Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him give me a slow head-to-toe scan like he was calculating the odds of me surviving a week on the unit.

His face said no-nonsense, but my brain interpreted it as: Another new nurse? Let’s see how long this one lasts. I turned my back quickly so he wouldn’t see me visibly gulp.

I didn’t know him, not really. But I knew of him. He was the guy nurses prepped you for like a final exam.

“Just give Mr. M his meds and leave. Don’t expect small talk. And if he opens his mouth, it’s usually to bite. Possibly rabid.”

Someone added he didn’t like newbies. Great. That’s me. The fresh meat.

When Everything Went Sideways (Literally)

I put on my best “I’m not intimidated by you” smile and said, “Good morning, Mr. M. Here’s your medicine.” I placed the pill and a little cup of water on his table like I was disarming a bomb.

He looked at the cup. Then at me. No words.

So far, no explosions. Back away slowly, I told myself. I turned—and then heard the dreaded sound of water splashing.

I’d knocked over the cup.

Classic, Len!

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I muttered, scrambling for paper towels like they were defibrillator pads.

He started wiping his pants while I dropped to the floor, cleaning up as if my job depended on it. Maybe it did.

And then—without thinking—I blurted, “Maalish.”

Again: “Maalish.”

My brain was in panic mode. My mouth reached for an old reflex.

The Moment That Changed Everything

Mr. M froze mid-wipe. His frown shifted to puzzlement. He stared at me like I’d just spoken in Morse code.

“Bti’raf Arabi?” he asked. Do you know Arabic?

I blinked, frozen. My brain whirred, trying to catch up to what just happened.

He tried again.

“Malum Arabic?” — switching from proper Arabic to the version used by non-native Arabic-speaking workers, including many hospital staff. A kind of workplace dialect.

I nodded—slowly, cautiously.

“Swayya,” I answered automatically. A little.

He smiled.

Wait. What?

Then it finally clicked—my panicked brain somehow unearthed, deep from my memory, an Arabic word I hadn’t said in a long time.

Maalish. Sorry.

I was apologizing to the patient in Arabic! My subconscious had dug deep.

Slowly, my head nodded, and I smiled. Aiwa. Yes.

And just like that, the man who had terrified half the staff broke into a grin.

He launched into rapid-fire Arabic. I caught “kwayyis” and “enti zain,” but the rest was pure wind tunnel.

“Shway, shway, baba. Ana malum shwayya Arabic,” I said, hands up like I was surrendering to a lovely storm.

He laughed. Laughed!

We talked. He asked about the places I worked in the Middle East. I told him snippets of my journey.

He told me he’s Jordanian. He worked in Saudi Arabia for years before moving to the U.S.

His wet shirt forgotten, his cold reputation fading faster than a new grad’s confidence on day one.

All eyes turned to us. Coworkers stared as they walked by.

One nurse almost tripped over the cord of the BP machine. Another staff member pretended to talk to the patient next to Mr. M, but could not hide the fact that she was eavesdropping.

The unit’s vibe shifted. Even the dialysis machines seemed to be quieter than usual, as if stunned.

Mr. M was, in fact, human.

Misunderstood, Not Difficult

That one word—maalish—broke through a barrier months of polite professionalism couldn’t touch.

Mr. M wasn’t rude or grumpy. He felt misunderstood. Trapped in a place where no one spoke his language, literally or otherwise.

We hadn’t met him with curiosity—we met him with assumptions.

But the moment he heard his language, the walls came down.

From that day on, our sessions changed. He joked, asked questions, and even made fun of my Arabic accent. I let him.

From Language Barriers to Real Connection

Healthcare settings are wild. You’ll hear English, sure—but also Spanish, Arabic, Hindi, Tagalog, Bengali, Russian, and many other languages.

It’s like someone mashed all the world’s airports into one place.

Most of the time, I nod like I understand everything until context catches up. In truth, I don’t understand half (maybe more than half) of what some patients are saying in their own language.

Sometimes I mixed them up, too. I caught myself more than once saying “aiwa, baba” while speaking to a Spanish-speaking patient, instead of saying “sí, papi.”

Working in the Middle East taught me something I didn’t know I needed: you don’t need fluency to create magic—just effort and a questionable accent.

One clumsy word—maalish, gracias, salamat—can cut through tension better than IV Tylenol.

It says, “I see you.” Even if you butcher it with your pronunciation.

After that day, I started collecting phrases like Pokémon. (Gotta catch them all, eh Nash?)

Not perfectly. Not gracefully. But intentionally.

That changed more than just the patient.
It changed the shift.
It changed me.

I was no longer just administering care—I was giving it. With subtitles.

When the Barrier Became the Bridge

Mr. M became one of my favorites. Not because he was easy, but because he reminded me why I chose this job in the first place.

We had our routine. He’d teach me one Arabic word a day. I’d butcher it. He’d laugh. Then he’d correct me like a schoolteacher with infinite patience.

Soon, I was “the nurse who speaks shwayya Arabic.” Word travels fast in healthcare settings—especially among patients.

What started as a spilled cup became a ripple effect. Other patients opened up. That one word became a doorway for better communication.

I found myself connecting more with others as well, like Spanish-speaking patients, using simple phrases like ¿Cómo está? and gracias.

It wasn’t perfect, but it made a difference.It made things warmer, easier, and more human.

The Medicine Isn’t Always in the Pill Cup

Mr. M taught me something that day: sometimes, healing doesn’t start in the treatment method—it starts in the voice.

Not all the time. Not for every patient. But every once in a while, the medicine they need most is to be recognized as human.

I didn’t do anything revolutionary that day. I did not solve world peace or get a standing ovation in a TED Talk.

I spilled water and panicked. My Arabic was duct-taped together, my good intentions overshadowed my laughable pronunciation.

But the message got through:

You matter — you’re not invisible — you’re not alone.

Your Turn

You don’t need a spilled cup of water to make a connection. Just start small. Try this:

• Think of one language you hear often at work.
  
• Learn two basic phrases: hello and thank you.
  
• Use them—awkwardly, bravely, sincerely.
  

You’re not expected to be fluent. Just human. That’s enough.

And who knows? Your next connection might start the same way—with one familiar word, said at the right moment—your very own maalish.

Want to learn Arabic phrases you can actually use at work? Or laugh at the time a nurse told someone he (the nurse) had no brain?
Click here for phrases and that story.

The day I finally stood up to Samir, my most difficult patient, changed everything. 

For months, I had been dodging his verbal jabs like an overworked matador, trying to maintain the calm composure they teach you in nursing school. 

But they never prepare you for the day when your cup of tolerance overflows. 

Little did I know, that this moment of confrontation would be the first step toward a profound lesson in patient care.

“I’m here to help you, not to harm you. I’m not your slave or your punching bag.”

When Samir first shuffled into our unit, he looked like he had been in a few rounds with life and lost. His legs were swollen, barely lifting off the ground. Breathing seemed like a full-time job for him. 

But despite his physical state, his eyes held the kind of defiance you’d expect from someone who’s been kicked around a lot and is now kicking back, hard.

Normally, I’d smile, take a deep breath, and let his sharp words roll off me like water off a duck’s back. 

But not that day. That day, the duck was done swimming.

“Look here, mister,” I snapped, barely holding back the frustration that had been building for months.

“I’m here to help you, not to be your punching bag. We’re all doing our best here, but you—” I paused, locking eyes with him, daring him to interrupt. 

“You make it so difficult for us to care for you. You don’t get to treat us like this. Not today. Not anymore.”

The room fell silent. Samir’s face stayed hard, but there was a flicker in his eyes—maybe shock, maybe something else. 

Either way, I had finally stood my ground, and that was something.

A Shift In The Air

After that day, something changed between us. It wasn’t a dramatic shift. It was more like the slow melting of ice, the way winter grudgingly gives way to spring. 

Samir’s sharp edges were still there, but they started to soften—just a little.

At first, the changes were subtle, almost imperceptible.

He still barked orders, but there was a hesitation now, a slight pause before the words left his mouth as if he was reconsidering how to say them. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Sensing this shift, I decided to push back in small ways. Nothing too confrontational, just gentle reminders to test the waters. 

“Could you say ‘please’?” I’d ask when he made a demand. And when he forgot to say thanks, I’d cheerfully respond with, “You’re welcome!”—a not-so-subtle nudge that manners mattered.

At first, he resisted, his face contorting with embarrassment as if the simple act of saying “please” was somehow beneath him. But over time, he began to comply, begrudgingly at first, then more naturally. 

The first time he said “thank you” without prompting, it was barely above a whisper, like he was afraid the words would betray him. But as the days went on, his “thank yous” grew louder, more deliberate. 

It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

The rest of the staff started to notice, too. The tension that usually hung in the air when Samir was around began to dissipate. His interactions with us became less about control and more about communication. 

He still had his moments—old habits die hard—but there was a softness to him now, a hint of respect that hadn’t been there before.

And with that shift, something else began to change. 

He started asking about my day. At first, it was in that gruff, no-nonsense way of his—“You look tired. Long day?” 

But gradually, it became more genuine. He’d asked questions about how I was holding up.

These weren’t just idle questions. It was as if he was trying to connect in the only way he knew how through small talk and simple gestures.

I saw a glimpse of the man behind the bluster.

Beneath the gruff exterior, beneath the sarcasm and the sharp words, there was someone who had been hurt, who had built up walls so high that he didn’t know how to let anyone in. 

But now, those walls were starting to crack, just enough for a little light to seep through.

A Surprising Revelation

One afternoon, I was chatting with another patient, talking about the usual things—how the day was going, how they’re feeling.

I mentioned, almost offhandedly, that I might be leaving soon, moving on to another job. It was just a passing comment, really, but it caught Samir’s attention.

He had been listening from his chair, his usual stoic expression in place. But something clicked when he heard those words. 

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice lacking its usual edge, almost as if the question itself carried a weight he hadn’t intended to show.

“I’m just moving on to another job,” I replied, trying to keep it light. “I’m sure you’ll be glad when I’m gone.”

But instead of the sarcastic retort I expected, Samir looked at me with an expression I hadn’t seen before—concern. 

“No, I won’t,” he said quietly. “I’m gonna miss you.”

For a moment, I thought I must have misheard him. Maybe I was hallucinating from the long shift or hypoglycemia was making me hear things…

… but then he said it again, louder this time, and I felt a lump form in my throat. 

“I’m gonna miss you,” he repeated, and then, as if unable to hold it in any longer, he blurted out, “You’re my best friend.”

I was stunned. 

Best friend?

The man who had spent months challenging me at every turn, who had pushed me to the brink of my patience, now considered me his best friend?

My mind raced, trying to process what I had just heard. 

Was this really happening?

For a moment, I stood there, unsure of what to say. The usual quick-witted responses I prided myself on were nowhere to be found. 

I was just… speechless. 

And in that silence, I felt a wave of emotions that I hadn’t expected—surprise, confusion, and a strange, overwhelming sense of connection.

A New Understanding

After that day, things between us were different. Samir still had his rough edges but there was a softness in our interactions that hadn’t been there before. 

He started asking for things with a “please,” more and more and when I or another staff member fulfilled his request, he’d say “thank you.” almost always.

It wasn’t just about the words, though. There was a change in the way he looked at me, like he finally saw me as more than just the person who plugged him into the dialysis machine. 

He started making small talk—small steps, really, but significant ones.

I realized something too. 

Beneath all that bluster was a man who had been alone for too long. His aggression had been his shield, his way of keeping the world from getting too close. 

But now, that shield was starting to crack, just enough for me to see the person behind it.

The Journey Continues

I’m still facing the challenges that come with caring for patients like Samir. But I’ve learned that beneath every challenging behavior is a person with fears, with needs, and with the capacity for growth.

He’s still grumpy, and his words can still sting—but they’re no longer directed at me. In fact, he’s even started to defend me to others. 

I overheard him tell one staff member about me, “She’s alright. She’s nice” which, in plain English, is his way of showing respect. 

I, on the other hand, make jokes whenever he starts to say something bad to others or snaps at me. I can now say, “Samir, be good,” whenever he starts clashing with other patients.

My experience with Samir fundamentally changed how I approach difficult patients. 

Now, when faced with challenging behaviors, I look beyond the surface, seeking to understand the person behind the hostility. 

I’ve learned to set firm boundaries while maintaining empathy, recognizing that sometimes, the toughest exterior hides the most vulnerable interior.

This shift in perspective has made me a more compassionate caregiver.

 I’ve found that a mix of patience, humor, and genuine interest can often break through even the most formidable barriers. 

While not every challenging patient becomes a ‘best friend,’ this approach has led to more positive interactions and better outcomes across the board.

Samir’s journey from my most challenging patient to someone who called me his ‘best friend’ taught me invaluable lessons about healthcare and human connection. 

Through persistence, patience, and a dash of humor, we broke down walls and found an unexpected connection.

This experience showed me the power of standing firm while remaining compassionate. 

It taught me that the most challenging patients often have the most to teach us—about resilience, humanity, and the surprising ways people can touch our lives.

In the end, I learned that healthcare isn’t just about treating symptoms or managing conditions. 

It’s about seeing the person behind the patient, about finding ways to connect even in the toughest circumstances. 

Because sometimes, it’s those very patients who challenge us the most that end up changing us for the better.

It was my first week in dialysis training. Connection – especially as it pertains to patients – was not my priority. I was so focused on learning stuff like priming the bloodlines that I drowned out everything else happening around me.

Now and then though, my concentration was broken by some commotion or sound from fussy patients.

Some were cranky and irritable so I tried to stay out of their way. 

After some time, the patients would usually calm down. 

Usually. 

I say that because some patients continue to be restless even when they have already settled into their treatment chairs – while others have contented themselves into either dosing off or watching TV, some would still be fidgety.

In this instance, a grumpy patient was making a big deal of everything – from the chair she was sitting on, to how cold the treatment room was, to why she couldn’t find the channel for her favorite soap opera. 

I willed myself to focus on what I was doing and drowned out everything else. 

After some time, though, I felt that something had changed. The atmosphere had a subdued state.

I turned my head and looked at my surroundings. My gaze fell on the patient who was finicky earlier.

Lo, and behold!, she was now quiet, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she stared at the TV monitor in front of her, while her hands unwrapped something.

Creating Connection

I was intrigued.

A few minutes earlier, I could’ve sworn we’d be hearing her grunts and complaints throughout the shift.

As I observed her, I couldn’t help but wonder what happened. 

Was this her usual demeanor? I was about to shrug my shoulders, thankful for the peace and quiet, when, at the corner of my eye, I saw one staff giving something to another anxious patient –

… a lollipop!

I watched in amazement as the previously feisty patient transformed into a docile, content individual, all thanks to a simple piece of candy.

I couldn’t help but smile beneath my mask, impressed by the ingenious solution. 

It was brilliant!

What an effective way to soothe a patient by tapping into their inner child and leveraging their love for sweets!

Sweets and Connections

As I kept my eyes glued to the transformation unfolding before me, I couldn’t help but think that this lollipop trick was like a magician’s secret in the world of patient care. 

The staff members had cracked the code on understanding the unique quirks and cravings of their patients and pulled off this sweet, unconventional solution – way to go for connection!

It got me pondering about the importance of tailored care in the medical realm.

I mean, let’s face it, each patient is a unique puzzle with their own special preferences, fears, and, well, mood swings.

Some might be all sunshine and rainbows with just a warm smile, while others, like our emotionally expressive patient, need a bit of candy-based diplomacy.

This experience made me realize that healthcare is more than just mastering the machinery but also about connecting with patients on a personal level and helping them get through a challenging and sometimes uncomfortable journey.

Teamwork Makes the Dream Work 

Let’s not forget the squad work involved here. It wasn’t just one hero with a lollipop; it was a tag team effort to ensure patient well-being.

This kind of “thinking outside the box” teamwork should be celebrated and encouraged everywhere in healthcare.

As my training continued, I kept this in mind. I started to become a bit of a patient-whisperer, trying to predict what could make their dialysis day a tad more pleasant.

Sometimes, it was a cozy blanket, a friendly chat, a wave or nod of acknowledgment, or simply being that reassuring presence in the room; that’s creating and maintaining connection.

Shared Smiles and Shared Trust

One of the remarkable aspects of the lollipop ritual is how it sparks conversations.

Simple questions like, “Do you want a lollipop”?” or “What flavor would you like?“, can open the door to stories, laughter, and shared moments. 

I certainly use this ritual to spend a bit of time with patients and encourage them to talk. 

Heck, some of them, don’t speak to other people- either because they don’t have anybody to talk to or they just don’t have confidence in others. 

I’ve seen how this gesture stopped tantrums and earned the trust of even the most untrusting of patients. 

It’s a small but powerful reminder that even amid medical procedures, humanity prevails.

Care And Connection On A Stick

Passing out lollipops is like sprinkling kindness confetti! It’s the staff’s way of saying, ‘Hey, we’re not just here for your medical needs, we’re here to brighten your day.”

In a world of whirring dialysis machines, it’s a small gesture that speaks volumes.

Here’s the thing though: it’s not just about the candy but also of the warm, fuzzy feeling it leaves behind.

It’s a tiny pat on the back that reminds both staff and patients of the positive impact they have on each other’s lives.

So, with a simple lollipop, they’re not just sweetening your taste buds, they’re sweetening your day and your heart.

Just for fun, check out this YouTube video.

I know, I know, it’s an old song but it does sing about our favorite sweets:

You guessed it right- Lollipop!

Takeaways 

One insight was that the little gestures, those tiny acts of kindness, could make a world of difference to a patient.

It’s not always about the big, flashy medical interventions but the small things that say, “We’re here to make this journey as comfortable as possible for you.”

The lollipop ritual is a reminder that compassion, empathy, and a dash of creativity are the magic ingredients in the healthcare recipe.

Sure, the technical stuff is important, but it’s the human connection and the ability to adapt to individual needs that truly make the healthcare profession shine.

Sometimes, all you need is a simple lollipop to turn a growling tiger into a snuggly bear.

Who knew candy could be a super weapon in disguise? 

Wrapping Up

This journey wasn’t just about lollipops; it was a masterclass in the art of patient care.

It’s more than just the medical jargon; it’s about getting to know each patient’s unique quirks and needs.

Some patients crave lollipops, others cozy up with a warm blanket, and a few just want a good old chat.

Those small acts of kindness are the secret sauce, I tell you- they matter a whole lot.

Sometimes, it’s the simplest things, like a lollipop and a sprinkle of humor, that can turn even the grumpiest patients into the happiest campers.

In the end, I discovered that the sweetest medicine isn’t always found in a pill bottle; sometimes, it’s right there on a stick.