Month: November 2017

I’ll never forget the eyes of a 6-year-old sexual assault victim

Debbie Moore-Black, RNLeave a comment 
Originally published on KevinMD

Patsy loved playing bingo every Wednesday night. Her boyfriend of three years loved watching her daughter Jenna who was a tiny and pretty six-year-old her momma called “princess.”

Even though they weren’t related, Jenna called Patsy’s boyfriend “Uncle Billy” at her mother’s behest.

And Uncle Billy made Jenna shyer and quieter than she usually was. He’d walk in on those Wednesday nights and demand a big hug and kiss on the cheek from Jenna — she would always obey.

Bingo usually kept Pasty away for two hours. And one night when she came home, she knew that something was wrong.

Those coal-black, empty eyes were void of any emotion.

Billy was sitting in the dark with a half-empty glass of whiskey and an ashtray full of cigarettes. She went to make sure her princess was tucked in and to give her a goodnight kiss. But there was blood on Jenna’s sheets with her dolls and teddy bears strewn about on the floor. That beautiful blonde hair was in disarray. Patsy shook Jenna, but there wasn’t movement.

A frantic 911 call ensued.

Billy sat silently as Patsy screamed at him. He just took a drag of his tenth cigarette.

Sirens blared and the radio dispatched “code 600.”

We cleared the small ED room for security and privacy. A police officer and sheriff showed up with a social worker. That’s how we knew this was sexual assault. Was it another teenager, a girlfriend or wife?

But we not prepared for the sight of a beautiful little girl laying out on a stretcher. She was almost catatonic and wouldn’t speak and barely moved.

I took her temperature, brushed through her hair for any evidence, and I saw the bruises on her arms and thighs. Her vaginal area was red and bruised. I was horrified and angry. I noticed something else — her eyes. Black as coal.

It was as if someone had sucked the life out of her or reached in and grabbed her soul. Those coal-black, empty eyes were void of any emotion.

A social worker was present and privately asked the mother questions. Billy had already been questioned.

The physician and I did fingernail scrapings, the MD did a vaginal exam, searching for evidence, searching for sperm. We completed the rape kit, secured the evidence and handed it over to the sheriff.

Little Jenna was taken away by the social service lady to an undisclosed foster care home for her protection.

Months later, the physician and I were served deposition papers. We had to go to court and testify that the evidence never left our hands — that it went from me to MD to sheriff. Chain of command. Chain of evidence.

I was nervous, but I wanted this man locked up forever.

Billy ended up in jail for eight months. He got out of jail for “good behavior.”

I never saw Jenna again. I always wondered what happened to her. Did she get therapy? Did she get love and protection? Did she lead a stable life?

I’ll never know.

That was in 1983, and I am still haunted by those hollow black eyes that lost a twinkle that all little six-year-old girls should have.

What man’s best friend taught me during a patient’s death

Debbie Moore-Black, RN1 Comment 
Originally published on KevinMD

Years ago in a 15-bed acute medical-surgical ICU, the nursing supervisor contacted me about a special assignment. Once I knew what it was, I said, “Absolutely.”

We were about to admit a patient in his 40s with end-stage AIDS/HIV. He asked to be a DNR, but his MD wanted to admit him to the ICU for close monitoring. But the patient had a special request. Even with IV antibiotics and pain medication running through his veins, Mr. Sam Smith just wanted one thing — his Yorkshire Terrier named Charlie. This dog that was found in a dumpster behind a grocery store was Mr. Smith’s best friend. They were always together, Charlie a few steps behind his human companion.

After Sam was admitted to ICU, I made sure he was comfortable, relaxed and pain-free. Friends came to visit, and one brought Charlie who wagged his tail and proceeded to lick Sam’s face. What a grand reunion.

I introduced myself to Sam and Charlie and watched the both of them throughout the night always making sure Sam had a blanket and his buddy was tucked in right next to him. Charlie cuddled up to his owner and slept peacefully through the night.

At 0300, I had to draw labs, and Charlie looked up at me as if to say, “Hey! Don’t hurt my master.” I explained to the dog, as if he were human, that I had to collect blood from his friend so I could get some information on his care. Charlie calmed down a little, but he was still staring at me.

Then I realized that this dog was probably thirsty. I filled up a styrofoam cup with water and gave it to him. He lapped it up and then turned to me and licked my forearm. I knew then that he was aware I was there to help both of them through this strange, sad passage of life.

Sam’s other friends would come in and out to take Charlie for walks outside where Charlie would sniff the flowers, do his “duty” on a few bushes, bark at the birds, then come back to the ICU to resume watch for his very favorite friend, rescuer, and caregiver.

Within two days, Sam became progressively lethargic, somnolent and nonverbal. His breathing became slower and slower. His family and friends were now at his bedside telling stories of Sam and Charlie. They laughed, and they cried as they told story after story of the wonderful, amazing adventures of Sam and Charlie.

Carlie was fully aware that Sam was dying. As they told stories, Charlie remained snuggled up to Sam. He licked his master on the cheek and resumed his position … right beside Sam’s heart.

After four slow, irregular breaths, Sam let out his last breath.

To say that our entire ICU staff and physicians alike were crying buckets would be an understatement.

But to say that Sam had a tragic ending would be wrong. He chose to die with his family, friends and best friend Charlie right by his side.

That night, I learned that there are words with special meanings, like compassion, friendship, and dedication.

And a small dog named Charlie taught me what unconditional love means and that death is a continuation of life.

We don’t live forever, but our memories do.

Keep love in your heart, and you will live forever.

Charlie went home with his other caregiver — Sam’s partner.