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I love and admire nurses.
1)Oncology nurses and 2)ostomy nurses. Radiation nurses and 3)post-op nurses. And those essential, always-there-when-you-need-them, round-the-clock nurses. (And though most of my experience is with female nurses, I admire male nurses, too.)
Now this isn’t some abstract 4)infatuation, based on seeing 5)South Pacific one too many times. I’ve been hospitalized six times in my life, and the medical personnel I came to know best—and like best—were the nurses.
To generalize: Nurses are warm, whereas doctors are cool. Nurses act like real people; doctors often act like 6)aristocrats. Nurses look you in the eye; doctors stare slightly above and to the right of your shoulder. (Maybe they’re taught to do that in medical school?)
My most recent dependence on nurses came in 2008 and early 2009 as I was treated for an 7)aggressive Stage 3 8)prostate cancer. But more about that later.
My first vivid nurse memory comes from the summer of 1970 at Exeter Hospital in New Hampshire. I was 12 years old—almost 13— and a 9)benign tumor in my right knee needed to be cut out.
The night before surgery, a 10)no-nonsense nurse in 11)starchy whites strode into my room like a 12)drill sergeant. She carried a basin of warm water, shaving cream and a razor, and I soon found out that she was a real baseball fan, a 13)Boston Red Sox fan.
“The Sox need to trade Carl Yastrzemski,” she said as she began shaving my right leg. “They need to start14)dangling him…dangling him, trade him for someone like Roberto Clemente or Dick Allen.” I never even noticed the razor had 15)planed my leg to a hairless 16)sheen.
When I spent six weeks in the hospital in 1984—first at Englewood Hospital in New Jersey, then at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York—some of the nurses started feeling almost like family. And, like family, nurses can sometimes be a bit too frank.
I was admitted to Englewood because of heavy bleeding from my 17)ulcerative 18)colitis. My 19)hemoglobin level was 5.6—the normal number for men (as all nurses know) is between 13 and 17—and the admitting nurse 20)offhandedly said, “I’ve never seen anyone alive with a hemoglobin that low.”
I thought my wife, Deb, was going to faint.
A week later I was 21)bundled into an ambulance and packed off to Mount Sinai, where the days passed in a “22)Matrix”-style blur. I remember the nurses calling, “Keys!!!” and the big fist of keys zipping and zooming up and down the hall floor…the old man with a thick 23)Yiddish accent chanting, “Noice(编者注：noice实为“nice”，带有犹太口音的人发“nice”一词听起来与“noice”相似), noice, noice!” …the nurses wrapping my arms, sore and 24)swollen from all the 25)IV needles, in hot towels.
Finally I had surgery to remove my 26)ravaged 27)colon. Post-op there are always those 28)disorienting moments as you shake off the 29)anesthesia. 30)Angelic visions 31)flutter about the bed, 32)swabbing your forehead, slipping ice chips between 33)parched lips, and you wonder: Heaven? Or recovery room?
“How’re you feeling, Mr. Jennings?” Recovery room—34)whew!
And most recently, for my prostate cancer, I was treated at Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital in New Jersey. Except for a 35)flip-flopping energy level, I’m doing well. Every three months, I get my 36)PSA tested—so far, so good.
It made me smile that the nurses there called the two round, plastic 37)drains that dangled from my side“38)grenades.” And it was one of my grenades that made one young doctor understand that I was more than just another “prostate cancer, post-op.”
I can’t recall her name, but the doctor had been told to remove my drain, my last grenade. She needed to grab it firmly, then tug. Instead, she held it 39)tentatively, as if it were a 40)surly 41)garter snake, and 42)waggled it inside my body.
It hurt. I got dizzy, nearly threw up and broke out in a cold sweat. When I told her I was going to pass out, she 43)sheepishly went and got help.
Real help. She went and got a nurse.
我对护士们一直充满敬爱之情。
肿瘤科护士和造口科护士。放射科护士和术后护理护士。还有那些全天候随传随到的普通护士。（虽然和我打交道的大部分都是女护士，我对男护士们也同样心怀敬意。）
不过这并不是因为看了太多次百老汇名剧《南太平洋》而产生的难解迷恋。我一生曾经六进医院，我最了解——也最喜爱的医疗人员——便是护士。
一言以蔽之：护士都很温和，而医生则都是冷冰冰的。护士的一举一动和普通人一样，而医生却常常像个贵族。护士们会看着你的眼睛，而医生们则会稍稍将目光抬高，看向你右肩上方。（也许医学院就是这么教他们的？）
我最近一次需要护士照顾是在2008年至2009年初，当时我正在接受前列腺癌第三期治疗，这个时期癌细胞扩散得很快。不过我们先聊聊别的。
我对于护士的第一次生动记忆来自于1970年的夏天，那是在新罕布什尔州的埃克塞特医院。我年仅12岁——快到13岁 了——我右膝上有一块良性肿瘤需要切除。
在手术的前一天晚上，一位身穿浆硬白大褂，神情严肃的护士大步走进我的病房，就像一位操练军士似的。她端来了一盆温水，一盒剃须膏和一把剃刀。我很快就发现原来她是一个不折不扣的棒球迷，支持波士顿红袜队。
“红袜队应该把卡尔·雅泽姆斯基给换掉，”她一边剃我右腿上的毛一边说，“他们应该把他挂起来……挂起来，用他来换个别的什么人，比如罗伯特·克莱蒙特或是迪克·艾伦。”我甚至完全都没有留意到那把剃刀已经将我的腿毛剃得一毛不剩、锃光瓦亮了。
1984年，当我在医院住了六个星期——先是在新泽西州恩格尔伍德医院，然后在纽约市西奈山医院，我开始觉得有些护士几乎就像我的家人。而且，就像家人一样，有时候护士们也会过于直率了点。
我住进了恩格尔伍德医院，是因为我的溃疡性结肠炎引发了大出血。我的血红素只有5.6——而（据所有的护士所知）普通人的血红素正常值在13到17之间——那位前台护士毫不客气地说：“我从未见过哪个活人的血红素这么低。”
（听到这个）我想我的妻子德布都快要晕过去了。
一个星期后，我被裹好并推上了一辆救护车，匆匆送去了西奈山医院，在那里，一天天就迷迷糊糊地度过，像身处“矩阵”幻影中。我还记得护士们叫着，“钥匙！！！”只见地板上一大串钥匙猛地晃到眼前……那个操着浓重犹太口音的老人不停地喊：“漂亮，漂亮，漂亮！”……那些护士们用热毛巾热敷我那因为扎遍了输液针而疼痛肿胀的手臂。
最后，我接受手术切除了病变的结肠。当术后麻醉感消失时，你常常会迷糊失措。天使幻象在你的床头飘荡，抚摸你的额头，用冰片在你干涸的嘴唇上滑动，而你在想：这里是天堂？还是康复室？
“你觉得怎么样，詹宁斯先生？”在康复室——呼！
而最近，由于患了前列腺癌，我在新泽西州罗伯特·伍德·约翰逊大学医院接受治疗。除了精力时好时坏之外，我的情况恢复得还不错。每隔三个月，我就要做前列腺特异性抗原测试——到目前为止，一切尚好。
那里的护士们将悬挂在我身侧的那两个圆形塑料引流管叫做“手榴弹”，每每听到这个，我都会会心一笑。而我的其中一个“手榴弹”让一位年轻医生明白到，我不是个普通的“前列腺癌术后病人”。
我想不起她的名字了，但那位医生被派来摘下我的引流管，我的最后一颗“手榴弹”。她需要紧紧地抓住它，然后用力拉。相反，她却犹豫不决地抓着它，就像抓着一条乖戾的束带蛇似的，在我的身体里摇来摇去。
痛死了。我头晕眼花，差点吐出来，冒了一身冷汗。我告诉她，我快要晕倒了，她就怯生生地跑出去求助。
真正的帮助。她跑出去找来了一位 护士。
1)Oncology nurses and 2)ostomy nurses. Radiation nurses and 3)post-op nurses. And those essential, always-there-when-you-need-them, round-the-clock nurses. (And though most of my experience is with female nurses, I admire male nurses, too.)
Now this isn’t some abstract 4)infatuation, based on seeing 5)South Pacific one too many times. I’ve been hospitalized six times in my life, and the medical personnel I came to know best—and like best—were the nurses.
To generalize: Nurses are warm, whereas doctors are cool. Nurses act like real people; doctors often act like 6)aristocrats. Nurses look you in the eye; doctors stare slightly above and to the right of your shoulder. (Maybe they’re taught to do that in medical school?)
My most recent dependence on nurses came in 2008 and early 2009 as I was treated for an 7)aggressive Stage 3 8)prostate cancer. But more about that later.
My first vivid nurse memory comes from the summer of 1970 at Exeter Hospital in New Hampshire. I was 12 years old—almost 13— and a 9)benign tumor in my right knee needed to be cut out.
The night before surgery, a 10)no-nonsense nurse in 11)starchy whites strode into my room like a 12)drill sergeant. She carried a basin of warm water, shaving cream and a razor, and I soon found out that she was a real baseball fan, a 13)Boston Red Sox fan.
“The Sox need to trade Carl Yastrzemski,” she said as she began shaving my right leg. “They need to start14)dangling him…dangling him, trade him for someone like Roberto Clemente or Dick Allen.” I never even noticed the razor had 15)planed my leg to a hairless 16)sheen.
When I spent six weeks in the hospital in 1984—first at Englewood Hospital in New Jersey, then at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York—some of the nurses started feeling almost like family. And, like family, nurses can sometimes be a bit too frank.
I was admitted to Englewood because of heavy bleeding from my 17)ulcerative 18)colitis. My 19)hemoglobin level was 5.6—the normal number for men (as all nurses know) is between 13 and 17—and the admitting nurse 20)offhandedly said, “I’ve never seen anyone alive with a hemoglobin that low.”
I thought my wife, Deb, was going to faint.
A week later I was 21)bundled into an ambulance and packed off to Mount Sinai, where the days passed in a “22)Matrix”-style blur. I remember the nurses calling, “Keys!!!” and the big fist of keys zipping and zooming up and down the hall floor…the old man with a thick 23)Yiddish accent chanting, “Noice(编者注：noice实为“nice”，带有犹太口音的人发“nice”一词听起来与“noice”相似), noice, noice!” …the nurses wrapping my arms, sore and 24)swollen from all the 25)IV needles, in hot towels.
Finally I had surgery to remove my 26)ravaged 27)colon. Post-op there are always those 28)disorienting moments as you shake off the 29)anesthesia. 30)Angelic visions 31)flutter about the bed, 32)swabbing your forehead, slipping ice chips between 33)parched lips, and you wonder: Heaven? Or recovery room?
“How’re you feeling, Mr. Jennings?” Recovery room—34)whew!
And most recently, for my prostate cancer, I was treated at Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital in New Jersey. Except for a 35)flip-flopping energy level, I’m doing well. Every three months, I get my 36)PSA tested—so far, so good.
It made me smile that the nurses there called the two round, plastic 37)drains that dangled from my side“38)grenades.” And it was one of my grenades that made one young doctor understand that I was more than just another “prostate cancer, post-op.”
I can’t recall her name, but the doctor had been told to remove my drain, my last grenade. She needed to grab it firmly, then tug. Instead, she held it 39)tentatively, as if it were a 40)surly 41)garter snake, and 42)waggled it inside my body.
It hurt. I got dizzy, nearly threw up and broke out in a cold sweat. When I told her I was going to pass out, she 43)sheepishly went and got help.
Real help. She went and got a nurse.
我对护士们一直充满敬爱之情。
肿瘤科护士和造口科护士。放射科护士和术后护理护士。还有那些全天候随传随到的普通护士。（虽然和我打交道的大部分都是女护士，我对男护士们也同样心怀敬意。）
不过这并不是因为看了太多次百老汇名剧《南太平洋》而产生的难解迷恋。我一生曾经六进医院，我最了解——也最喜爱的医疗人员——便是护士。
一言以蔽之：护士都很温和，而医生则都是冷冰冰的。护士的一举一动和普通人一样，而医生却常常像个贵族。护士们会看着你的眼睛，而医生们则会稍稍将目光抬高，看向你右肩上方。（也许医学院就是这么教他们的？）
我最近一次需要护士照顾是在2008年至2009年初，当时我正在接受前列腺癌第三期治疗，这个时期癌细胞扩散得很快。不过我们先聊聊别的。
我对于护士的第一次生动记忆来自于1970年的夏天，那是在新罕布什尔州的埃克塞特医院。我年仅12岁——快到13岁 了——我右膝上有一块良性肿瘤需要切除。
在手术的前一天晚上，一位身穿浆硬白大褂，神情严肃的护士大步走进我的病房，就像一位操练军士似的。她端来了一盆温水，一盒剃须膏和一把剃刀。我很快就发现原来她是一个不折不扣的棒球迷，支持波士顿红袜队。
“红袜队应该把卡尔·雅泽姆斯基给换掉，”她一边剃我右腿上的毛一边说，“他们应该把他挂起来……挂起来，用他来换个别的什么人，比如罗伯特·克莱蒙特或是迪克·艾伦。”我甚至完全都没有留意到那把剃刀已经将我的腿毛剃得一毛不剩、锃光瓦亮了。
1984年，当我在医院住了六个星期——先是在新泽西州恩格尔伍德医院，然后在纽约市西奈山医院，我开始觉得有些护士几乎就像我的家人。而且，就像家人一样，有时候护士们也会过于直率了点。
我住进了恩格尔伍德医院，是因为我的溃疡性结肠炎引发了大出血。我的血红素只有5.6——而（据所有的护士所知）普通人的血红素正常值在13到17之间——那位前台护士毫不客气地说：“我从未见过哪个活人的血红素这么低。”
（听到这个）我想我的妻子德布都快要晕过去了。
一个星期后，我被裹好并推上了一辆救护车，匆匆送去了西奈山医院，在那里，一天天就迷迷糊糊地度过，像身处“矩阵”幻影中。我还记得护士们叫着，“钥匙！！！”只见地板上一大串钥匙猛地晃到眼前……那个操着浓重犹太口音的老人不停地喊：“漂亮，漂亮，漂亮！”……那些护士们用热毛巾热敷我那因为扎遍了输液针而疼痛肿胀的手臂。
最后，我接受手术切除了病变的结肠。当术后麻醉感消失时，你常常会迷糊失措。天使幻象在你的床头飘荡，抚摸你的额头，用冰片在你干涸的嘴唇上滑动，而你在想：这里是天堂？还是康复室？
“你觉得怎么样，詹宁斯先生？”在康复室——呼！
而最近，由于患了前列腺癌，我在新泽西州罗伯特·伍德·约翰逊大学医院接受治疗。除了精力时好时坏之外，我的情况恢复得还不错。每隔三个月，我就要做前列腺特异性抗原测试——到目前为止，一切尚好。
那里的护士们将悬挂在我身侧的那两个圆形塑料引流管叫做“手榴弹”，每每听到这个，我都会会心一笑。而我的其中一个“手榴弹”让一位年轻医生明白到，我不是个普通的“前列腺癌术后病人”。
我想不起她的名字了，但那位医生被派来摘下我的引流管，我的最后一颗“手榴弹”。她需要紧紧地抓住它，然后用力拉。相反，她却犹豫不决地抓着它，就像抓着一条乖戾的束带蛇似的，在我的身体里摇来摇去。
痛死了。我头晕眼花，差点吐出来，冒了一身冷汗。我告诉她，我快要晕倒了，她就怯生生地跑出去求助。
真正的帮助。她跑出去找来了一位 护士。