Déjà vu

Today I found myself laughing aloud as I drove to work. For whatever reason--the smell of the air outside, the way the sky looked, the sun on the hospital--something reminded me of the day I started my first job as a nurse. I was wet behind the ears and hardly recognized any equipment I saw. I realized that I was truly a hazard to the wellbeing of most patients there. It could be the family genes, but I had it in my mind to bluff my way through whatever unknowns that would present themselves.

One of the nurses who was assigned to orient me that day, invited me to help her give a patient a bedbath. Not any kind of patient, and not any kind of bedbath. This was the trauma unit. Every patient seemed to have a cast, metal hardware, be covered in bandages, have tubes from every orifice, or be on some sort of specialty bed. The bath consisted of two large body towels in a plastic bag full of hot water and rinseless soap. One large wet towel would be placed over the patient and we'd all scrub up and down, back and forth with it, being sure everything was cleaned. Then it would be whisked away and the patient would be covered with a large hot towel with which to be dried. After turning the patient over, the same routine would be repeated on the back, etc.
I watched the first bedbath and noted the assured way the nurses worked: not flinching at nakedness, scrubbing in a way that would surely make me blush, and all the while talking with the patient to be sure he felt okay during the bath. I didn't know if I could do it, but was up for the next bath.

About four of us descended on a large male patient, pulling the curtain partway around him for privacy. I don't remember much about him, just that it took all four of us to life his casts, turn, and scrub. As three of the nurses turned the man to his side, I was left with a large, dirty, soapy towel dripping down my arm. There was no place to put it and I looked around to find a place to set it down. Just then I recalled seeing these wonderfully seasoned nurses throwing the towel through the curtains onto the floor outside the bathroom door. Well, I could do that. I wound up my arm, hoisted the huge towel in the air, and with a surge of energy, threw it overhand at the bathroom door. However, just then, Dr. Thompson, a large stiff, jowly doctor with white hair, walked past the curtain. The wet towel slapped up against the back of his neck, wrapping part way around his face and leaving water marks on his tie and collar.

He whirled about to face me. If looks could kill, I was on my way. His eyes bored into me--the guilty one with wet hands and one upraised arm. The other nurses froze, horrified, as they watched Dr. Thompson disentangle himself from the dirty towel. "That kind of behavior should never be seen in this hospital," he spat.
"Yes sir..." My face turned red and my stomach started doing somersaults. "I'm very sorry."
"See that it never happens again!"
"Yes sir."
Dr. Thompson strode out of the room, his subdued residents with twinkly eyes, following close behind. He looked like an egotistical bantam rooster. I almost fainted. The nurses around me cackled and howled with laughter, in a quiet way so as not to be heard outside the room. I was "in" --at least with them.

Isn't unexpected memory entertaining?