Years ago, a talented oncology nurse found herself in a new town with a five year old child with another on the way. When looking for work that might coordinate with that of her husband she found that hospitals only offered new hires night shifts. Nursing jobs in day clinics were not easy to find for an RN though she found one job at weight loss clinic only to be fired within a month when she refused to press a newly pregnant client to go on a dramatic weight loss diet.
She came to a conclusion, that she would have to find useful work outside the home that allowed for flexibility. She came to her husband with a plan: “I think I am going to enroll in beauty school and when I am done, I will open my own shop and do nails.”
Her husband had blinders on, working hard as a primary care physician in the new community and welcomed the idea that she would find something to do other than the traditional role where she now found herself. He had after all, come to know her as a highly functional and highly educated nurse. She taught him many things when he was an undeveloped medical student.
She attended a technical school in Tacoma and met many very—very young and interesting people. Coming home was full of surprises as these young women sometimes experimented on newly learned techniques for all manner of skills required in a Beauty School—nails, hair, etc. There was drama. There was fun. There were waxing events—and more. Happily, there were no disasters.
The timing was good— in the mid 1980’s, nail shops were not ubiquitous in this community and the ability to earn good money became apparent as many community female leaders (and some male state workers) came to value an hour of time once every couple of weeks with a talented RN now doing nails. The business sold itself and with time, there was a hold on accepting new clients. Old clients needed to be patient as they were fitted in around vacations and sick children who occasionally rested up in a small sofa at work. An interesting reality took hold. The hour of communication was the value added to a newly colored set of nails. That communication was a two way street. I teased her that she was functioning as a family counselor without having gotten the degree for it.
Eventually, daughter number one, now leaving elementary school asked if it was not possible for her mother to be home when she came home from school. Imagine that if you can—-a twelve year old who did not want to come home to an empty house. The nail salon closed but despite this, there were links to clients that persevered and one of those clients was Fanny.
This is Fanny’s story.
I recognized the croak on the telephone message machine: “Kernie, can you have Randy call me? I am in the emergency room and need some advice.” I was a little taken aback-I knew Fanny and in fact had been to her house but she had made it clear that she preferred doctors of an older generation and with history in our town. My age and California origins were off-putting to her. Her husband bonded to me nicely when I expressed both knowledge and interest about his involvement in Jimmy Dolittle’s bomber squadron as constituted in the Mediterranean theatre during World War II. I admired the many photos on the wall of their dining room that reflected back to his coming of age. But why would Fanny ask me to call when she was not my patient?
Fanny, as it turned out, had fractured her patella and her GP had no interest in seeing her for it. He efficiently managed to provide her a consultation with an orthopedist. I had little to offer and wondered what exactly she expected of me. Kernie handled the communication beautifully—like the nails, this was less about a practical skill and more about calming the waters in the face of a painful emergency. With time, Fanny healed up despite a pack a day smoking habit which had given her that easily identified croak of a voice. Our perceived “help” led to an offer for a monthly lunch with Kernie. King’s Table, Casino restaurants, and a few old downtown dives were a source of many three martini lunches (for Fanny), cigarettes, and gossip with Kernie. It became something of an obligation.
Time passed. Fanny got really old.
The lunches became more difficult as Fanny aged and sometimes, her only child, a daughter, would come to lunch a well. Our lives and children came to take our focus and with time, excuses made, the lunches and attendant calls ceased.
One night, we came home to a message from Fanny’s husband. “Kernie? I just was hoping you might give me a call.” The weight of a relationship long put side and the inconvenience to both of us in the moment led to a non-response.
A month or so later, Kernie ran into the daughter who on seeing her, clasped Kernie with great relief. Her mother had had a severe stroke and was being rehabilitated in Seattle—-slowly. We both felt terrible guilt about this and Kernie went to their house when she finally was released. Despite a pretty dramatic paralysis on one one side, she retained many of her familiar characteristics, the grating voice, cigarrettes, interest in Martinis, gossip, and a strange positivity or acceptance of her condition.
Time passed.
The phone call this time, came from the daughter. Fanny had required more care than her aging husband could provide and he had hired a live-in nurse. There had been an accident. Fanny had caught her bed on fire with a cigarette in her bedroom when unattended.. She was transferred emergently to Harborview’s burn unit in Seattle and while there required the amputation of an arm (the good one) and skin grafts.
Time passed.
The daughter became quite stressed on two points: Fanny was not doing well and there was no plan for transfer home in the immediate future. I asked if she had a community doctor here. She was unsure that Fanny’s doctor was up to the care needed. I asked if Fanny had a living will or if Hospice had been considered. She had no answer for this. Her other source of concern was that the nurse was still living at home with her father.
Fanny died—mercifully; monthly lunches were now with the daughter and I learned that a romance had blossomed between the live-in nurse and her father who were to be married. With time, Fanny’s husband would die a natural death (I hope!) and to the daughter’s amazement, when the will was read, the new wife acquired everything. The real estate, the crystal, the silverware, and jewels were all willed to the live in nurse-wife who graciously allowed the Doolittle photos to pass on to the daughter.
This story has the feel of a telenovela but with some reflection, I offer this:
I have witnessed loving couples burn out when one or the other has a disabling condition. I have seen anger expressed towards the disabled partner way out of proportion to whatever was wrong in my office. With the best of intentions—till death do us part—this is a very real part of being human. The best of us get worn down, stressed, irritable even when doing the right thing. The response to delay if not prevent this requires both heart and brain. Having time for yourself, accepting help when you feel personally this is yours to bear, and getting practical advice for the day-to-day are things to consider.
Give some thought to conversations with whoever is going to be next to the bed in the ER helping the doctor sort out what to do; a living will is one thing—knowing what you said you wanted cleary and directly is quite another—-no ER doctor or nurse is going to look up the terms of your will……they will take the advice of those interested enough to show up.
Relationships do change and social convention allows for avoidance behaviors (as we did here) to separate. We made an error avoiding those phone calls. Our guilt brought us back into this family’s orbit, so why not offer useful services at the front end and avoid at least some of that guilt? The financial metaphor is paying off principle on your mortgage ahead of time (earlier, the better) for savings down the line.
It is very common for the most loving of men to seek a new partner sometimes months after the death of their, "one and only." I don't always understand it but it happens often enough, I accept it as "just the way it is." Not so much an issue with women whose husbands die. Again, "just the way it is." Regardless, with inheritance in mind, what is the place relatively thinking for one's kids and a new spouse?
5. Draw the line smoking in bed.
Comments