by Amelia Davis
“You’re a legend!”
“A true hero.”
“What would we do without you?”
“Thank you so much for all you’ve done!”
“You are our hero.”
“Oh, thank the Lord you’re here.”
“I can’t imagine what we would do without your help.”
I heard these words every day in my mind. Every day, without fail. As I dressed wounds, as I stitched gruesome gashes, as I closed my eyes to escape the horrors that haunted my dreams. They didn’t mean much, though. It’s quite different to hear it in your mind and then hear it out loud. Stitching a wound back together, they forget to say, “Thank you.” Because it doesn’t feel like thank you if I’m actively causing them pain.
I thought about this every day. Working in the surgery, in my bright blue nursing scrubs and matching surgical mask, I ran through the list of things people said to world influencers, leaders, celebrities. Not one of these things had ever been said to me. Not that it ought to be. Nurses just don’t deserve praise.
The day it all began, when I began to wake up and grow out of my modesty cocoon, was a summery January day. Ducks were sitting on the pond, little birds were hopping onto fenceposts, a clutch of eggs was nestled into the crook of a large gumtree. It was hot, but no warmer than a usual summer’s day, around 31˚C or thereabouts. I was in a pretty good mood. No surgeries since yesterday and I was enjoying a cup of coffee in the hospital kitchen.
That was when the ambulance sirens began. That wasn’t unusual; it was a hospital, after all. Nevertheless, I immediately jumped up in a flash, my nurse instincts kicking in. Whenever emergencies happened, we had to be ready. My mask was back on, hands encased in plastic gloves and hair tied back. I was prepared for the worse.
The patient was a child, small for her eight years of age. Caught in a house fire, she was the only survivor of the family of five. Angry pink blisters covered the whole left half of her face, her wispy red hair singed. Her foot was no more, black and burned down to the bone. Fortunately, she was unconscious when she came in, otherwise her pain would be excruciating.
The paramedics wheeled her in, faces tight with urgency and seriousness, however all of them remained calm. They were well practiced at this, and it wasn’t the worst injury they had witnessed. I began to help in all the ways I could, not allowing this child to pass on. The only news we had to keep us going was that the most dangerous part had passed, and the little girl was on her way to recovery.
Slowly, the number of nurses and doctors working on her decreased, until I was one of the only ones visiting her every day and changing her bandages, making sure she took her medicine, and just generally keeping her spirits up.
Her name was Elsie, and she was a lively, happy girl. Some days were better than others. Sometimes she was full of laughter, other times sombre, remembering her lost family or wincing at the pain that coursed through her body. I felt heart-burning sympathy for her, since with no living relatives left, she would have to go to foster care once she had recovered.
The only thing that surprised me every single time was when she thanked me, praised me, applauded my efforts to keep me alive. Why was she so nice? I thought. Why did she thank me for hurting her? I told this to my friends, and they laughed.
“Maddy’s too modest.” they said, giggling. And then they recited it, word for word.
“You’re a legend!”
“A true hero.”
“What would we do without you?”
“Thank you so much for all you’ve done.”
“You are our hero.”
“Oh, thank the Lord you’re here.”
“I can’t imagine what we would do without your help.”
“Maddy, you truly are an unsung hero. We love you.”