More than Nails Clipped

A nursing story during 2020

I held up my nursing badge to the front desk receptionist. Normally, we would have talked, but today, only the muffled sounds of human voice whimpered from behind our masks.

“You’re good to come in, it’s room 242, take the elevator to the second floor and go to the right.” I finally heard her after leaning around the protective plexiglass.

I felt particularly fat that day, so instead I took the stairs. Plus, I was growing weary of people telling me where to stand, where to walk and how to dress. Garbed with a face shield, mask, gloves and gown, I resembled something out of a science fiction movie in the ‘80s. I just needed some kid to streak down the hallway screaming for his alien friend and then nostalgia would wash over and refresh my day.

It’s not that nursing was hard - making the visits was honest work, but doable. Now, with the new regulations, things just took longer while I provided less care. On top of that, I wish it were only new regulations. It seemed that every facility, company and district had different rules. Not to mention, the personal rules in people’s homes varied by what news station aired in the background of their living room.

Honestly, a child running through the hallway in his pajamas would be a welcome distraction.

My face shield started to fog up. So I waited until no one else was in the hallway, and removed it. My forehead collected a good deal of sweat, so I wiped it off and laughed. At least, I’m still sweating. The stairs had been a good workout and by now, I was cooking in the sauna. Maybe sweating off the virus is the answer.

The patient I visited lived in a lockdown unit. His dementia had gotten the best of him, so his family paid for him to live out the rest of his days in safety. He could wander around his room, out into the living area and on special days, a certain nurse would always take him out on the patio so he could collect some fresh air and sunshine. Other than that, my patient spent most of his time sitting in a semi-soiled diaper in the TV room spacing out to reruns of Gunsmoke.

However, when I walked the unit, I saw no one except one nurse behind a desk, gown up masked up, straining her eyeballs at the computer screen.

“He’s in his room. We had to lock the door for everyone, because they, you know, keep wandering around. Poor guy, he doesn’t know he’s sick and he’s probably going to get everyone else sick with the way he keeps wandering around.”

“So, he’s stuck in his room?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’ll unlock it for you.” she grabbed the keys and hopped to her feet.

“How often does he come out?” I followed her down the hallway.

She stopped to give the explanation, “Oh, we can’t let them out. We bring the food in and do all the showers in the room, cause they have private showers, it takes longer, but we can get it done.”

We continued to walk as I thought, “He’s probably going crazy in there.” I was trying not to let anger get me any hotter than I already was. Besides, I know she was just following the regulations set in place by her employer. If I was to yell at anyone, I should take it to the person in charge.

Who was in charge, anyway?

Instead, I huffed a little, trying to express disapproval. I tried to remember something Florence Nightingale said,…”fresh air and sunshine is the cure?”

I entered the room and immediately sat down next to him. With the door closed, I couldn’t help myself. I removed my face shield; he didn’t seem to be spitting on me. The gown was starting to come undone in the back, so I removed it, trying to provide as normal of an experience for this man as much as possible. He smelled with that old man smell like the way my great grandpa smell after working, minus the tobacco pipe. He didn’t smile or talk, just kept making facial expressions when I would talk. I placed the stethoscope on his frail chest and he then exclaimed, “oh, that’s a cold, cold…cold what you have there, what are you doing?” He nervously laughed and then resumed his stare once I pulled out my computer.

The room was clean, nearly undisturbed, except for the hundreds of napkins stored under his pillow. A little light came in through the window overlooking the courtyard below. I guided him to gaze down below as landscapers planted new flowers, mowed the grass and trimmed the bushes.

“How much is this going to cost me?” he finally said.

Rather than a long explanation, I lied. “I already got your payment - thank you for your business and support.” He grinned and shook my hand. His fingernails dug into my palm. I set my computer aside, thinking I could get this chart complete sometime at home while my wife and I watched reruns of The Office. I pulled off my gloves and searched for a fingernail clipper. Within a few moments, and without too many words, I had his nails clipped.

Somewhere near the nursing station, I set down my bag in some corner. The facilities always had amazing places to lounge and catch up on my charting. I called his daughter to give her an update.

”How is he? I haven’t seen him, they won’t let family visit the lockdown unit. He won’t pick up his phone either.” Her worry was backlogged from weeks without contact.

“He’s ok for now, safe, I mean. He’s not doing too much in the room. And I don’t think he would say much on the phone, but he would like to hear your voice, I’m sure.”

I wanted to give better news, but I couldn’t help myself. My stomach had been in knots ever since I walked into this sterile bubble.

“I don’t like it - I don’t think they should be shutting everyone in their room. Your dad is so disoriented, I’m not even sure where he thinks he is. I know he’s got the virus, or whatever, trust me though, he is not even sick. No fever, no congestion. But honestly, he’s bored, unstimulated, and I just…”

I thought about the way his hands felt in mind as I clipped his nails.

“He just needs human contact. That’s what we are missing in all this.”

By now, the daughter spoke with a mixture of grief and anger. She wondered how to get into the facility when they wouldn’t even let family visit. But I visited, but then again, I’m essential, right? A frontline worker, they kept calling me. I kept my job, just like the receptionist and even the landscapers.

But the family - I suppose that wasn’t essential.

I concluded the call with a sick feeling in my stomach, a wild emotion seeking a landing. Why could I visit, decorated with all the polyester and plastic the world could summon, when the family couldn’t? It wasn’t right.

Then I saw room 242. I suppose that if this was his only visit, I had better make it a good one. That’s when I started hugging my patients goodbye. It took a global pandemic for me to appreciate the value of human touch.

I left the building looking a little different. The need to make a difference, to defy, to let everyone know that I think heaven will make us pay for this treatment only left me to drop my mask below my nose and wear it like a chin strap.

“Have a good day,” I waved goodbye to the receptionist.

She was mid bite in an egg roll. She smiled and wrapped up the to go bag off her desk. “Can you sign out please?”

“Chinese food, today?” I said.

“Yeah, I’m supposed to be on a diet, but they have the staff room closed, so I ordered out.”

2 weeks later, I returned to the facility. Not much had changed, only now, temperatures were taken at the front door, I had to sign in three different places and there were a lot more signs telling everyone how to properly wear masks.

The rooms were still locked. No one wanted an outbreak, so quarantine was the answer.

It was good to see him again. He was still in his room, but I talked with him, trying to following his topics of conversation that teleported from one lifetime to the next. Mostly, I just showed my smile and laughed a lot. I wanted him to know he had a good friend, or son…or whatever he thought I was.

When I called the daughter to give her an update, she was in a good mood. In fact, she had more information about him that I even knew. “Did you make a visit?” I asked.

“Yes! Last Sunday, and we had a wonderful time. You know, he looks so skinny now, but I got him showered and shaved, oh my god, he needed a shave.”

”How did you get in?”

“Easy. I became a Door Dash delivery driver, ordered food from his account and delivered it to him. They let me right in.”

A heartfelt thank you to everyone who innovated during a time of ridiculousness and especially those who value the power of touch.

The Human Light will continue to shine as long as we don’t hide it under a bushel.