Don’t you love to watch professionals at work
I heard the trucks this morning at 4 AM for the first time in a few months. Early morning 4–6, is my precious writing time.
And street sounds during the summer are my alarm clock.
The photo explains why my ears were alerted.
The three blobs are the cerumen wax from my right ear. The little speck? Read on.
Yesterday, a nurse irrigated my ears for the 64th time in my 73 years.
The work is done once a year, usually in the summer.
The first time was when I was eight, at the Northwest Davenport Clinic on 4th Street, just down from the railroad tracks.
I don’t remember what the nurse looked like. But I recall her showing me the large mass of wax at the end of what I would learn was a cerumen spoon. And all of a sudden, the clinic came alive with sounds, including my mother exclaiming: “you got that out of his ear.”
And the sound of my natural guardian angel placing the dime-sized globule on a tray. And the train choo-choo’ing several blocks away.
I’ve loved nurses ever since.
If you’ve been paying attention, you know I’ve had 65 summers since my first ear cleaning and 64 nurse cleanings.
In 1983, a doctor jackhammered my compacted earwax. The crime scene was a clinic in Bloomington, Illinois. The suspect was an older physician.
Like many contemporaries, I’m always on the lookout for ageism. The problem was not my doctor’s age but his unsteady hand.
There may be a link between accumulated years and a job’s physical requirements. At 73, I’m inclined to favor it’s a person-by-person issue.
Even with my ears cleaned out, my balance is not what it used to be, so I’ve stopped climbing the ladder to clean our gutters. But my 75-year-old neighbor Al reshingles his roof with aplomb.
Could most 80-year-olds manage the demands of the American Presidency? I’m doubtful. Can the person Joe Biden? He has, and thus he can.
But enough about doctors and men. This story is about nurses.
With some repeats, I’ve had about 50 different nurses in 64 cleanings. Everyone has been a woman. Today, 13% of American nurses are men. Rebecca’s son Jonathan is a nurse practitioner. Maybe I’ll have him or them someday, but not yesterday.
She walked into the room following a soft knock and a courtesy pause.
Fortunately, my chair was next to the door.
She laid the tray of instruments next to the sink and said, “I’ve warmed the water.”
Which melted my heart.
“Do you like cleaning out ears,” I asked.
“I like to see the immediate results of my work,” she said.
So true, I thought, and rare in my former profession, college teaching.
She was a float nurse, not my doctor’s nurse, who had competently cleaned the last few years.
As Diane placed a towel over the left shoulder, she said to stay sitting in the chair as she was short.
“Let me know if the water is too warm or cold,” she said as she gently placed the syringe in my ear.
Four squirts in each ear usually do the job, with one or two checks with the otoscope. A little water always spills. I always ask to see the build-up. Occasionally, a little piece hangs back.
Nurses that love this work are perfectionists. With a surgeon’s touch, Diane used the q shaped cerumen spoon to lift that tiny “4th” wax piece out.
I love to watch professionals at work.
