Cathy Davis
February 2015
Cathy
Davis
,
RN
6 East
Huntington Hospital
Pasadena
,
CA
United States
I didn't realize I was crying until she handed me a tissue. Cathy Davis was the nurse on duty at Huntington Hospital in Pasadena when my mother was brought back to her room after hip surgery. We were immediately impressed with her effortless efficiency and softness with Mom.
My mother's normally rosy complexion was chalk white. An oxygen mask was placed on her face. Cathy handed me consent papers for a blood transfusion. "I can see how close you all are," she said, taking hold of my hand and my daughter's. I explained I was the only daughter and my daughter the only granddaughter. Moments later I was telling her how Mom took care of me after my mastectomy, and Cathy shared with me that she had lost her mother to cancer.
And then she gave me some advice, in the form of a charming command. "Go home, eat and get some sleep." She knew we had been at the hospital all night and day. She promised to call with an update before she went off duty.
When she phoned me at home to report that Mom was doing much better, Cathy remarked that she was touched by my bond with my mother. "There's a lady who writes great stories about her mom in the Sunday paper. It's called Senior Moments. You might like them. "When I explained she was talking to the Senior Moments lady, she was not convinced. About an hour later, she called me from home and asked, "Did you kiss Elvis Presley when you were 13?" "That's me." I answered. Now she was a believer.
Before I walked into Mom's hospital room the next morning, I stood in the doorway for a few minutes watching Cathy interact with my mother. She was perched on the edge of her bed, helping her eat breakfast. Mom was laughing at Cathy's story about her accidental discovery of who I was. I imagined that she must have treated her own mother the same way - Kindly, but firmly.
"Yes, You have to keep the oxygen mask on. I'm sorry it bothers you."
And, turning back to the tray, "This looks good. Try a bite."
There it was again - that same exquisite balance of patience and competence. This time my tears were happy ones. She was mothering my mother, just as she had mothered me and my daughter the night before. How can I not honor her today?
My mother's normally rosy complexion was chalk white. An oxygen mask was placed on her face. Cathy handed me consent papers for a blood transfusion. "I can see how close you all are," she said, taking hold of my hand and my daughter's. I explained I was the only daughter and my daughter the only granddaughter. Moments later I was telling her how Mom took care of me after my mastectomy, and Cathy shared with me that she had lost her mother to cancer.
And then she gave me some advice, in the form of a charming command. "Go home, eat and get some sleep." She knew we had been at the hospital all night and day. She promised to call with an update before she went off duty.
When she phoned me at home to report that Mom was doing much better, Cathy remarked that she was touched by my bond with my mother. "There's a lady who writes great stories about her mom in the Sunday paper. It's called Senior Moments. You might like them. "When I explained she was talking to the Senior Moments lady, she was not convinced. About an hour later, she called me from home and asked, "Did you kiss Elvis Presley when you were 13?" "That's me." I answered. Now she was a believer.
Before I walked into Mom's hospital room the next morning, I stood in the doorway for a few minutes watching Cathy interact with my mother. She was perched on the edge of her bed, helping her eat breakfast. Mom was laughing at Cathy's story about her accidental discovery of who I was. I imagined that she must have treated her own mother the same way - Kindly, but firmly.
"Yes, You have to keep the oxygen mask on. I'm sorry it bothers you."
And, turning back to the tray, "This looks good. Try a bite."
There it was again - that same exquisite balance of patience and competence. This time my tears were happy ones. She was mothering my mother, just as she had mothered me and my daughter the night before. How can I not honor her today?