“Tallulah.” Molly beams with excitement. “Isn’t she so pretty? And she still has all her hair!”
I chuckle, glad that Molly can take what she’s going through and still find a reason to smile.
Some days, I force myself to be happy while I’m on the job. While chipper isn’t usually one of my moods, I can’t let what’s happening affect the patients.
And that includes my home life issues.
It took years for me to learn to compartmentalize what happens at work and leave the job behind when I go home for the day. Constantly focusing on the fact that I work with sick and dying children isn’t a picnic.
Don’t get me wrong, the job is rewarding, but emotionally, it’s also physically draining. And having my own son at home, it’s challenging when he shows me a bump on his head, for me not to worry that it could be something more than a nasty spill.
Do I overreact?
Yes.
Am I a helicopter parent?
Probably.
I try not to be. I do my best to give Ashton his freedom, as much as I can, and let him experience the world as he should.
But it’s hard watching kids suffer. The joy in the job is being there for those children, helping them, tending to them, being their anchor of support.
And kids like Molly, with her bright, infectious smile, it’s hard not to smile back. She’s a sweetheart.
“I want hair just like Tallulah’s.”
I force a smile.
Molly is wearing an orange and red scarf with poppies decorating the fabric. I don’t recall her ever being on the pediatric unit with hair. She was a transfer from another hospital outside of the city. Her parents relocated for her treatment.
“You want rainbow hair?” I ask. I’d surmise she probably just wants hair of any kind that’s not falling out and thin from the chemotherapy.
“Do you think you can ask mom to get me a rainbow wig?” Molly grins. “I know my birthday just passed, but I wish I had rainbow hair!”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say, and give her a wink. “How are you feeling today?” I ask, checking the IV drip.
A code blue is called over the loudspeaker on our floor. My stomach tenses, and I muster the best smile that I can to Molly.
“I’ll be right back.”
I hurry out of the room and to the patient’s room to assist in the code blue.
My feet pound against the ground, rushing as fast as I can across the corridor and down the hallway to the opposite side of the floor.
It’s Cora’s room.
Fourteen-year-old Cora Clarke.
Rushing inside, her skin is ghastly. She’s lying flat on the bed, her pillow removed.
Jocelyn is doing chest compressions while another staff member rushes in a crash cart to assist.
The room spins. I step out into the hall, more importantly, out of the way. I don’t want to be a burden.
Sweat trickles down my forehead. I’m going to be sick.
* * *