Cone Shaped Hats, Cake and Chemo 101

It’s my patient’s 13th birthday. She is propped up in a wheelchair, cone shaped hat on her bald little head, mask on her pale face. She seems nauseated and in pain. She looks tired and miserable and I wonder why we’re having this party. Then I look at her mother, beaming as she’s taking pictures and dishing out platefuls of cake to everyone she sees. She claps with such love and joy and pride when we finish singing Happy Birthday– I realize this is one birthday party that isn’t for the birthday girl. This is it. This is her baby’s sweet 16, her high school graduation, her wedding, her baby shower all rolled into one. This is every milestone she’ll never get to have. She may not fully comprehend this, but her mother does. What do you do for a 13 year old at her last birthday party? What do you do for her mother? You take a piece of cake you don’t really want, you sing happy birthday as loudly as you can, and you smile even though you want to cry. They don’t cover this in nursing school.

At A Loss

I think before I speak, always. I self edit. I search for the right words. When I can’t find the right ones, I choose not to use any. I’d rather sit in silence than wade through words that don’t belong. So when I’m with this girl who’s going to die, I can’t find anything. I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re going through. You have no idea how strong you are. When you cry in pain I feel a knot in my stomach and a lump in my throat and I can’t even begin to imagine how your mother feels. I wish I could do more for you. I think you’re funny and beautiful. I am angry for you and scared for you and sad for you. This isn’t fair. None of this is right. So I sit down, hold her hand, and breathe with her. I’ll forget about finding the words for now, and focus instead on finding the breath. It’s harder than it sounds.

Worth A Thousand Words

I am in a bit of a rush when a patient’s mother stops me. She doesn’t speak English, but she says my name so warmly I forget I’m in a hurry. She says her daughter’s name and makes a camera with her hands. “You want me to take a picture?” I ask. She nods and smiles. We round the corner, and for a moment I cannot move. The two of us watch proudly as her daughter, my patient, inches down the hallway toward us, what little body weight she has left pressing against the strong metal legs of a walker. Days before she could barely open her eyes when I called her name. This time, she calls to me. I try to take the camera from mom, but she shakes her head. “No…you two.” It takes a second for me to understand that she wants me in the picture. “Oh, no, I’m a mess,” I tug at my scrubs and am suddenly very aware of the messy pile of hair I have resting on top of my head. She, my lovely little patient (who no longer has the luxury of worrying about messy hair, or hair at all) grins at me, grabs my hand, and strikes a supermodel pose. I try to smile as best I can, because fingers crossed, this girl’s going to have this picture for a long, long time.

It Was Good While It Lasted

I was sitting with two fellow nurses and one cute little patient. One of the other nurses was talking about how she was nervous about something. The little patient said, “What are you, a scaredy cat?” And then she meowed. The nurse laughed. “Natalie, The Scaredy Cat!” The girl chanted. “Hey,” I chimed in, “what about me?” She paused briefly, “Julie, The Good,” she said. Wow. Well, she’s obviously brilliant – a terrific judge of character. Julie, The Good. I’ll take it. My pride was short lived, however, when the other nurse became Danielle, The Goodest. Damn. It was good while it lasted.