“Hope” is the thing with feathers — that perches in the soul. And sings the tune without the words — and never stops — at all.
The nurse came today to check in on my husband and change his dressings. “Nurse” days are my favorite now. They are the days when we can “check in” with a professional. We can share our concerns and tell her about our sleepless nights, and loss of appetite and which pill makes us sick and which doesn’t. She listens, and is compassionate. Just what the doctor ordered.
Today, as she inspected the bandages, she said, “You know, my son had the same thing you have. And had the same procedures.” My husband asked, “Bladder cancer?” She said “Yes.” Walt said, “Did he survive it?” Without stopping her work, she said quietly, “No.” I said, “I’m so sorry. How old was your son?” She said, “Nine.”
Through tears, I asked her how she could possibly bear that grief and be so strong, doing the work she does now. She said, “This is how I give back. We were surrounded by wonderful doctors and nurses and they were there for us every step of the way. I will be forever grateful.”