Failure

My first month at this job, I took care of a girl getting a bone marrow transplant. She developed graft vs. host disease, and her body, trying to defend itself, began attacking the foreign marrow. A year and a half later her body is swollen and her skin is dark; she is completely unrecognizable. Her liver has given up, causing inconsolable itching. Her kidneys have quit, causing excess fluid to pool around her heart and lungs. She can't talk. She struggles to breathe. She moans in her sleep. Her end is miserable. Her body has failed her. And even though I know it's not true, I can't help but feel I have failed her, too.

And It's Beginning To Snow

She has acute myelogenic lymphoma. She came to New York from Nigeria for a chance. She flew here with a blood count so low, it's surprising she didn't bleed out on the plane. The first night I took care of her, she pleaded "God help me, God help me, God help me, God help me" over and over again in a dark and strange room to a cold and un-answering ceiling, with only me to hold her hand as she threw up over and over again. She had a central line placed. She received chemotherapy. She lost her hair. Every last strand. She has had pain buckle her knees and take her breath away. But tonight, in the middle of this foreign place so far from home, she saw snow for the first time. And her eyes lit up like little moons.