INVISIBLE Part 3 of 3

I trudged into the nursing station. The phone sat on an empty desk. Mary, the stocky, dark-haired charge nurse, faced the chart rack at the other end of the room. I avoided acknowledging her presence, keeping my eyes on the floor. Any word from her might shake my resolve. I stood by the desk and picked up the receiver with a trembling hand. I dialed the operator. When she answered I said, “Please page Doctor J. I’ll hold.”

From the corner of my eye, I watched Mary’s head bend in my direction as she leafed though one of the patient records. My body jerked when I heard a gruff voice say, “Dr. J here.”

I took a long breath and plunged in. “I’m Marianna Crane, one of the staff nurses on 2 West. You just left your patient, Ms. O, telling her she could go home today.” My heart drummed so loud in my ears that I barely heard the words coming out of my mouth. “I just want you to know that her lungs sound full of fluid. She has a productive cough, two plus pedal edema and is having problems urinating. I obtained 300 cc’s when I cathed her.” I gulped and raced on. “I don’t think she’s ready for discharge.”

Even though I had only glanced at his large frame as he exited Ms. O’s hospital room, I visualized his face turning crimson with anger at the audacity of a nurse questioning his judgment. An ominous silence planted itself at the other the end of the phone. The fact that my words couldn’t be taken back set my skin on fire. Was he still on the line? Finally, his voice pounded into my ear: “I’ll send the resident up to check her.” Click.

I stood with the phone pressed to my head. Then the realization hit. He had listened to me. I had accomplished what I wanted. I didn’t feel elated as much as relieved. Ms. O would get the work-up she needed. I hung up the phone.

Mary turned to face me. “Wow,” she said.

“The resident will come up to check on Ms. O,” I told her. I didn’t plan to stick around to discuss what had just happened. I marched out of the nurses’ station and up and down the hall twice until my heart no longer galloped. I barely talked to Ms. O while I gave her a bed bath. I feared I would blurt out that I had initiated a course of action that might delay her discharge.

While I was taking care of my other patients, the resident sauntered into her room and later an attendant whisked her down to radiology. I left before Ms. O returned to the floor. Before she received a diuretic to get rid of the fluid in her legs and lungs. Before the insertion of a Foley catheter to keep her bladder draining. And before the discharge order was cancelled.

When I returned to work three days later, Ms. O, dressed in a polyester pantsuit, sat at the side of the bed finishing her breakfast. She had taken the time to rouge her cheeks and apply a rosy lipstick. She smiled in recognition when she saw me. “I’m going home today,” she said with a chuckle that didn’t this time produce a paroxysm of coughing. She took the last bite of sausage and drained her coffee cup. Pushing the empty tray away, she shimmied off the bed on trim ankles. Her step, although slow, was steady. She settled into the wheelchair.

I pushed Ms. O through the hospital exit. The summer sun had yet to heat up the asphalt parking lot. A cab waited at the curb. I held her arm as she carefully stepped out of the wheelchair. She tried to press a couple of dollar bills in my palm. “Oh no.” I said, “Nurses are not allowed to take tips.” I stressed the word nurse.

To Ms. O I was just another hospital worker. As far as I knew, she had never asked why the resident appeared, examined her and delayed her discharge. She was unaware of my concern or the part I, a nurse, played in her recovery. And why would she know? I never told her. And surely her doctor hadn’t.


By Marianna Crane

After a long career in nursing--I was one of the first certified gerontological nurse practitioners--I am now a writer. My writings center around patients I have had over the years that continue to haunt my memory unless I record their stories. In addition, I write about growing older, confronting ageism, creativity and food. My memoir, "Stories from the Tenth Floor Clinic: A Nurse Practitioner Remembers" is available where ever books are sold.


  1. Hi Marianna,
    Enjoyed reading I, II & III and your recollection of early nursing was touching, Some of my last experiences (11years ago ) in nursing were so entirely different. Doctors were seeking nurses opinions and we established supportive views from managers. Guess I was lucky! Keep those blogs coming. They are great.
    Your old classmate,
    Ruth D.


  2. Wonderful story, Marianna. I enjoyed reading all parts and couldn’t wait for the next part- a sign of a great writer. However, I also had different experiences with doctors. As Ruth pointed out most doctors I worked with respected and appreciated our input.Sometimes it’s the way you phrase things, and you did a wonderful job by giving the facts without demeaning the doctor. As a hospice nurse, I would often have to take student nurses and young doctors with me on visits.On one such occasion, after a visit I was calling the doctor for admission to hospice orders.The young nurse was listening to me and afterwards exclaimed- “you just told him what to do”.Never thought of it that way- I was just giving him the facts and asking him to confirm the orders, which he gladly did. Of course there were many times when I would call a doctor and seek his expertise. My team of nurses had wonderful rapport with doctors, and at times when we encountered problems, our nurse manager would back us up. As Ruth said “I guess we were lucky.” You saved a life that day many years ago and you should feel so good. Ms O was blessed to have you as her nurse!


      1. That could be very true, Carol. My comments refer to 1996 through the early 2000’s. I am still working per diem and still have good rapport with doctors. However, in the early days, when I was a young nurse busy raising 10 children, I worked per diem on nights doing mostly private duty, with some staff relief. I have to admit, the first time I was asked to care for a doctor, I was reluctant. It was actually very rewarding. The first doctor, a prominent OB-GYN surgeon, was awake almost the whole night, telling me how he wanted to be treated as a person, not a number, and he was complaining about how he was treated. Of course I did a lot of listening (the most important part of caring) and a lot of TLC. We became friends. From then on I was confident in caring for doctors, and always took those cases. Any doctor who has been a patient really appreciates their nurses and becomes a wonderful empathetic doctor.


      2. Thanks, Carol. I could have been clearer that I was happy to read those comments referring to later times because they were so much more positive than my experience in earlier times.


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