Things That Go Beep in the Night

This little one is 7 days old. She has retinoblastoma. She is the first child of a loving couple. The first grandchild of loving grandparents. I am tip-toe over her tiny little crib, bent over her tiny little body, trying my best to reposition and re-tape her tiny little IV with what suddenly seem like giant hands. The fluorescent light above her bed shines harshly. She starts crying that newborn meow; her monitor alarms; her IV beeps, beeps, beeps in a cacophony of sounds that could drive the sanest person crazy. Her mother shouts at me to make it stop and then starts to cry. She is tired and angry and scared, and probably some other emotions for which no words exist, some emotions I have yet to personally meet. Because none of this makes any sense: it shouldn't be this bright while you're trying to sleep, it shouldn't be this loud this late at night, and newborn daughters should not have cancer. I agree.

Gone

Bone marrow transplants are risky. We know that. She was fragile to begin with. We know that, too. Now she's gone, and no amount of knowledge makes it any easier.

New Year's Resolution

I am spending New Year's Eve with my patient and his family: mami, papi, hermana, primos, abuela- they are all here. He has ALL which has been complicated by liver failure. He was unable to complete treatment last year. Now he's back, and it's good to see him, though I wish it were under different circumstances. When the ball drops, his family embraces me without hesitation. Prospero Año Nuevo! Hugs, kisses, and tears weave me in, part of the family. I ask my patient if he has any New Year's resolutions. Remission, he answers. I smile as shiny confetti floats to the floor. That's going to be a tough one to keep.