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St. John’s Medical Center outpatient surgery nurse Margaret McIntire spends most of every March exploring, boating and camping in Florida with her husband, Jim. She is on a first-name basis with many of the Sunshine State’s secret redfish spots such as the Indian River north of Cape Canaveral. PHOTO COURTESY JIM MCINTYRE

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Thanksgiving is my favorite time of year. Together with the collective extravaganza of food, friends and family, it is imperative to recognize the blessings that make our lives truly special. Therefore, it is time to introduce readers to one of Jackson’s finest  human treasures. Since our casual introduction in 2001, Margaret McIntyre continues to go out of her way to make my difficult times much better.

The 5:30 a.m. drive along Broadway toward the glaring lights and frigid stainless steel lining of the St. John’s operating room is a situation difficult to enhance. The term “outpatient surgery” may sound innocuous but isn’t my idea of a good time. However, with Margaret at the helm, my confidence in a pleasant outcome is the same as New York Yankee fans seeing ace reliever Mariano Rivera strolling in to close the game. Margaret and the other Post Anesthesia Care Unit nurses  are my idea of real heroes.

Margaret is the archetypal nurse. That is, she puts herself last – always. A Nebraska farm girl, she’s one of 13 children who, believe it or not was born on Christmas Day. After nursing school, she worked in Omaha for a while before arriving at St. John’s on June 2, 1980. She’s been quietly making friends and caring for the sick ever since.

What caught my attention, after subscribing to a seeming lifetime membership in her department which treats bladder cancer removal and other sexy procedures masterminded by Dr. Philip Lowe, was that she regularly entertained me with great fishing, camping and travel stories about Florida. These weren’t just spring breaks spent sipping mojitos at yuppie palaces but real insider info about obscure Sunshine State hog pens such as the largemouth-rich Cecil Webb Management Area and Babcock Wilderness Ranch near Punta Gorda, or secretive Mosquito Lagoon accesses at New Smyrna Beach near JB’s Fish Camp and oceanside camping for bonefish at Long Key State Park.

Great care in anybody’s book

Margaret’s husband, Jim, a one-time Tennessee smallmouth and striper chaser who devoted four minor league years chasing a St. Louis Cardinals centerfielder job before accepting a friend’s “you gotta see Jackson” invitation, digests every Florida Sportsman magazine. March is slower at the hospital and at his bathroom-and-kitchen-remodel construction business, but perfect for their Southern camping and fishing getaways with tents, a tricked out Mad River canoe with push poling mount and 2-horsepower, four-stroke Honda outboard.

During the interval between my hospital arrival time and my changing into the impossible backless OR gowns, Margaret scurries back and forth with blood pressure and oxygen checks, all the time recalling a redfishing yarn from the Indian River or surviving a drenching Everglades canoe trip. The agonizing wait before the anesthesiologist begins lights out is often enough time for another Margaret tale that helps me forget why I’m atop a steel hospital slab.

That’s great care in anybody’s book!

Despite our numerous visits throughout my outpatient career, it takes only a few minutes with any of Margaret’s cohorts to learn more impressive stories about this kind woman. She is a superb baker, and everything from super-delicious chocolate chip cookies to weapons-grade triple-layer German chocolate cakes are special treats for family and friends. Whenever Margaret learns that a familiar household may be struggling, she regularly prepares and delivers meals to coax them through bad times.

The recent parade of St. John’s upper management dysfunctionals has been particularly hard on Margaret and  like-minded, dedicated nurses who absorb Band-Aid resource cuts while millions are squandered on real estate scams. This folly has elevated the burnout rate among nurses and caregivers, predictably resulting in many team members departing or simply throwing up their hands in disgust.

She may have come close, but Margaret McIntyre is not a quitter, regardless of redlining her personal stress tachometer. Pam Maples’ return to the St. John’s steering wheel has been a breath of fresh air for Margaret and may eventually allow her to cut back her schedule in the future.

My last St. John’s outpatient visit was a colonoscopy starring  Dr. Dennis Butcher. Happily, Margaret appeared as I was counting several thousand other activities I’d rather be doing. Her cheerfulness flipped the morning into a walk in the park. Much earlier, it had been decided that Thanksgiving was a perfect opportunity to highlight Margaret’s generous performances. Collecting new Margaret stories was great fun.

Despite a knack for dodging daily medical jackpots, she has a thing about alligators, especially when fishing in a close-to-the-surface canoe. Florida alligators normally are more curious than aggressive. They frequently shadow fishing boats in hopes of a free meal in the form of a hooked or released fish. Only the tip of a long nose and two eyes need pop to the surface within 300 yards for Margaret to spot it and label the intruder of more concern than Iran’s nuclear program.

Comfort beyond description

One floating reptile in West Lake outside of Flamingo in Everglades National Park so concerned Margaret that during a cast that her brand-new spinning rod slipped away and splashed into the water. After many minutes of probing with paddle, push pole and net, the outfit was located. Still scowling at the nearby snapping handbag, Margaret died a thousand deaths when Jim had to submerge himself to retrieve her rod and reel.

Wind, waves, lightning and no-notice cold fronts are all part of Margaret and Jim’s tropical travels. These odysseys nearly ended on another Everglades expedition along the Wilderness Waterway in a rented houseboat from Flamingo. The houseboat with canoe successfully navigated the Buttonwood Canal, Coot Bay and sought a calm anchorage in Whitewater Bay. The March evening went well until 2 a.m. when Jim and Margaret found themselves covered with Stuka dive-bomber-whining mosquitoes that had tracked them down.

A four-inch opening between the houseboat screen door and frame was the culprit. After the hole was stuffed with bedding and newspaper, they took and hour and a half to murder the remaining blood-filled antagonists. March is normally bug-free camping. After that experience, finding the breeziest mooring spot is an established goal.

Margaret flits about the patient recovery room as though she’s practicing a basketball fast break. So it doesn’t surprise me that she’s usually asleep before work nights at 9:15 and explodes to life at 5:30 a.m. and is ready for work at 6. Yet she doesn’t drink coffee or very much tea. Hot chocolate is reserved for a weekend treat.

Sports haven’t been discussed very often during my hospital chats with Margaret, but obviously it’s time to follow Nebraska sports, especially football. Margaret isn’t a calm, couch potato TV sports fan. She’s like Lou Holtz was on the Notre Dame sideline and wherever else he coached, pacing up and down – covering miles – during the game. Margaret wears out the living room carpet and goes into a panic when another Big 12 opponent dares to score against her Husker pals.

It would be swell if my time at the hospital’s stainless steel facilities could be over, but that chance is probably remote. However, knowing that Margaret and her talented associates are waiting to handle me before and after delicate medical procedures is a comfort beyond description. And since we both share a special  fondness for liver and onions, we’ll have even more to discuss during our next rendezvous.

Happy Thanksgiving!

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Paul Bruun writes weekly on his adventures and misadventures in the great outdoors.