What’s in a Name?
by Wendy Dereix
“You’re not following protocol,”
the second-year resident explained to another
how she was being medically-schooled by someone
who never went to medical school,
“and her name is Barb,” the resident added irritatingly.
The ID badge, strapped under her stethoscope,
confirmed that her name was indeed Barb,
no nonsense, high-minded Barb,
surrounded by a medical team
of Kaitlyns, Karas, and Kellys.
The operation was a success
followed by a post-op mishap—
a medication misinterpretation,
whether it should have been given,
who authorized it, who was to blame.
Barb put the order in, then was overruled,
taken to task by someone half her age,
which occurred more often
than she cared to admit—
because after all, what did she know?
As it turned out, Barb knew quite a bit.
Skilled and experienced,
small in stature, large in personality,
she marshaled over nurses and resident doctors
with complete command and control.
She began as a candy striper,
pushed a cart of newspapers up and down the corridor,
got to know the patients well,
listened to their stories,
worked for free.
Later, she became a nurse,
earned her chops changing bedpans,
donned a white cap named Flossie
after Florence Nightingale,
wore a watch with a sweep second hand.
For extra money, Barb worked the night shift,
recorded patient vitals by hand,
monitored progress
with speed and efficiency,
wrote carefully crafted notes.
Over time, her purpose and duties
grew as she administered to — no,
cared for —the sick and dying,
considered it an honor
because no one should die alone.
On those nights, she held some hands,
fulfilled some final requests
to the extent she was able,
dispensed the best medicine,
skills honed from her candy striping days.
When her shift was over, she would stay,
thought about those lives she touched,
which in turn had touched her,
cried a little, then noted each name on her heart
Mr. Ellington Smith, Mrs. Alice Gordon (nee – Lockhart), Mr. Ralph Nunn, et al.
Now in her sixties, Barb
questions her worth,
wonders why she’s still here,
her feet swelling from standing,
her pride hurt from being taken to task.
Maybe it’s time she retire,
put her feet up, give it a rest—
after so many years too many changes,
the pace grueling,
patient care an oxymoron.
But she hangs on still
to hold a few more hands,
to note a few more names,
concerned that if she leaves
no one else will find the time.
Ms. Wendy Dereix is a retired English teacher from Dayton, Ohio. “Poetry is where I often find universal truths emerging from a simple idea or happenstance. This poem sprang from a short, mundane conversation in passing with a family member in the health profession. I am submitting it here in honor of all healthcare workers in search of their own universal truths.”