Almost every veteran I know is extremely stoic when it comes to his or her health. Suffering in silence, and not seeking medical help are common threads that any healthcare provider recognizes in this population. Blood pressure rises and stay up, fevers burn, pee stings, stomachs ache, and sores fester, and the tough vet says “I’ll be fine” until a fed-up spouse, child, or paramedic shouts “Enough!” and carts the veteran off to the emergency room.

I was fortunate (though I thought at the beginning unfortunate) enough at the age of 22 to be caring for one such health-procrastinator. He was a crotchety old WWII soldier, in the hospital with a ruptured appendix. His surgery to remove the “damaged equipment” was successful, but afterward the incision itself became badly infected, and the old guy was not a happy camper.

Mr. B. was mean and nasty to all of his caregivers, which wasn’t what actually bothered me the day that I found him on my daily assignment. I was okay with awful behavior and shouting, but totally grossed out by infected wounds. They look disgusting with all kinds of pus-filled discharge, brown, yellow, orange, and green; and smell even worse. If you’ve ever left lunch meat in a box outside for three days in August, you know what I mean.

I gathered my courage and steeled myself when it came time to change Mr. B.’s bandage. Knocking on the door, I pasted a smile on my face as I stepped into the room, only to be shouted at by my patient. Mr. B. cursed at me, ranted, raved, and pretty much let it be known that he felt I was a worthless, useless piece of crap.

Instead of running from the room with tears in my eyes, which many nurses would do, I met my difficult patient’s eyes and said matter-of-factly, “Mr. B., it’s time for me to change your dressing.” After calling me a few more choice names, Mr. B. slowly drew down the sheet to expose his sore belly. I gulped as I looked at the pus-soaked gauze on the right side of his stomach, and felt my own stomach turn in response.

Sensing my hesitation, the old soldier again began his litany of insults, coming up with names for me and all of my family members I had never even heard before. I blocked them out as I washed my hands, prepared my supplies, and reached out to remove the dirty dressing from Mr. B.’s incision.