nothing, honey.

Sometimes at work, I have moments with patients that absolutely humble me. They're these small, finite moments, almost inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, and the things I'm doing are usually just small favors, not big, life-and-death situations--washing someone's hair, or brushing someone's teeth for them.

This week, I was tucking a little old lady into bed--she was forgetful and kept trying to get up--and she was just as cute as a bug in a rug; a southern lady whose family hailed from Kentucky.

As I was pulling the covers over her, she suddenly sat up, and gave me a hug and kiss on the cheek and whispered in my ear, "Thank you so much; you are so kind and nice to me!"

I hate--and I mean truly hate--a lot of things about my job, but every once in awhile you receive gratitude from a patient that is so genuine it's almost heartbreaking.

Another gem: I had another patient this week, also elderly, who was a retired veterinarian. He was very chatty one particular night, and just kept talking and talking; about his wife, about his grandkids, about Wisconsin. He couldn't stop talking, it seemed.

I had to get some medication for him, so I said, "I'll be right back, honey."

Now, you have to understand, I call all my patients honey. Partially, it's because I can't remember their names at the time, because I'm too busy thinking of five things that need to be done simultaneously for five other patients. I don't mean anything offensive about it; it's kind of like being a waitress at the diner. Everybody's honey.

He said, "What did you just call me?"

I thought, Oh shit. Here we go. He's gonna get all pissed I didn't call him Mr. So-and-So.

I stammered, "Oh. I'm sorry. I don't mean anything by it; I call everybody honey. It's just... well, you know..."

He smiled, took my hand, squeezed it tightly and kissed it, then looked up at me and said in all sincerity, "Thank you so much for that; it's been so long since someone called me 'honey'."

This profession has such a curious way of pervading your soul--the good, and the bad. And it's an ironic, unexpected gift to find out what matters the most to people isn't that we caught a heart attack before it could get any worse or double and triple checked their orders; half the time, the life-saving things nurses do, no matter how critical to the patient's well being--such as catching a fatal med error before it gets to the patient or arguing with the attending to get appropriate orders--are completely irrelevant to their perception of the care that's being given.

And so we go in expecting people, if they thank us at all, will thank us for saving their lives, when in fact what they end up most grateful for isn't the medicine, or the science, it's simply making the effort to connect on a human level.

Patients probably have no idea how grateful and humbled we are by their gestures of gratitude.

I walk a thin line between love and hate every day I'm on the job. Eighty percent of the time I'm working with end-stage population, I lean towards getting the hell out of acute care nursing all together, but when a patient says thank you, and means it, well, crap, just pushes me right back over that line towards the bedside again.

I've come to believe a sincere "thank you" is a patient's way of telling me she thinks I belong at the bedside, even when I think I don't.