hope

hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul ...
emily dickinson

...and in the pleading eyes of your patient that look to you to make something positive out of their bleak circumstances. i can tell him what the physician already has - that the medicines we're trying aren't working, that we don't know of any that will, that we will support him in any way we can, that we wish it could be different. i will tell him all of that and he'll still say, "but you're not giving up hope are you?" and i'll wonder if i'm any better than a politician when i talk my way around that very difficult question. because i do hope for you, kind soul,
that you get to your grandson's school play
that you're given a respite from nausea this weekend
that you don't need to stay for transfusions on tuesday
that the snow doesn't keep your sister from coming to visit
that your blood counts look a little better today
that your football team wins

i hope for a lot. and, no, i'm not giving up.

he is in leukemia limbo hell where you're not dying, but you're something short of really living. where your blood counts keep you tethered to the hospital with bleeding and infection and transfusion needs lurking around every corner. where, medically, there's very little to do except react to a variety of flares the body throws up. where, as providers, you'll be saddened but not surprised when things take a turn for the worse.

it is in just such periods where physicians can be rendered impotent from lack of things to 'do', that nursing care moves to the front lines. and as sad and exhausting as it can be some days, it's a gift to be connected to people in this way. a gift that i'd like to take back some days and exchange for something a little funner or slightly less gut wrenching. because they count on us so much - for conversation on long days, for encouragement, for helping them navigate increasingly difficult terrain. they need us to ask them about how they're feeling and to sit and listen to the answer. they need us to help them process what they're hearing from their doctors, what they're seeing happen to their bodies, and what they can expect in the weeks to come.

passing by my colleague's desks i see that december's cookies and chocolates have been replaced with january's power drinks and protein bars. trying to start anew...to get stronger...to purify. or maybe they're just trying to lose 5 lbs. we here at OncRN choose to ascribe deep philosophical meaning to ev.ry.thing. that's just how we roll.

and we do, each of us, need to find ways to stay strong in body and spirit, because some days it's really just a job - like any other - full of hassles - where the printer won't work and people can't seem to agree on the details of your job description and there's more work to do than hours in your day. but what makes it unique is that each day holds the possibility of something unfolding in front of you
that makes you confront your own mortality
and everyone else's.
and makes you ponder the meaning of life
and specifically, the meaning of yours.

and it can rock your world - with sadness, yes occasionally. but more often than not it's hope rising out of the physical rubble left in cancer's wake that makes me catch my breath.

it is that hope perched so delicately in the souls of patients that guides and humbles and sometimes saves those of us entrusted to care for them.