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.

Julie The Vampire Slayer

Just in case you were wondering, stem cells smell like garlic. Well, I don’t know if fresh they do, but after they’ve been harvested off your kid and are being re-infused during a bone marrow transplant, they smell like garlic. You’d think something that’s saving your life would smell like peppermint or lavender or something, but you’d be wrong. Turns out it’s garlic, rotten, putrid garlic. Go figure.

Heart to Heart

This kid is 15 years old. Doctors told him for two years not to worry about his reoccurring rash. They gave him ointments and creams and sent him on his way. Turns out he has cancer. Oops. You can tell he’s a real badass around his friends, but he’s polite to me, even though I can hear him cursing under his breath in Spanish every now and then to his mother. He has a portacath in his chest, chemo infusing. It’s 3am and I need to draw blood from that port. Nothing’s coming. I’m struggling. I have him move his arms above his head. I have him hold his breath and cough. I have him lying on his side, upside down. I’ve used heparin and tPA (a super clot buster). I’m quickly running out of tricks. I look at him, obviously exasperated. If I don't get any blood return, I can't be certain placement is right. And if I can't be sure about the placement, I can't infuse the chemo. He knows if I can’t get any blood I will have to de-access his port and re-access him again. This involves a fairly large needle and is probably not something he looks forward to doing at all, let alone in the middle of the night, yet here we are. He throws his hands up, “my heart’s bein’ stingy with the blood,” he says, and I can’t tell if it’s a question or an explanation, but he smirks at me and I laugh. In this moment, there is nowhere else I’d rather be than with this kid, his stingy heart and his generous sense of humor.

Character Study

This boy breaks my heart. He knows every staff member by name: the guy that cleans the rooms, the lady that passes out meals, the therapists, the social workers, the nurses, the doctors. He tucks his t-shirt into his shorts, which sit high on his waist, and his hair is always combed. He is quiet and polite and looks at you like handed him the world when you sneak him chocolate milk off the dinner cart. His sister has a combination of acute myelogenous and lymphocytic leukemia, which in laymen’s terms, sucks. She has been here about a month. Today was the first day I didn’t see him. It was his first day of 6th grade. His sister was pretty out of it most of the day. I entered her room quietly with her late afternoon medications. He was standing by her bed in his crisp school uniform whispering to her softly in Spanish. He didn’t know I had entered. I watched as he, without thinking, untangled her IV tubing, straightened her covers, and moved the thin wisps of hair she has left off her face. He finished talking and kissed her brow. I slipped back into the hall, embarrassed to have intruded upon such a tender moment. If character is who we are when no one is watching, this kid’s got it.

In the Night

It’s my first time working nights at my old job. All the kids here have HIV. During the hustle and bustle of the day, I almost forget this. Medical stuff aside, these kids have issues. They are loud and tough, and the things that come out of their mouths can make me blush. They are old beyond their years. They give me a hard time. They try my patience. But at night it’s a little different. When I have to wake them up in the middle of the night to take their medicine, they are sleepy eyed children. They are babies. They cuddle up against me. They quietly swallow pills I don’t think I could manage and large amounts of liquids that are intolerable before falling back to sleep. They will do this for the rest of their lives. Every day. Every night. It’s no wonder they need the tough act during the day, because they are so very vulnerable in the night.