via Scrubs Magazine
I just posted, “The only thing men ever learn from history is that men never learn from history” on my other blog and this comment from Scrubs Magazine also placed that not on the bulls-eye. You can view the original post here.
Part of being a nurse should be having pride in our profession.
Part of having pride in our profession should be knowing its history.
Read a little and you will find that nursing was not invented by Nightingale—it was reinvented by her. In actuality, both genders were involved in nursing since before it was even called “nursing.”
Caring for wounded soldiers wasn’t a new thing that suddenly occurred in the Crimean war…. Guess who provided care to the wounded soldiers at the time of the crusades and even earlier treating sick pilgrims? Monks and knights who were—gasp!—MEN.
Let’s put this whole “woman’s profession” argument to bed. If anyone needs further convincing, allow me to point you to the orders of the Knights Hospitallers and the Teutonic Knights (circa way the heck before certain gender-biased people were born, got jaded and decided that nursing only has room for one gender).
—NursingWhileMale on 3 Male Nurse Myths
Your thoughts then?
To Each Staff Member of this Facility:
As you pick up that chart today and scan that green Medicaid card, I hope you will remember what I am about to say. I spent yesterday with you. I was there with my mother and father. We didn’t know where we were supposed to go or what we were supposed to do, for we had never needed your services before. We have never before been labeled charity.
I watched yesterday as my dad became a diagnosis, a chart, a case number, a charity case labeled “no sponsor” because he had no health insurance. I saw a weak man stand in line, waiting for five hours to be shuffled through a system of impatient office workers, a burned-out nursing staff and a budget-scarce facility, being robbed of any dignity and pride he may have had left. I was amazed at how impersonal your staff was, huffing and blowing when the patient did not present the correct form, speaking carelessly of other patients’ cases in front of passersby, of lunch breaks that would be spent away from this “poor man’s hell.”
My dad is only a green card, a file number to clutter your desk on appointment day, a patient who will ask for directions twice after they’ve been mechanically given the first time. But, no, that’s not really my dad. That’s only what you see. What you don’t see is a cabinetmaker since the age of 14, a self-employed man who has a wonderful wife, four grown kids (who visit too much), and five grandchildren (with two more on the way) – all of whom think their “pop” is the greatest.
This man is everything a daddy should be – strong and firm, yet tender, rough around the edges, a country boy, yet respected by prominent business owners. He’s my dad, the man who raised me through thick and thin, gave me away as a bride, held my children at their births, stuffed a $20 bill into my hand when times were tough and comforted me when I cried. Now we are told that before long cancer will take this man away from us.