Crackhouses as viewed by a nurse

My job will change soon. Right now I am a home health nurse. Again, this means I drive to peoples' houses and be a nurse. My patients range in age and location. Of concern today, in this post, are my patients who are not white and not rich.

There is a pocket in town that is poorest. The next step is homeless. These enclaves are often called ghettos, section 8 housing, the projects, or crack house lane. All accurate names. And so there I go, before ten am, in my car. Me, the white nurse.

The man I saw was not appreciative of my visit. For better or worse, he has expectations of the agency that I work for. They are not being met. He is angry and short with me. I feel the angry and agressive energies. I breathe deep and stay centered.

I remark on his TV. “You have a see through TV.” I say, rather chirpely. This is my natural and genuine tone. He says flatly, “It’s a prison TV”. It would function as such, the outer casing is clear platic and you can see all the parts. No hiding shivs there. “Oooh, I seee.” I say slowly. “That is exactly the point.” He smirks. I smile. “That’s a funny joke!” says me. Chipper monkey, thy name is Mrs. Hall.

So we get down to it. My task at this appointment is four fold. He refuses all but two. I take his vitals, listen to his lungs, his heart. Then the diabetic foot care. His feet are a goddam mess. Toenails all thick with green fungus, nail beds splitting apart at the seems, feet all dry and flakey. A mess indeed.

There I am, in front of his recliner. It is the kind that moves up and down with a remote. His carpet has foodstuff ground into it. I kneel there, move aside a bottle of Jameson, empties of Hamm’s beer, and the cockroach spray. My tools are taken from my backpack. And for the next 30 minutes I work through this mess. I notice that as I lean forward, my top dips down, revealing cleavage. My shirt is quickly adjusted and I look up to see if he had noticed. He is bent completely to his left, leaning over the arm of the chair. A mere six inches from the TV. Glued to The Price is Right. He takes no notice of my labor.

I do an excellent job. He feet respond well. When I am done I repeat my offer to complete my other tasks. He says no. But this time, he smiles. He is no longer short and angry.

In a way, I find my job selfish. On this visit I had an opportunity to give dignity to a man who has very little. This is the priviledge of service.