Since this is nurse appreciation week I want to take a moment to thank all the nurses for everything they do. They truly are angels in disguise.

It took many years for me to reach that conclusion because my first experiences with nurses were not pleasant encounters. I’ll start at the beginning; My birth. I was told that when I was born the attending nurse took one look at me and said, “Oh the poor woman! It’s another boy. Lord knows, she didn’t want another boy!”

Those were the days before ultra-sounds and a birth was like opening a box of Cracker Jacks. You never knew what you were going to get. It was always a surprise. My parents had already had two sons and were hoping for a little girl. My birthday was probably the first of many times I disappointed them over the years.

When the attending nurse filled out the paperwork for my birth certificate, she misspelled my last name and scribbled my middle name in such a way that when I was enrolled in school the person in charge had to take a stab at deciphering what it was. They stabbed wrong and wrote down Lewis instead of Louis.

For several years I was conflicted as to how to spell my middle name. It was on record that my middle name was Lewis, and one did not question one’s permanent record in those days.

As for her writing Allgood instead of Algood… well, that must have slipped through several of cracks. My mother signed off the mistake. So, my certified birth certificate has my name forever spelled wrong. I didn’t catch that mistake myself until I applied for a passport in the late 90s. Each time I went through Customs I held my breath, hoping no one would pick up on the difference. They didn’t.

My next bad experience with a nurse came when I was taken to the local health department for those dreaded vaccination shots. There must have been an unwritten rule back in the 50s that needles had to be as large as chicken legs, because that’s what it felt like Nurse Estes was shoving in my butt whenever I was taken there. It was always a traumatic experience for me, and I behaved terribly.

My mother refused to go along. Thus, my father devised ways of tricking me into going into town with him. He would tell me that we were going to Walker’s Chain Store or Ben Franklin’s to get a new toy. He failed to mention that before we went toy shopping, he was going to drag me screaming, kicking and biting into the health department next-door to the jailhouse.

Looking back, I find it ironic that the health department was located there. I would have gladly chosen jail, if given a choice.

There was that one time Daddy took me in for my shots that I vividly remember. He carried me into the back room and set me up on a table. Nurse Estes walked in with the prepared syringe that was big enough to shoot an elephant. She was smiling behind those cat-eye glasses she wore. “Ready?”

If I had known any cuss words I would have used them. But all I could do was scream. They jerked my pants down around my knees, flipped me upside down, and attempted to shoot me. The key word here is attempted.

“Relax, Honey, or it’s gonna hurt.”

Well, I knew it was going to hurt no matter what, so I fought like a tiger. I bit Nurse Estes. I landed a kick to my father’s neither regions, flew off the table, and out the door I went. I made it out of the health department and was nearly up to Main Street with my pants down around my ankles when someone tackled me.

Back to the little room I went. There were three people waiting to hold me down. I’m sure Nurse Estes had to get a rabies shot later that day. My only hope was that the needle was as big as the one she’d used to shoot me.

The last bad experience I had with a nurse was when I was twenty-one years old and had to have my tonsils removed. My mother was not doing well so my father and I decided it would be best if I secretly went down to Meridian, Mississippi to have the procedure done. We found some excuse to leave the house on a Sunday afternoon and flew down to the hospital there and checked in. Then he disappeared and went back home. I was traveling with a construction crew back in those days, so me not coming home wasn’t unusual.

Evidently, business was good for the hospital that week because they were short on rooms. They did have an opening up on the maternity floor, and that’s where they stuck me. I was the only male patient on the floor. Who knew that would not be a good thing?

Everything went swimmingly until the next day and I awoke after surgery. I was coming to alone in my room. Drugged, but in pain. For a few minutes I did not remember where I was or what I was doing there. It was my first hospital experience, so I had no idea what to expect. As the hours passed, I became more alert and in more pain than I’d ever been in in my life. Finally, a nurse came in to check on me. I could not talk. My throat felt like I had swallowed half a bale of cotton and was swollen shut. She asked me how I was doing. I wanted to cry, but she was pretty, and I didn’t want to appear weak. I pointed toward my mouth and grunted, “Pain.”

“Yes, dear. That’s normal after having your tonsils out. Would you like some ice?”

I nodded. She put a glass of ice on the tray holder beside me. “There.”

There? Was that it? I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t swallow. I thought I was dying. There? Then she turned and was gone.

I tried the ice. It helped a little. Time dragged by. The pain became intense. I prayed that Jesus would take me home. My only regret was that I was still a virgin and would die a young man having never known love. But the pain was bad. I was willing to die.

But wait a minute. I remembered that call button thingy beside the bed. I pressed it. After a moment a lovely voice came through the speaker, “Can I help you?”

I couldn’t talk. I could only moan. “Hmmmm Grrrrrrr Paaaaaaaain.”

“Can I help you?”

“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr Paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaain!”

I could hear voices over the intercom in the background. “Must be a child visiting their mom. Ignore it.”

Sweat was popping out on my forehead and around my eyes. I pressed the button again and again and again.

“Yes. Can I help you?”

I banged the thingy on the side of the bed.

A few minutes later a nurse walked into the room. She looked annoyed. “Did you press the intercom?”

I nodded. I pointed at my throat and mouthed, “Pain. Hurt. Dying.”

She smiled and said, “We’ve never lost a patient who’s had a tonsillectomy. Would you like some ice?”

If I could have screamed, I would have, but that would have hurt. I shook my head. With tears in my eyes I slowly said, “I’m in pain.”

“Oh. Well, that’s natural with a tonsillectomy. But I’ll see what I can get for you.” Then she left, not to be seen again.

Supper came. Broth and Jello. I tried the Jello. It was difficult to get down.

The nurse on the evening shift came in to check on me. She gave me some red goo to drink. She said it would numb my throat. It did. I was glad Jesus had not taken me earlier when I had prayed for death. She was not much older than I was, and cute.

By midnight I thought the angel of death was about to visit me. I was hurting bad. I pressed the button. Nothing. No response. I pressed it again at one and two and three and four. Nothing. “Lord I don’t care if I am a virgin! Take me. Take me now!” At five in the morning a nurse came in.

“Whew! It has been a busy night tonight, Honey. Five babies. Can you imagine that? Five in one night. One birth was a set of twins. They were beautiful. You ought to see them. Precious little babies. I just love my job.”

“How are we doing this morning?”

I was crying real tears. “Hmmmmmmmm GRRRRRRRRRRRR Paaaaaaaaaaain!”

“Oh. Are you hurting? I’ve got something for that. Roll over.”

I didn’t care if she was Miss America or Nurse Estes raised from the dead. I stuck my butt up in the air and let her shoot me. Anything for the pain.

I had to stay in that room until the following Friday because I wasn’t healing as expected. Day by day I prayed less and less for death. On Friday afternoon my father came and took me home where my mother had a big supper prepared. “Ricky, why aren’t you eating? I made cornbread for you. You love cornbread. Is something wrong?”

I was still having trouble talking and swallowing. “No mam. I’m just not very hungry tonight.” I had lost about ten pounds that week. She never knew that I had been in the hospital.

After those days my experiences with nurses have only gotten better. I guess as I’ve gotten older I have grown to realize what an important job they really do. The nurse that misspelled my name on the birth certificate was probably more concerned with me staying alive than how my name was supposed to be spelled. Those vaccinations Nurse Estes gave me probably saved my life. And the nurses in the maternity ward knew I would survive and live to lose my virginity on my wedding night. The mothers and babies were a priority.

I’ll venture to bet they hear a lot of trivial complaints during their hours of service day and night.

Since that week I spent in Meridian years ago I have encountered many fine nurses over the years. One in particular comes to mind that I am especially grateful for. I give her full credit for saving my life a couple years ago. Had she not stayed on top of things I would not be here today. Her name is Joanna. She is a single mom, and as far as I’m concerned, she’s an angel. My God bless her.

Not just her, but all the nurses who keep us old guys going for another day. They are out there on the front lines day and night. I’m certain they don’t get the thanks they truly deserve. They comfort the sick. They are there when life begins, and they are there when life ends. They see things most of us would run from.

Thank you to all the nurses out there. I’m certain you are underpaid and underappreciated. You are angels.

Just one word of advice, guys. Never accept a room in a maternity ward in a hospital in Meridian, Mississippi. And never ask Jesus to take you if you are a virgin. The pain was worth living through.

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Rick Algood
May 9, 2019