The Elusive Daisy Award

I’d like to think I’m above the need for human praise. That caring for people in their time of need and helping them transition out of the critical care unit is all the reward I need as a nurse. 

And while for the most part that’s true, every once in a while I catch myself thinking about a flower. A little white flower with a circle of yellow in the middle.

You know the one I’m talking about.

If you ever see a nurse wearing a daisy pin on their badge, it means that nurse has been nominated by someone—usually a patient or visitor— for providing extraordinary compassionate care. If you really want to know more about it, just google Daisy Award. I assure you, it’s a thing. 

And I assure you I see that little daisy pin everywhere. On seasoned nurses’ badges. On new nurses’ badges. On job shadowers’ badges. (Okay, maybe not on job shadowers’ badges, but you get the idea.) It’s everywhere. 

Everywhere but one place.

Becca Kinzer’s badge. 

That’s right. Sixteen years of blood, sweat, and tears, and not a single patient or visitor has ever deemed me worthy of a Daisy Award nomination. I know. It’s shocking. I can hardly believe it myself. 

Until I think of some of the patients I’ve taken care of throughout the past sixteen years. Like the patient who spit in my face and called me a string of unflattering names. I felt fairly certain he wasn’t going to pen any of my praises. 

Same for the patient who watched me set up a dialysis machine for the first time on my own. While I felt quite proud of myself, even offering a little Vanna White wave to the machine afterwards, he remained unimpressed. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” he asked. The little daisy flower inside of me wilted.

Then there was the time I called a patient’s daughter on the phone, going over every little detail of her mom’s plan of care in an attempt to build a layer of trust. “You treat my mom like a piece of meat!” was how that phone call ended.

I didn’t hold my breath for a Daisy nomination then. And I certainly didn’t hold my breath when an angry visitor accused me of being “the most passive charge nurse” she’d ever met—which I assumed wasn’t a compliment. I was too passive to ask. All I know is I didn’t receive a Daisy Award nomination from that interaction either.

But what about the other patients? The nice ones. The quiet ones. The ones who don’t spit, pinch, or rage. Well? Hate to say it, but…

They don’t remember me. At all. Which is okay, because half the time I don’t remember them. When they come back to visit, we usually spend a lot of smiley, awkward moments at the nurses’ station trying to place each other. And failing.

I used to find this disheartening. Why aren’t I memorable? Why can’t I seem to connect with nice, quiet people? What am I doing here? Am I making an impact at all?

It took me a while to realize there was a whole other class of patients out there. Patients who are, quite frankly, odd. Some might even say weird. And these are my people. 

Unfortunately “my people” are not the type of people who fill out Daisy nominations. They’re the type of people who ask if you want to see a picture of their mother, then proceed to show you a slide show of their deceased mother lying in a casket, followed by several dozen blurry selfies, while you stand there thinking Why is this happening? And why can’t I seem to walk away?

They’re the type of patients who don’t say things like “Thanks for all your great care” when you transfer them out of the ICU. No, they’re the type of patients who point a finger at you and say, “Don’t ever lose the Sigourney Weaver do.”

They’re the type of patients who speak with Irish accents despite the fact they were born and raised in Illinois. They’re the type of patients who refer to you as their redheaded Irish friend despite the fact you are neither redheaded nor Irish.

They’re the type of patients who see a chocolate pudding on their food tray and go into a ten minute soliloquy that somehow links the chocolate pudding to definitive proof that “we as a society have learned nothing from the Vietnam War.”

And I love them.

I can’t help it. Yeah, half the time they drive me nuts, but the other half of the time I’m smiling and remembering why I continue to show up to a job that can often feel thankless. Because whether my badge contains a garden of daisies or remains a barren wasteland, there’s no denying this world contains a lot of weird people.

And who better to take care of them than a weirdo like me.