Every nurse has a “why” – the reason they ended up where they are. Whether it’s the Emergency Department, Intensive Care Unit, Labor and Delivery, or in my case, Pediatric Oncology, we all have a story that led us to where we are. For me, the “why” came in the form of a mother recalling her son’s many trips to the hospital for chemotherapy. The one thing that kept him going back for each cycle was knowing he would get to see his favorite nurse. That was it. Signed. Sealed. Delivered. I wanted to be that nurse. The one bright spot for a child going through a tough time.
This desire set me on a path that led me to where I am today, caring for children battling cancer and other blood disorders at Nebraska Medicine. But, no matter what your calling was and where you ended up in nursing, the days are tough and the hours are long. Despite knowing that you are a ray of sunshine for your patient, the job is demanding and drains every ounce of you, both physically and emotionally. So, why do you keep going? What makes you show up for your next shift?
Working in pediatric hematology/oncology means that there are some tough days. Days that are really hard for both the child and the nurse. Some days are filled with nausea, pain, unexpected complications or the emotional struggles. No matter the patient’s age, it’s not easy to watch your hair fall out or see the scars that cancer leaves on the body. We don’t win every battle and about 1 out of every 5 children diagnosed with cancer will not be cured. Our darkest days are those where we say goodbye – goodbye to our patient, the parents, the family we have grown to know and love. Whether the loss is expected or unexpected, you leave work wondering if there was something more you could’ve done, if there was one more way you could’ve eased the pain and suffering.
Each loss leaves a mark on you that will never go away. But for every hard day, there are ten great days. Days that are spent seeing kids fighting life’s toughest battle with a smile on their face. Kids are resilient. They are made of steel. If you can look past the bald head, the central line, IV tubing and chemotherapy pumps, you are staring at a child. It’s a 2-year-old, a 5-year-old or even a 16-year-old that passes the time coloring, painting, playing cards or even doing homework. Each smile, high-five, hug and “thank you” erases those few bad days and keeps you coming back for more. You see, I need my patients just as much as they need me.