On a cool spring evening in 1994, we sat down for a shift report on the surgical ward where the charge nurse had assigned each registered nurse a group of patients to manage during the next 12 hours. She advised me, "It's your turn to care for Mr. Reed in room 211."

This remark alerted me to one of two possibilities. Either Mr. Reed had a challenging personality or a complicated treatment plan. It seemed, she explained, Mr. Reed had no surgical complications from his current surgery and had effective pain control. However, he had been non-communicative for three days.

No single day on a surgical ward is routine, as patients present a variety of unique personalities and life histories. One factor the majority of patients share is the temporary loss of control over their lives on admission to a hospital. Understandably, the fear of pain, prognosis, indignity, and medical and surgical interventions brought on by the diagnosis can be overwhelming. Sometimes other factors take the lead.

Beginning a hospital shift with a challenge is akin to jumping onto a moving train for 12 hours. After report I perused Mr. Reed's medical record seeking clues to help me to help Mr. Reed.

Married, age 70s, retired, emergency contact: son. Past medical history of hypertension, hernia, osteoarthritis, old right (BKA) Below the Knee Amputation. No diabetes or history of smoking or cardiac events. Hmmm...

On entering room 211, I smiled and introduced myself to Mr. Reed while looking down at the depression under his blanket where his right leg would have been and asked, matter-of-factly, "What happened to your leg?" He answered, "I lost it in the war."

"Which war?" I asked.

World War II. Moving close, I took his hand in mine and thanked him for his service and for the fact that I am not speaking German or Japanese.

With tears, Mr. Reed said, "I haven't been in a hospital since I lost my leg 50 years ago." He told me, "I'm not a hero, other guys were heroes."

I expressed to Mr. Reed that I believed they were all heroes, many giving their life or limb and coming back from that hell, then marrying, making a life and somehow carrying on. That takes courage and I admire you and thank you.

I caught movement in the curtain separating the beds in this semi-private room and glimpsed a thumbs-up from Mr. Reed's roommate. All three of us had shared this special moment connecting with a fellow human haunted by an old lingering nightmare.

Mr. Reed had landed at Normandy Beach in the evening of June 6, 1944, at age 21, following service in Italy. He was witness to and victim of the endless, heavy bombardment of Omaha Beach (Vierville-sur-Mer) France on those first hellish days.

Meeting Mr. Reed inspired me to thank as many veterans from D-Day as I could, so off I went three weeks later to Paris, and took a train to Normandy for the 50th Reunion of D-Day at Vierville-sur-Mer, France, to shake as many old veterans' hands as possible.

On return to the United States I joined the USAFR Nurse Corps. God bless our veterans and our country. Freedom is never free.

Terri O'Rourke is a Coeur d'Alene resident.