Some of the moments are far less profound, but no less memorable. This week has provided several of that sort.
For example, there was what happened today around Bed Six. The old man who sleeps in that bed just had a large tumour removed from the side of his face. We heard from the admissions nurse that he was blind, so, even though he's not a child by a factor of about sixty years, we allowed him to be admitted with a caregiver.
This morning, Natalie was getting ready to teach our old papa how to do his mouth care. She handed him a little cup of mouthwash and asked the translator to tell the man to use the green swab. But he is blind, the translator replied. He cannot see that. Natalie took this in stride, despite the fact that she clearly have rather known this information in advance, and asked the translator to tell the caregiver, who could then relay the message to the patient in whatever way was easiest for him to understand. That's why she was allowed to stay, wasn't it? To help out?
Imagine the sheer hilarity when, after the translator finished speaking, the woman made a face and gestured to her ears, shrugging her shoulders and moving to sit back down next to the bed.
It would appear that we admitted a deaf caregiver to help care for a blind patient.
(In our defense, on further examination, it turned out that she was only deaf in the figurative sense of the word; her ears work just fine, but they can't hear any of the languages our translators speak, so we're pretty much back to square one there.)
A couple days ago, we had another such moment, one where we look around, shake our heads and wonder aloud whether or not this could possibly be our lives. I have photographic evidence of this one. Emphasis, perhaps, on the graphic.
First, a little medical background. Each of us has fluid surrounding our brain and spinal cords. This fluid helps cushion our important parts and acts as a barrier between them and the outside world. This fluid is supposed to stay put, and when it leaks out of, say, a nose, this is A Very Bad Thing. One way we nurses have of testing whether the drainage from a nose is this fluid, known as CSF (cerebrospinal fluid) or just plain old snot, is to test it for sugar. CSF contains sugar. Snot does not. Or so we thought. (And I'm apparently Dr. Seuss.)
This week, we had a patient who was maybe leaking CSF from her nose. Seeing as how we live on a ship in Africa, our testing options are limited; the only thing we have to test for sugar with is a strip that's actually used to test urine. And since this particular patient's test was only coming up faintly positive, it led us to wonder just how much sugar was too much. Was there, for example, just a little bit of sugar in the normal nose? How would everyday snot test? Was this just a cold, or a sign of something much more ominous? There was only one way to find out.
And so, for a good half hour after my shift was over, we stood around blowing our noses onto little plastic strips, cutting out the relevant test square and taping them to a sheet of paper, along with notes that we felt were relevant in this incredibly scientific study.Ali apparently has a CSF leak.
Beth, left nostril.
Katie. American. Right nostril.
Ali. Take two at not having a CSF leak.
To his credit, the surgeon did not, in fact, laugh in our faces when he was presented with his gift later on that evening. I'm told he even had the grace to appear grateful.
I'm not sure I would have gone that far, but I am glad that this is my life, as crazy as it sometimes is.
