Elephants and Tea - AML/ALL Special Edition - 17

You're mad. This " shit, " as you refer to it
I will escort you. I will hurt with you. I will
feel your suffering and offer my open arms
to help carry the burden of it. We are both
in the same stage, after all. We will not
through clenched teeth, forced you to leave
college during your junior year from the
pulse of a city you love. You had a 3.6 GPA
and an exciting semester abroad approaching
to come back home to the sleepy burbs, dinner
at 5:00 p.m., and your impossible doting
parents. When I sit by your bed after everyone
has finally left, you tell me about your great
second-floor apartment off-campus that
you shared with five amazing friends. Your
description of your favorite spot on the rickety
porch off your bedroom with the perfect
view of the tattoo parlor and the Hyper Bean
Coffee House leaves the smell of dark roast
in the air as I bask in the vibes. You tell me
dreamily of " Hot Danny, " who has shown
you what hiking to the top of a mountain and
smoking hookah under the stars feels like.
Danny also helped you design your cheetah
tattoo, thinks your old central line scar is
sexy, and writes poems about the color and
depth of your eyes.
It's time for me to hook you up now to
your new central line. I wonder if you will
give this one a name too. This one is more
evident than the port you had under your
skin the first time around, the one that you
lovingly named Joey after your high school
crush. This lifeline hangs outside your skin
unable to be entirely obscured, with more
lumens to your insides-an omen of what
is to come. " It's really going to screw up my
tanks, " you remark. Why the hell did they
put it right on my boob, you seethe.
I draw blood for labs and follow up with
fluids to hydrate your body adequately and
help dilute the poisons I am about to deliver
into it. You want to know which ones they
are, what colors they are. You already know
the brighter the color, the meaner the drug.
Some remain familiar, and you remember
how they feel. Some will be new, and you
will learn to hate them. I premedicate you to
soften the blow as tears begin to roll down
your cheeks. " This is getting so real, " you
say. I know that you are aware that you are
re-entering a world you hoped to leave behind
forever-the world of sleepy seclusion,
foggy fatigue, dissolving desire, melting
motivation, and fading fortitude. I ask if
you want me to do a midnight mani. Not
tonight, you sniffle. Not tonight.
allow the isolation to win. We will grow
together during these 12-hour shifts . . .
In nursing school, we study Erickson's
stages of psychosocial development, understanding
that each stage builds on the successful
resolution of the skills learned in the
previous stage. In adolescence, the stage is
identity versus role confusion. The transition
from childhood to adulthood comes about by
finding one's independence via an intense and
often turbulent exploration for a sense of self
through personal values and beliefs. Failure to
do so leads to not knowing where one fits into
the bigger picture, a lack of self-awareness,
confidence, or a place of belonging in society.
Successful completion leads to fidelity in who
you are and trust in " the becoming. "
Despite the obstacles and tribulations of
your disease, you made it through that super
tough stage. But now, life is pulling you
backward, just as the next conflict awaits.
That which lies between the ages of 18-40,
intimacy versus isolation, where your work is
to branch out into forming close, committed,
and deeply caring relationships-sharing
yourself and letting others fully in. The reward
for doing so is knowing real love. How
does one manage all that from a secluded
room in a children's hospital?
As I chart by your bedside, I reflect on the
injustice of this situation. You have been
halted at your ultimate time to fly. I lived life
between your age and mine with the extreme
luxury of health, freedom, and time, all of
which I was blissfully unaware. I doused
myself in new experiences. I met all kinds
of people and made lifelong friends. I did
foolish and irresponsible things that left me
feeling alive and invincible. I read philosophy
and literature, backpacked, and jumped
trains, listened to the Dead, did mushrooms
in Joshua Tree, filled my journals with meaningful
words, made embarrassing and selfish
mistakes, drank absinthe in the Marais, and
skinny-dipped in the South China Sea at
midnight. I had my heart pulverized, and
pulverized my share of hearts, switched my
major, dabbled in Buddhism, and failed my
share of essential tests. I studied hard and
became a nurse. I went from totally naïve to
knowing a little something.
I grew up. I fell in love. I married him, and
now, I am growing a family, with two little
girls at home and another on the way. I adore
my people, but not always the routine. My
days have grown far more predictable than I
ever thought I would let them. I am working
straight nights in my hard-earned chosen
profession as a pediatric cancer nurse so that
we can limit daycare costs while still making
a little extra to stay afloat in what is modern
life in America. I am largely exhausted. I
struggle with feeling like I have lost myself
in everyone else's needs. I love my role as a
nurse, which feeds my soul and batters my
spirit on nights like tonight. Nothing is fair.
Your IV pump beeps, and I hang your first
bag of chemo. You are asleep, as the premedication
has made you drowsy. I know the
challenges that lie ahead. I know I will witness
your suffering in the dark pits of fear, rage,
and limitless loss, endless boredom, and in
the unfathomable waiting. You are my patient,
my reason for why I choose to be here, now.
I am a nurse, an open and willing heart with
arms, here to be present as much more than
someone who safely delivers your multitude
of potions and elixirs. I am here because my
vocation calls me to be witness to the sacredness
of the human response and act on it with
compassion and care. I offer comfort, support,
and hope as you trek through to the other
side of this vast and rocky chasm-a fate you
don't remotely deserve and of which there is
no sense to be made.
I will escort you. I will hurt with you. I will
feel your suffering and offer my open arms
to help carry the burden of it. We are both
in the same stage, after all. We will not allow
the isolation to win. We will grow together
during these 12-hour shifts and share the
intimacy that comes from bravely showing
our soft and vulnerable underbellies, building
trust and sharing both fears and joys. I am
here, my patient, to help heal you. But you
are also healing me. l
ELEPHANTSANDTEA.COM
AML AND ALL ISSUE 2022
17
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Elephants and Tea - AML/ALL Special Edition

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