There were two of you. One with black hair and one with red. You wore white hats and pantyhose and white shoes that squeaked as you led me and my mother down the long, tiled hallway to an exam room to wait on the pediatrician. I can still hear your voices and see your faces in my mind. Even though you had to inflict pain, sometimes, you were always kind to me. I remember you.

You were a short lady with a sweet smile. You were there when I made that first dreaded trip to the "woman" doctor. I'd dreaded the day for weeks. You called me sweetie and darlin' and patted on me. You made me feel more relaxed in that awkward time for a young lady. I remember you.

As a young married woman, I remember the doctor telling us that I'd miscarried my first pregnancy. When he left the room, you stayed behind and hugged me and loved me with your compassionate words. I remember you.

There were three of you in the office, where I'd come for my prenatal checkups when I was expecting my babies. You found their heartbeats. You measured my belly as it grew. And when I had you on the other end of the phone, you eased my worries and answered my questions. I remember you.

You were both there when I came into labor and delivery with my nervous husband, that night, to have our first child. I don't recall visual memories of you because of the drugs, but I clearly remember both of your voices. You held me and cheered for me and told me how good I was doing. You treated me like I was the only person that mattered to you at that moment. I remember you.

I was a first time mother and it was time for her first shots. I brought my mother along with me, so she could hold her, while you gave her the vaccinations. So fresh into motherhood, I didn't think I could bear to be an accomplice in causing her pain. I sat in the chair and cried, while you and my mother took care of business across the room. You were soft-spoken and gentle with her and quite proficient in making the heart-rending process go quickly. I remember you.

I came in with my husband for an unplanned C-section to be done during the doctor's lunch hour. I was awake and there were some problems that arose, but I never knew about them until later. The tone of your voices never changed and the rhythm of your conversations with me never missed a beat. I remember you.

My firstborn had her tonsils taken out. You brought her back to us and talked so sweetly to her; just like she was your child. You had assured her that she could take her teddy bear along and, when she got sick, you cleaned his fur until he was good as new. I remember you.

You came and got me for surgeries and brought me back. You talked to me and laughed with me and gave me the feeling that I was in good care. You got blankets when I was cold and ice chips when I was thirsty and sat with me as I woke up from deep sleep. Sometimes, I could hear you, but couldn't see you, but it was so comforting to know you were there. I remember you.

You were in the emergency room, those nights, when we'd bring our young son in for asthma problems. Sometimes, home treatment wasn't enough to give him relief. You understood that struggling for breath and watching someone you love struggle for breath were among the most distressing experiences. You worked fast and got him the help he needed, so we could all breathe easier. I remember you.
    
I visited my daddy at the hospital in his last days. We all knew he wasn't going home from there. You'd come in and speak to him with the cheeriest voices. You'd laugh and joke with him like he was a person and not a patient. Even though you'd seen death come there many times before, you didn't act like he was just another case or a chart number. You treated him like you'd want someone to treat your daddy. I remember you.

You came in with the doctor to assist with a test. I was anxious about what the spot in question might be, but you had a way of making me feel at ease. You talked to me about different things that got my mind off of all the possibilities and you were as relieved as I was when we got good news. I remember you.

We never forget the nurses, who've taken care of us or someone we love. What they do may seem routine to them, but, when you're the one in the bed, how you were made to feel in those happy, scary, painful, or life-altering moments, becomes an indelible memory.   

Thank you, nurses, for taking care of us! You make a difference, every day.  

Happy Nurses Week!

We remember you.