CHAPTER ONE
It was a sunny morning with mostly clear skies — typical springtime weather for Fresno, the midsized city in central California where I’ve lived for about two decades, minus a few years off and on in other states. It can get extremely hot here in the summer, but for the most part it’s comfortable and warm, exactly the kind of climate that has drawn people to California for hundreds of years. That wasn’t the main thing that brought me to America from Turkey — we get plenty of sun there, believe me — but my one and only chance to move to America happened to bring me to the land of opportunities.
I was sitting outside my house in a lawn chair, talking with an older eastern European man as his German shepherd lounged in the grass, resting but keeping a watchful eye on its master. He had been walking with his companion in Woodward Park that day. It’s the biggest park in Fresno County, around three hundred acres, where visitors can have picnics, go on hikes, ride bicycles, visit a dog park, and relax in a Japanese garden.
My friend Mike was a brilliant person in his eighties with a youthful soul, who had come to the US many years before I had. We relaxed in the morning sun and enjoyed some coffee for a short while, talking about all manner of subjects. One thing about him that always stood out to me was his vast knowledge of a variety of topics and his curiosity and willingness to learn ever more.
I had met Mike years earlier, when his wife was a patient of mine at the hospital where I work. She had stayed on the medical/surgical floor where I was a nurse, and I had the opportunity to care for her. She was recovering from an illness, and as she healed and regained her strength, he came by every day to see her. When I came in to check up on her, deliver her medications, and generally take care of her, we would talk and, before long, a friendship had grown between us.
Mike always made sure his wife, the love of his life, was well cared for. While he was a friendly and reasonable man, he didn’t shy away from asking questions in relation to her care, and he was a great advocate for her.
We exchanged numbers and had planned to stay in touch, but life got in the way, as it will. When we reconnected a few years later, he told me that his wife had passed away about three months earlier. I was deeply saddened, both for him, having lost his life companion of fifty-six years, and for the fact that the world no longer had such a nice woman in it. I wished I had gotten a hold of him a few months earlier.
He and I came from different generations and somewhat different backgrounds, but we had something very important in common. Despite starting out on the other side of the world, we were both Americans now. Something had drawn us to this country, calling us to build new lives here.
In my time as a nurse, I have found that forming bonds with patients isn’t unusual; in fact, it’s been a surprisingly common occurrence. I’ve been working at the same hospital for almost fifteen years. I spend every shift on the same floor, on the medical/surgical unit, caring for patients who are recovering from operations as well as others with all sorts of illnesses.
Some of them have Alzheimer’s disease or some other form of dementia and don’t necessarily know who or where they are; others are trying to recover from serious injuries that limit their mobility and force them to depend on loved ones for assistance. There are many types of fragility and vulnerability — physical, mental, and emotional — and the patients I see on a daily basis require me to know how to deal with any or all of them.
Having been raised in a Mediterranean culture, I have a friendly, warm personality. I have always been interested in other people’s stories, and making strangers feel important and special made me feel good. I am especially aware of how important it is to be friendly and caring during patients’ hospital stays, in an effort to create a comfortable environment for them. For this reason, I will often try to strike up a conversation with a patient when I enter their room if they’re up for it. We’ll talk about movies, music, food, sports, the universe, traveling, or anything else that interests them. If you want to connect with people, there are millions of topics to discuss. I would never just walk into someone’s hospital room and treat them like a chore or a bit of business to be dispensed with quickly — “Here’s your pill; your vitals look good; see you in an hour.”
People in hospitals are lonely; they’re at one of the most vulnerable points in their lives. And if you can make them feel even a little bit more comfortable, it can have a positive effect on the healing process.
Another patient that touched me was a man in his late fifties or early sixties. He was suffering from end-stage liver failure, and you could tell at a glance that he was not doing too well. He was what we call jaundiced; his skin and eyes had turned yellow, his abdomen was very swollen, and you could tell he was in great physical pain.
He had a history of alcohol abuse, but he had never alienated his family as so many people with substance issues do. I remember him being very close to his sisters and they, along with his other loved ones, were there often to visit him, and every relative of his that I met was very open and friendly.
Though I knew he was in a lot of trouble, he and I connected. He told me about how important music had been in his life, which was something we had in common, and I remember asking him if I could play a song for him. He agreed, and I played Harry Nilsson’s “Everybody’s Talkin’,” which he told me afterward was one of his favorite songs. During those two minutes or so, the atmosphere in the room filled with his loved ones was quiet and emotional.
Soon, unfortunately, he passed. Some weeks later his family surprised me with something very special. They had it custom-made and dropped it off at the hospital. It was a glass sculpture with an inscription, the kind of thing you have professionally engraved and place on your desk or on a shelf. I was deeply moved by that, and I’ll never forget that man and his family. I sometimes wonder what kind of stories he might have had to tell. He gave me the impression of someone who had led an amazing life. Even in the short time we knew each other, I could tell he was a people person like me, and music was a big part of his spirit.
I will never forget one of my older Armenian patients who used to practice law and his son’s daily visits. Although he was dealing with a serious illness as he laid in his hospital bed, his cognitive abilities were fully intact, and his high intelligence was evident. He paid great attention to making sure he displayed a high level of respect for everyone involved in his care and whoever entered his room despite his declining health.
I had the privilege to be his nurse for a few days during his hospitalization and there wasn’t a time he didn’t say “thank you” to me when I cared for him. His voice still echoes in my head as he often would say: “Thank you Ozzie”. I never forget him because of his sharp mind, extremely respectful demeanour, and gentle behavior toward every person he interacted with.
In the pages that follow, I’m going to share my own story. I’ll tell you all about what brought a young and naïve Turkish boy from the Aegean Sea to America, what I found when I got here, and what I’ve learned about myself, as well as other people, over decades spent trying to bring some type of meaning to life in our brief moment in the sun. It’s been quite an adventure, as you’ll soon see...and it’s not over yet!
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