Second chances

We do not just steal souls from the afterlife. 

We are providers who give second chances. 

From bad decisions to front end collisions

Your patient’s story does not have to end in strife.

Misplaced keys or misshaped genes do not define the value of human life. 

We work as architects of life. 

We do not write the story but provide a few more pages for that person to live life twice. 

Twice as full and twice as nice 

Without the old habits of a strangling vice. 

Wouldn’t a second chance be nice?

We are the bubble wrap that protects the only treasure worth dying for,

A human life at the edge like a knife, faced with the choice to be more. 

But we are distracted by the “Pop Pop Pop” as we are squeezed by institutions,

Have we forgotten what we are here for? 

Is it the credit that you hold

In the bank, or the story we are told 

Of how you cared more than you needed to;

That day you were what they needed, too. Isn’t that the reason? 

What is your reason?

The plastic isn’t the point, even though plastic made it possible.

We are not Gods, but instruments allowed to play in God's ensemble.  

So stretch your stethoscope out with kindness and listen carefully 

To the finest creation to ever beat itself to death.

Listen to your heart, and  

Don’t drum on some tired song 

About how long it’s been since a bathroom break.

Hard work is hard, and our bad day will end in twelve hours,

But our patients struggle does not finish at shift change like ours. 

Your focus is your light. 

So direct your sight

To what brings your night and your day delight, 

This life, you make. 

Make it sing. 

Make it dance. 

Give yourself the second chance 

You would give your patient in a similar circumstance. 

For we are providers who give second chances. 

We do not just steal souls from the afterlife.

Cats, Fish, Watermellon

My patient is 9 years old. She has been through a terrible experience, and today as her nurse I am going to explain what is safe and what is dangerous. 

Waking up from surgery, she is surprisingly composed and calm.  Most kids who have been to hell and back return with a steeled spine and sullen faces.  This strawberry blond, with a few freckles across her cheek and huge cast on her left arm was no exception.  

3 days ago, she had finally been hit by her dad too many times and ran out of the house. She ran and ran, 6 miles, to her uncle’s house. She had been there before many times, but this time the backyard swing and cookies with sprinkles were not what she was looking for. The darkness outside at 10:00 at night only manifested the darkness she was running away from, and the light she sought in her uncle's house was nowhere to be found that night.  

Her father had called the uncle before she got there, detailing how she was a horrible brat and never listened and always lied. Infact, this time she was caught in a lie.  Not wanting to go home, she told her dad that she was out with a friend, but instead was hiding at a park near her house where she often would wait out the storm at home. Discovered in her lie, she was quickly brought home by her father who intended to teach her a lesson. His belt was his bible, and the sermons were lengthy and filled with the spirit of disgust and vodka. So, she ran to her uncle, who received her with grit teeth and clenched fists, smelling just like her dad. 

Thrown into the car, headed back to the house she just escaped, her uncle failed to notice the stop sign warning of crossing traffic. That laps in observation was not the first time he neglected to notice the warning signs, and a 9-year-old screaming was just as easily dismissed. Twisting and spinning. Then still and crying. Removed by firefighters and driven by paramedics to be assessed by nurses and then examined by doctors who told her this broken arm should heal well after surgery. At night her dad visited but didn't stay long, so she was able to sleep. Delays and miscommunication pushed her surgery to 8pm, and now she wakes up as my patient after not eating for 24 hours. 

A few crackers, sips of water, some pain medication and she settle in well. She then tells me the story I’ve just told you. Not a tear falls, she only interrupts herself momentarily for a sip of water or the corner of a saltine cracker. The medications are working well, as her greatest discomfort is the baggage she is now trying to unload instead of her broken arm. I listen intently, trying to find things to chart so as to not interrupt her, providing blankets and a refill of ice chips when needed. 

She looks down at her wrist and sees a red bracelet. She looks at it and turns to ask, “What’s this for?” I tell her, “Those are your allergies. We write them down so that everyone knows what you are allergic to. Sometimes, things that seem safe are not safe.  Even someone who means well could accidentally give you something that could hurt or even kill you. So, we want to make sure you don't come in contact with any of these dangerous things.”

She looks down and reads her allergies, “Cats, Fish, Watermelons”