I'm assigned to suction an infant's nose in room 224. As I gather my equipment and don a mask, I enter the child's room. The little one is sitting contentedly on his mother's lap, playing a game on her phone. She's perched on the hospital bed, cradling her child. My objective is to improve the child's comfort, even if it entails a momentary bout of displeasure.
Noticing the nurse preparing for a COVID swab, I suggest, 'Let's do this at the same time. We'll have the mother hold the child. You can get your swab, I'll suction the nose, and we'll be done quickly.'
I explained the procedure to the mother, detailing her role in holding the infant on her lap and securing the child's arms, while I held the head for suctioning. The nurse was ready to perform the swab.
The coordinated effort unfolded seamlessly; the child, although upset, remained relatively still with held arms and head, allowing us to efficiently complete the tasks. The nurse successfully obtained the swab, and I suctioned both nares quickly, extracting a substantial amount of mucus. While I'm confident this will make the child feel better, it also brings me a deep sense of satisfaction.
As soon as the child's arms were free, he vigorously wiped at his nose with his hands, tears still in his eyes. His mom showed him the iPhone, and the child quickly became distracted by it. Within moments, he was happily watching the show again, only now breathing much easier.
Well, that's why I wear a mask," I said. "Because that way, he doesn't know who I am. If I need to come in later on to do something, he will not fight me out of fear that I will do that again." This remark prompted laughter from the nurse and the mom, while the child remained engrossed in whatever was on the iPhone.
The entire procedure was less than five minutes. And, in the end, all parties are satisfied, and breathing easy.
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