Medical Melancholy

I am numb. I am emotionless. I am void. As I stare blankly at my bedroom ceiling, all I can see is her face. My memories represent the full of life, vibrant young girl I had grown to care so much for; as if she was my own. I see the big eyes, witty humor, and carefree antics. I see Isabella. And then I see the looming dark cloud that destroyed everything. The eyes, the smile, the precious soul; gone. I see the demon that brought upon my sorrow. I see cancer.

As a nurse, especially an oncology nurse, you know that in your career that sooner or later a patient will die. It's the unfortunate inevitable; yet, we never truly are prepared at first. Our first encounter is the hardest. Their death hits us like a ton of bricks. What could I have done better? What if I started this infusion a day sooner? Would it have made a difference? We beat ourselves up over it. It never becomes easier to swallow; only easier to say goodbye; only easier to thank God they are in peace; only easier to know we did do everything we possibly could. I thought I had reached this level in my career. When I met little Isabella, age 7, for the first time, I never could have even fathomed the emotional toll she'd cause me.