Full Moon

I had a terrible weekend. I am one of four nurses in my program, and we all rotate being on-call for patients who are having pain or concerning symptoms, or might be dying. It's important to note that most of our patients are not dying. Most of our patient population includes kids with life-altering or life-threatening illnesses; this is part of how our job is manageable, as typically we only have one or two kiddos who are not doing well at any given time. Even so, being on-call is overwhelming and often times busy. Our rotation includes one 12-hour night a week plus a 72-hour weekend a month.

My on-call on Wednesday drowned me with another 7 hours of work after my regular 8 hours, most of that time being spent helping a family whose 3-year-old was dying from cancer. There was full moon out, which I blamed for an uncharacteristaclly busy and sad Wednesday. Blessedly, I got the day off on Thursday. But then came the weekend. I nervously started my 72 hours of availability knowing that we had an unprescidented number of very ill children who had recently taken a turn for the worse. I ended up working 20 hours, very nearly straight, with making six home visits, countless phone calls, and comforting the families of four dying children. It nearly broke me. I wasn't sure how much more I could take of watching parents say goodbye to their children.

Two weeks ago I cared for a child about the size of Oliver who had passed away, which I wrote about in a previous blog. It hit me hard, harder than most others do. But as I went from family to family this weekend, I continued to see Oliver in children of all ages. I saw him in the way grandparents looked at and held their babies. I saw him in kids who snuggled up to their parents. I saw him in a kiss, the comforting stroking of a forehead, and the cozy warmth of a fleece blanket. I started to practice a new mantra in between visits: this is not Oliver. And it occurred to me that it wasn't so much that I was seeing Ollie in these little angels. I was seeing that purest form of love that is so familiar to me. I am empathizing on a whole new level now.

On top of what was obviously hard this weekend was the fact that I barely got to see Oliver. I hadn't put him to bed for three nights, and didn't see him during most of the day. My sister was here from Cincinnati this week. On Saturday, I was finally on my way home after a long stretch, and Karen was keeping Oliver up for me so I could get in some good snuggles. I got a phone call. A baby had died. I turned back around, and delegated the hugs, kisses, and sweet bedtime routine to Auntie Karen. It wasn't long before I got this picture:

All tucked in, sweet, healthy boy. I cried, smiled, and shook my head. What a bizzarre weekend. I looked up, and the moon was still robust, but with a thin slice missing from the top. It's almost done, I coached myself. Oh, but it wasn't. A second child had died on Monday morning at 4:30 am, 3 1/2 hours before my call shift ended. I looked up into the sky again, and there was that stubborn white orb, now looking like an orange sliced in half. Darn you, moon. Go away already.

Sigh. And now it is done. I am home. The sun is up. And Oliver is coming home in half an hour.