MD Anderson Cancer Center

I am nearing the end of my rotation here at MDACC. I am on call and it's 11:45 p.m. on a Friday night. Sadly, death is near. I knew kids with cancer would be hard to deal with...

So it's now March 6th and I'm just now getting back to this post.

I was right. Death was near, but it waited until I left the hospital. One of the kids on the floor died Saturday afternoon after I left. The human spirit amazes me. This child (again, I must be vague for fear the HIPPA police will find me and drag me into the streets and beat me. They won't, but violations are $10,000 apiece and I'm a little short on cash flow right now, ha ha)...so this child, near death, basically said that they were waiting for a parent and a sibling to get to the hospital. Other family was already there. When the last of the family arrived, they had about an hour's worth of conversation and then this child died. The fact that they were able to hold off death to see family has no medical explanation.

I was sad when I logged onto the computer Saturday night before bed and saw that death had come. I laid awake for awhile thinking about the struggles this family had had. And the paradox that they now faced. One struggle was over, but another began the instant the first one ended. I'm not a parent, yet, (hopefully someday though), but I can't think of anything worse than to sit at your child's bedside and watch them die; whether it be due to cancer, or accident, or anything else. Kids are meant to live forever...at least longer than their parents, right? So to lose a child after a lengthy battle with cancer...it was not lost on me that this family must now pick up, go home and learn to live again. And learn to live without their child. Hospitals get old, FAST. And kids with cancer are in and out of them all the time. An admit for chemo, stay a few days, go home (which is more than likely the Ronald McDonald house or a nearby apartment because kids at MD Anderson come from all over the world for treatment) come back because of fever (which is VERY serious after you've destroyed all the body's ability to fight infection), stay a few more days. Get blood, take pills, get woke up (is that proper English) every 4 hours for vital signs, have a whole host of residents, nurses, pharmacist, nutritionist, child life specialist, nurses, attendings, medical students, other cancer patients, volunteers come into your room at all hours of the day and night. It's exhausting to be in the hospital. A nurse once told me that the hospital is no place to sleep. If a patient wants to sleep, they should go home. Hmm....

So now that routine is over for this family and they must go home and try to understand what their new reality is. It takes time. And it takes time to live again. Beth and I just went through the motions for ? months ? after her dad died. I can't even really tell you how long it was. It's all very fuzzy. Which I think is the brain's way of helping you, us, me deal with such tragedy. I will think of them often and I pray that God will help them find peace quickly, so that they can continue being parents, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, sons, and daughters to the family around them.

Anyway, enough rambling. I need sleep for my last day of vacation that I will spend dealing with the builders who built our home and his crew that seems to have damaged my sprinkler system as they were building the house next door. This should be fun. I'll let you know how it turns out.