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.

A Little Luck

This girl is lovely. She is kind and beautiful and sick. She is from Egypt and hasn't been home in over a year. The first time I met her I spoke slowly and loudly, knowing that doesn't make my English any more Arabic, but at a loss of what else to do. She let me finish, patiently, and responded in plain, quiet English, her cheeks briefly blushing soft pink where a nauseated pale green would soon take over. I spent months with this girl and her mother, both so far away from home. I happened to vacation to Egypt, where I couldn't help but think of my patient. I brought her a small purple bracelet I found in a bazaar in Cairo. A beetle bracelet. It's meant to bring luck. I knock softly on her door, and head to her bed. Her eyes are shut tight, blocking out the world as best they can. I whisper her name and she opens her eyes to let me in. She smiles and winces. I tell her where I've been and place the bracelet in her hand. She doesn't move for a minute. And then she does. She pulls herself up to sit. Her face lights up and her eyes fill with tears. She hugs me with all the strength she has. The sores on her tongue make it hard for her to speak, but she mouths Thank You to me and she doesn't need to say another word. She holds out her wrist, and I slip the bracelet on. She runs her fingers over the little beetle stone. Luck, she says, and looks to me.

The Show Must Go On

My patient is just about my age. We look at each other carefully, unsure why our positions are not reversed- why I'm not the one in a hospital gown, held to the bed by nausea; why she's not the one trying to comfort me. She found out about the cancer when she was pregnant with her now (almost!) 4 month old son. The baby is on his belly on the bed, striving to push-up, while her seven year old daughter dances around the room, practicing for the school talent show tomorrow. She twirls and skips and shimmies, somehow avoiding the bed, the IV pole, and the general somber atmosphere of the hospital. My patient asks about her counts and I tell her. Her hemoglobin is 7.5. Her platelets are 4. Her white blood cell count is less than 0.2. Our tiny dancer doesn't pause as her mom closes her eyes and sighs. She will need blood and platelets. She is neutropenic. She's not going anywhere. She will miss the talent show. The baby continues his quest to pull himself up. Her daughter finishes the routine with a grand curtsey and bow. Her mother and I applaud. The show must go on.

Good Girl

She repeats everything you say. "Nemo," I say as I point to a sticker in her crib. "Nemo!" she squeals. "Dora?" I ask as I pick up her doll. "Dora!" She laughs. "You're a good girl," I coo. Later that night as I'm drawing her labs she holds perfectly still, but tears wet her face. "I'm good girl," she cries, "I'm a good girl." "Yes," I hum quietly as I smooth her damp hair from her forehead, "you are." "Bye-bye, love" I say to her as I leave her room. "Bye-bye, angel," she replies, which might be the loveliest thing anyone has ever said to me.

Going Out With a Bang

I’m sitting at the bedside of a patient I’ve only just met and I’m wondering what weird twist of fate has made it so mine will be the last face she sees. As her heart slows, mine quickens. As she takes her last breath, I find I’m holding mine. There are fireworks in the distance. I’m sure, in the history of things, lots of people have died on July 4th at 11:20pm. This is just the first time anyone has done so while holding my hand.