Sign Language

It’s been a tough couple of weeks at work. Lots of sick patients, day after day. As I sat at my desk, yesterday morning, I was reading a patient’s History and Physical, preparing to go see him and admit him to home health services.

After more than three decades as a registered nurse, I’d like to think that there just isn’t much that I haven’t seen or done, as far as patient care goes. Yet, as I read this young man’s history, I was shaking my head. Multiple surgeries, a cancerous tumor, brain surgery, epileptic seizures, a ventral-peritoneal shunt, countless medications, and around-the-clock care.

I telephoned his mother to schedule my visit. She sounded quite pleasant on the phone, and maybe, just a little bit hyper. And very talkative. Well, that’s understandable: her life is devoted to taking care of her severely handicapped and ill son. She probably doesn’t get out much.

Without realizing it, I had formulated a vision of this young man: bedridden, emaciated, unable to speak, and of course, looking quite ill. I was impressed that his mom was able to be so cheerful and I hoped I could be the same.

I left the office armed with his life history, some supplies, and fully prepared for a heart-wrenchingly somber visit.

I turned off the main road on to a side street.

One…..two…..three…..four…..five…there it is: the fifth house on the right. Kind of a nice little wood-framed house with a flowerbox under the front window. From the street, the house did not belie the tragedy occurring within.

Or so I thought.

As frequently happens, my knock on the door caused the dog inside to start barking. I heard someone approaching the front door and I braced myself for what I might be getting into….

A delightful woman who didn’t look old enough to have a son in his twenties opened the door. She greeted me warmly and invited me in. And then I saw it: a whirling dervish, moving so fast I couldn’t focus on it to figure out what it was. Mom directed me toward a couch and invited me to sit down. There it was again! Only this time, the dervish stopped, mid-twirl, and smiled at me.

Over five tall, a little chubby, with a scraggly beard, he stared at me for a moment before his whole face broke into a smile. “Hi nurse!” He said quite loudly. And that was not enough. I waved at him and he waved back. And that was not enough. He walked over to me and shook my hand. And that was not enough. He gave me a bear hug. And that was not enough. He planted a kiss on my cheek…

As I sat on the couch with his mom, completing the paperwork that is part and parcel of the admission process, he sat across from us, watching everything we did. Since he is profoundly deaf, I did not try to talk to him. I would look up every couple of minutes and wave to him, just to let him know that I knew he was there. And every wave from me elicited an angelic smile from him.

Mom would ask him questions occasionally, using sign language. He would answer the questions by signing. He “said” he was not having pain. He said he likes nurses and doctors because “they saved my life.” And again, he flashed that smile.

When it was time for me to do a physical examination and assessment, he was very cooperative. Helpful, in fact. Despite having had more than three dozen surgeries in his life, and multiple life-threatening physical problems, he is open and innocent and loving. He smiles easily, and is very affectionate. As I was instructing his mom in colostomy care, he reached up and took my hand and held it for more than a minute. He just wanted to connect with “the nurse” and he did, more than he knows.

Hopefully, the techniques I taught his mom yesterday will eliminate problems with the colostomy functioning. Hopefully, the interaction with “the nurse” will put both mother and son at ease, knowing that they have someone they can call who will help them with his physical needs.

Hopefully, I was able to give them as much as they gave me. I now know how to say “I love you” “thank you” and “you’re welcome” in sign language.

And I get paid to do this….