I pull into my driveway after a twelve-hour shift on the pediatric cancer unit. Before I step inside, I linger in the quiet of my car. A thousand thoughts race through my head: Did I remember to chart that urine output on room 7 from shift change? Did I forget to bring Room 12 her ice chips? I really hope Room 8 sleeps tonight. These thoughts loop and tumble until finally they settle, and I can feel myself shifting back into mom & wife mode. I instinctively sigh as I step out of the car. Not in frustration, but because my body forces me to take one last deep breath before walking inside. My kids run to me, I hug my husband, and he asks the question he always asks: ‘How was work?’ I want to tell him the truth.
Work was fun. I took part in a TikTok dance with one of the teenage girls who never lets her diagnosis get her down. She keeps the staff laughing every day. We all cherish her. Her prognosis is guarded and she knows it- but she tells me anyway that she’s going to visit me when she gets out of there. I wonder if she knows I pray for that every night.
Work was frustrating. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get my patient’s pain and nausea under control. I tried my best to advocate for him. Ultimately I’m caught between the doctor who orders the meds, and the patient who is crying out in pain. Sometimes I hate being the middle-man. Maybe I didn’t do enough.
Work was inspiring. I watched a patient triumphantly ring the end of treatment bell. As the rings echoed loudly through the hallway, the mixture of happy tears and smiles and cheers from family and staff fill whatever space is left. I try to stay in the present moment, but my mind wanders to my patients who never made it to this milestone.
Work was scary. My patient had an anaphylactic reaction to her IV chemo. It’s always a fear with this particular medication so I had an EpiPen ready to go. Even though I kept her safe and breathing, it never feels great to stab a toddler in the thigh with a huge needle. I’m worried she is going to be afraid of me again. I worked so hard to get her to come out of her shell and we were finally starting to form a bond.
Work was heavy. I sat with a family while they learned that their child has relapsed, so now they have to try to beat this terrible disease a 2nd time. They put on brave faces when the doctor was in the room. I held back tears as I saw the fear in their eyes… they know what to expect this time, and it’s almost worse that way.
Work was exhausting. I didn’t chart well, or pee, or eat. I wanted to be everything for everyone, and I simply didn’t have enough time. I feel as if I have run a marathon. But more than the physical exhaustion, my brain is tired. Can I do this forever? Sometimes I wonder how much my body and heart can take.
Work was rewarding. I accessed the port of a 6 year old patient for what feels like the 50th time during her journey, and this was the first time she didn’t cry. The first time she didn’t try to stall or hide behind the bed. The first time we didn’t need to hold her screaming body down. She beamed with pride and so did I. These small victories are everything.
So, how was work? I smile, knowing the weight of the answer I’ll never fully give, and say simply: ‘work was good.’
Written by, Andrea Jauregui, RN