REFLECTIONS
By Shannon M. Harris
A
teeny red bump had at the young, button-nosed mysteriously appeared nurse standing beside him. on my left index finger. “Don’t you want a picture? It hurt when I pressed on it. For your records?” he asked. I figured it was nothing, but She shook her head, squintby the next morning my fining and gritting her teeth. “I ger was shiny and discolored, know. Yuck,” I said. I later and so swollen I couldn’t bend shared photos of my infecit. Reluctantly, I drove to the tion journey online, to the hospital. great wonder and disgust of Even after the ED doc had my friends and family. Before injected a numbing agent into that, though, came surgery. my finger, I could feel her scalSurgery terrified me. In pel slice steadily through my hindsight, I should have been skin. I winced as she forced much more scared of the ED. ooze out with her thumb. At least you’re not conscious She told me my finger would for surgery. I “came to” afterbe fine the next day. ward and asked when they When I came in and she saw were going to start. The shock that it wasn’t, she apologized. related to that experience didn’t I was admitted for emergency come until a few hours later. treatment. The same nurse from before, iv antibiotics didn’t work. the one who hadn’t wanted to Two nurses sat with me, trysnap a photo with her phone, ing to figure out where this unwrapped my finger to pack Nurses aren’t just healers— bump had come from in the it. I gasped at the inch-wide first place. After X-rays, evhole exposing my tendon. The they’re teachers, too. eryone seemed convinced that opening was accented on the I had a “bead” in my finger. top and bottom by black “X” “Are you sure it’s not a BB from a gun?” one nurse asked stitches. suspiciously. I was absolutely sure it was not. Unconvinced, The nurse, Ms. Lisa, told me I’d need to pack my own she asked me again. wound once a day until it was healed. I was horrified. “Can’t “I think I’d remember getting shot,” I replied. I just come back and have a nurse do it?” I asked. She laughed She raised her eyebrow skeptically. I noticed. and promised she’d show me how. I had no choice. I was reI didn’t know where the bump had come from any more leased the next day. I filled my Zyvox prescription and went than they did. Apparently the original protrusion (aka “the home. bead”) was still visible in the X-ray, even through my massive, The first time I sat at my table, sterile tools laid out on a festering finger puff, which wasn’t going away. Tests confirmed fresh paper towel, I thought of Ms. Lisa. This kind of thing that I had MRSA. I needed surgery. was routine for her. I recalled the way she focused intently One nurse explained the condition and gave me a black-and- on each step. How hard could it be? I suddenly felt thankful white handout. I needed to have the goo in my finger dug out it was her, and not the “are you sure it’s not a BB?” nurse, before the infection spread. In retrospect, though, it sounded who’d offered me guidance. I was tranquil and confident as much more eloquent when she said it. I dipped the gauze and buried it in my finger—that first day Three physicians entered my hospital room to observe and many thereafter. my finger and explain MRSA. “You have methicillin-resistant When Ms. Lisa first told me I’d be packing my own wound, Staphylococcus aureus,” they each informed me. I knew that. I thought she was a little cuckoo. My degree is in education, I’d read the handout. not nursing. My home is crawling with bacteria that could reI talked to the nurse. She even explained why I needed to be contaminate my finger. It’s not sterilized like a hospital. All it absolutely sure to finish all of my antibiotics. I’d need to take would take is one itty-bitty mistake. A cat hair. “last-resort” medicine after my surgery—Zyvox—and there I followed her directions anyway, and my finger healed was no backup. “Either that works or you’re out of options,” nicely and without incident. Because of Ms. Lisa, I now see she told me. Still, the physicians made their appearances and nurses as more than healers. I see them as teachers, too. offered their own explanations. Some of them, anyway. ▼ The third physician stood out to me most. He asked to Shannon M. Harris is a freelance writer from the Seattle area. Contact take a picture of my green and black, staph-infected finger author: [email protected]. Reflections is coordinated by with his iPhone. “Sure. Look at it! I thought this only hapMadeleine Mysko, MA, RN: [email protected]. Illustration by pened to pirates,” I told him as he snapped away. He glanced Jennifer Rodgers.
Ms. Lisa and Ms. MRSA
72
AJN ▼ June 2015
▼
Vol. 115, No. 6
ajnonline.com
By Shannon M. Harris
A
teeny red bump had at the young, button-nosed mysteriously appeared nurse standing beside him. on my left index finger. “Don’t you want a picture? It hurt when I pressed on it. For your records?” he asked. I figured it was nothing, but She shook her head, squintby the next morning my fining and gritting her teeth. “I ger was shiny and discolored, know. Yuck,” I said. I later and so swollen I couldn’t bend shared photos of my infecit. Reluctantly, I drove to the tion journey online, to the hospital. great wonder and disgust of Even after the ED doc had my friends and family. Before injected a numbing agent into that, though, came surgery. my finger, I could feel her scalSurgery terrified me. In pel slice steadily through my hindsight, I should have been skin. I winced as she forced much more scared of the ED. ooze out with her thumb. At least you’re not conscious She told me my finger would for surgery. I “came to” afterbe fine the next day. ward and asked when they When I came in and she saw were going to start. The shock that it wasn’t, she apologized. related to that experience didn’t I was admitted for emergency come until a few hours later. treatment. The same nurse from before, iv antibiotics didn’t work. the one who hadn’t wanted to Two nurses sat with me, trysnap a photo with her phone, ing to figure out where this unwrapped my finger to pack Nurses aren’t just healers— bump had come from in the it. I gasped at the inch-wide first place. After X-rays, evhole exposing my tendon. The they’re teachers, too. eryone seemed convinced that opening was accented on the I had a “bead” in my finger. top and bottom by black “X” “Are you sure it’s not a BB from a gun?” one nurse asked stitches. suspiciously. I was absolutely sure it was not. Unconvinced, The nurse, Ms. Lisa, told me I’d need to pack my own she asked me again. wound once a day until it was healed. I was horrified. “Can’t “I think I’d remember getting shot,” I replied. I just come back and have a nurse do it?” I asked. She laughed She raised her eyebrow skeptically. I noticed. and promised she’d show me how. I had no choice. I was reI didn’t know where the bump had come from any more leased the next day. I filled my Zyvox prescription and went than they did. Apparently the original protrusion (aka “the home. bead”) was still visible in the X-ray, even through my massive, The first time I sat at my table, sterile tools laid out on a festering finger puff, which wasn’t going away. Tests confirmed fresh paper towel, I thought of Ms. Lisa. This kind of thing that I had MRSA. I needed surgery. was routine for her. I recalled the way she focused intently One nurse explained the condition and gave me a black-and- on each step. How hard could it be? I suddenly felt thankful white handout. I needed to have the goo in my finger dug out it was her, and not the “are you sure it’s not a BB?” nurse, before the infection spread. In retrospect, though, it sounded who’d offered me guidance. I was tranquil and confident as much more eloquent when she said it. I dipped the gauze and buried it in my finger—that first day Three physicians entered my hospital room to observe and many thereafter. my finger and explain MRSA. “You have methicillin-resistant When Ms. Lisa first told me I’d be packing my own wound, Staphylococcus aureus,” they each informed me. I knew that. I thought she was a little cuckoo. My degree is in education, I’d read the handout. not nursing. My home is crawling with bacteria that could reI talked to the nurse. She even explained why I needed to be contaminate my finger. It’s not sterilized like a hospital. All it absolutely sure to finish all of my antibiotics. I’d need to take would take is one itty-bitty mistake. A cat hair. “last-resort” medicine after my surgery—Zyvox—and there I followed her directions anyway, and my finger healed was no backup. “Either that works or you’re out of options,” nicely and without incident. Because of Ms. Lisa, I now see she told me. Still, the physicians made their appearances and nurses as more than healers. I see them as teachers, too. offered their own explanations. Some of them, anyway. ▼ The third physician stood out to me most. He asked to Shannon M. Harris is a freelance writer from the Seattle area. Contact take a picture of my green and black, staph-infected finger author: [email protected]. Reflections is coordinated by with his iPhone. “Sure. Look at it! I thought this only hapMadeleine Mysko, MA, RN: [email protected]. Illustration by pened to pirates,” I told him as he snapped away. He glanced Jennifer Rodgers.
Ms. Lisa and Ms. MRSA
72
AJN ▼ June 2015
▼
Vol. 115, No. 6
ajnonline.com
