said goodbye.
There was silence when I washed your feet

I walked away after a long goodbye that afternoon
I had small pieces of your feet on my scrubs
I had forgotten to put gloves on for that part...
Something permeated my skin.

Published: May 9, 2007