Despite It All

Chapter 1

A bright 1530 displays from my watch, and my stomach growls—highlighting the fact that I haven't had a chance to eat since the beginning of my 0700 start. My feet ache for a reprieve from this 12-hour shift, my compression socks itching slightly. My surroundings are a cacophony of beeps and alarms, people walking with a purpose up and down these long halls.

Controlled chaos.

"739's heart rate is 155, Laur. Do you need me to get that?"

A glance at my workstation reveals scribbles of dark ink dancing across a once-white sheet of paper, each line signaling a more invasive task than the last. Despite myself, a small sigh crawls up my throat and escapes me, a small puff of air prefacing my response, "No, poor thing is probably puking again. I'll go check on her. Thanks, Sarah."

On my way to my patient's room, my phone rings for the thousandth time this shift.

"Seventh floor, this is Lauren. Yes. Yes he still needs the ultrasound. Oh, you're ready for him? Okay, I'll call for transport."

As a pediatric oncology nurse at a large teaching hospital in Denver, I'm more than used to being pulled into a million directions. Although I 'only' work three 12-hour shifts per week, my job is strenuous, and is both emotionally and physically taxing. When people ask me what kind of nursing I do, I usually hesitate to answer because, 'I take care of kids with cancer,' is often met with an awkward pause and an even more awkward, 'Oh, man. That must be so hard.'

Truthfully, no one wants to talk about a child with cancer. They don't want to picture it, or hear about it. Their smiles are polite and their comments are politically correct but their eyes say it all—please, please let us talk about anything else.

Anything.

And I get, it. I do. It takes a special kind of crazy to knowingly subject yourself to this type of heartache. But actually it's the craziest, most stressful, most fucked up, most rewarding job in the entire world. My entire nursing career has been spent in these halls, and although five and a half years may not seem like a long time, I will say that five and a half years in pediatric oncology feels like a lifetime.

At 28-years-old, I have administered chemotherapy hundreds of times. I have assisted with dozens of stem cell transplants, administered thousands of anti-emetics, narcotics, and other supportive medications. I have been pooped on, thrown up on, berated, cried on, and called for more times than I can count. I have gotten into countless fights with residents who don't know what they're doing, and have advocated for my patients' best interests with upper leadership, management, and physicians.

I have also lost 71 patients. Yeah, 71. I understand that it may seem a bit morbid to know the number by heart, but I don't think people understand how this type of consistent loss erodes the soul and diminishes hope. It's almost impossible not to form relationships with the patients and their families while they're here seeking treatment. Some of them are here for weeks, even months at a time. And each one has taken a little piece of me with them. 

I don't talk about it much, but I'm genuinely worried that soon I won't have anything left to give. Each time, I feel just a bit emptier—and I know number 72 is on its way.

"Laur, do you need help?" Joe, a fellow nurse, asks.

The sound of his concerned voice snaps me from the reverie, and only then do I realize I am just standing outside of the double-door isolation room of my patient, phone still in hand. Shit, my patient. God, I need to eat something. Or pee. Or sit down, even if it's just for a second.

"No, I'm good. Actually, do you mind arranging for transport for 747? He needs to go to ultrasound. I think Sophia is puking and you know she's alone," I nod in the direction of her closed door.