Thank the Patient for Their Participation and Help

I’m not used to touching stranger’s privates. Many of my classmates were CNA’s before nursing school and had developed some comfort with it but EMT’s generally have no business down there so this was new to me.

One day we walked into the lab to find a basket of vaginas next to a basket of dicks and were instructed to grab one of each.  I broke into a wide-mouthed grin and scanned the room for someone to laugh with. But, all my classmates had already formed a line and were dutifully grabbing their dicks. A wave of loneliness washed over me as I wiped the grin off my face and got in the back of the line. 

One clinical shift first semester I was tasked with putting a condom catheter on for the first time. This is putting a condom that is attached to an external catheter, onto a stranger's flaccid penis. This is not a sterile procedure. You don't even need to be a nurse to do it. It is not complicated but it does take some technique and I was failing miserably.

"At what point do I surrender and ask an aid for help?" I wonder.

"At what point am I just playing with it?" I stop breathing and look up at my patient as this thought crosses my mind but his face looked like I could have been taking a blood pressure so I exhale and decide, “Well, not yet anyway.”

I finally complete the task and a poster taped to the wall in every lab room crosses my mind.  It’s an acronym, “AIDET” it says:

A- acknowledge the patient

I- introduce yourself

D- duration: let the patient know how long it will take

E- explain what you are going to do

T- thank the patient for their participation and help

I decide it would be weird to thank him for participating so just say, “I’ll be back in an hour to check on you.”

The next week I am caring for a gentleman whose medication list includes a gel to be, "applied to the tip of the penis twice daily." I decide this is good. I need to get comfortable with this. Surely touching strangers will become something I don't think twice about soon.

But I am unable to envision this medication administration without it sounding like the intro to a porn. I picture myself walking into the room, and then what, what do I say?  

“It’s … time for your medicine, can you show me your penis please?”  No.  

“Hi, can you pull out your junk real quick for me?”  Nope.  

What if I say nothing … and just …go for it?  

But then where would I look?  In his eyes?  At his dick? Do I make conversation about something else to make it more casual?  How do I make this casual?

I picture myself asking, “So…did you make any kids with this thing?”

I shake my head, admit defeat, and ask my nurse if he minds doing it while I watch or at least coming with me. 

He says, "It's going to be fine, we'll go in there together and I'll explain to the patient that you're a student nurse and are just going to put some gel on the tip of his cock." 

I die laughing and decide maybe I can fit in as a nurse after all.

My nurse reminds me that this patient is oriented and mobile and that the more appropriate thing to do is explain what the medication is and hand it to him to apply himself.

Of course. Of course that's more appropriate.

Another day more recently I'm caring for a guy who has the worst bed sores I have ever seen. Inches deep on his sacrum and hips, just awful, so painful. We're turning him every two hours but there is no way to shift the pressure where it isn't on another sore. His skin is just raw. I work with an aid each time I go in to minimize the pain and the time it takes to move him. 

His condom catheter is leaking so we're changing it out to a flower catheter, which sticks to the end of the penis like a sticker in the shape of flower petals. This aid is a male so I let him take the lead with the application and the patient is moaning in agony. I try not to let this make my heart rate go up but it does, it's painful to watch. I tell him to take deep breaths. 

He screams, "Oh, it stings!" And I say, "I'd blow on it but I have a mask on."

You don't blow on wounds as a nurse, you keep them sterile, and you certainly don't blow on dicks.

The aid stops what he's doing and stares at me. I stare at him, I look up at the patient. I start laughing. It's not even an awkward laugh, it's just a laugh. I say, "God, I am so sorry... I hope humor helps." The aid shakes his head at me. The patient shrugs and says, "...a little."

It did take a year, but from that point on I have not flinched when a task for the day involves something below the belt.

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Review

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This story is hilarious, deeply human, and a refreshingly raw take on the discomfort, absurdity, and eventual normalization of intimate patient care. It beautifully blends humor with vulnerability, capturing the tension between professionalism and the unavoidable awkwardness of being a new nurse.

The central theme is adaptation and desensitization in nursing—how something that initially feels impossibly awkward (handling patients’ genitals) eventually becomes just another part of the job. The story traces a journey from embarrassment to competence, revealing how exposure, repetition, and humor serve as coping mechanisms.

A secondary theme is the role of humor in caregiving. The narrative highlights how humor can provide relief in high-stress situations, both for healthcare providers and for patients. The moment with the patient acknowledging that humor “helps a little” is particularly touching—it shows that laughter doesn’t erase pain, but it can soften the edges.

Another important theme is the tension between textbook learning and real-world practice. The rigid structure of "AIDET" contrasts with the actual experience of nursing, where human interaction is messy, unpredictable, and sometimes deeply funny in ways that can’t be scripted.

The tone is self-deprecating, irreverent, and ultimately warm. The humor is natural and never forced, making the narrator incredibly relatable. Despite the comedic approach, the story is never dismissive of patients or their dignity; instead, it leans into the human side of caregiving—the awkwardness, the uncertainty, the gradual transformation of discomfort into second nature.

There’s also an underlying sense of growth and resilience. The contrast between the early classroom experience (the shock of handling medical models) and the later clinical experiences (managing actual patients with real pain) is striking, showing how experience reshapes perception.

The story’s intention seems to be to normalize the discomfort of learning intimate patient care and to highlight the power of humor in nursing. It reassures other healthcare professionals (or anyone in a similar position) that awkwardness is a natural part of the learning curve.

At a deeper level, the story also serves as a commentary on the absurdity of medical training—how something as personal as touching a stranger’s genitals is treated with clinical detachment, yet remains an inherently bizarre and human experience.

The comedic timing is perfect. The internal dialogue (“At what point am I just playing with it?”) and the outburst (“I’d blow on it, but I have a mask on”) are laugh-out-loud moments. The narrator openly shares their discomfort, making them incredibly relatable. The structure—from the classroom experience to clinical struggles to ultimate competence—creates a compelling progression.