And voices, voices like nets cast out into thefeai. —Laurie Sheck. \ ♦ By Kerry Hansen Art by Stuart Mead Design by Jezac My last four primary patients are dead. Working as a staff nurse on a Bone Marrow Transplant Unit, I expect, the statistics tell me, that a significant portion of the people I meet will die within weeks. Knowing this does not mitigate the tragedy or dilute the experience. The pain of loss is just as intense each time. An emotional vortex whirls around the patients’ struggle and it pulls me in. I become part of their system of hope. A hope for life that often collapses under the overwhelming burden that the transplant process places on their body. I ask myself how much suffering can I witness and still believe in what we do herel If it was only suffering I witnessed it would be easy to quit and condemn the whole process. But there is an abundance of courage and love here too. There is much to be learned from the way these people live the end of their lives. What I am left with is the memories, the stories of the lives I became a small part of. I remember how Jane talked about her Corvette. It made your skin tingle the way she described it. The interior wasn’t just a leather, but a “ lush, deep leather that you could sink into.” She didn’t merely drive fast, but “ with the top down in fourth gear, you slip into a glide where the force of air numbs your face.” It made me giggle to hear talk like that because I had never had that degree of feeling for a machine. The desire to drive that car again was so strong that she attempted bribing a physician for a pass that would allow her to leave and take it for a spin. I remember the words, her blue eyes, and her voice. The Beginning A 23-year-old woman died July 4,1988 from complications related to her bone marrow transplant. She was hospitalized for 180 days prior to her death. The course of her transplant transformed her from a young, beautiful woman, vivacious and full of life, to a barely recognizable, severely decayed human form. When I first met Jane in her pre-transplant conference, her appearance held no hint that she was dying of leukemia. No evidence in her flashy smile or her loud laugh that six months later she would be dead. I saw a five-foot-six- inch woman dressed in a colorful current style that showed off her figure. She could have been a model straight from the pages of Vogue. But what I remember most from that in itia l meeting was not her physical attractiveness, but her voice. It was strong and assertive. She made simple declarative statements all through the conference. “ I’m going to beat this cancer once and for all.” “ I want to live a long full life, that’s why I’m here.” Jane convinced me that her transplant would be a success, and I decided to become one of her primary nurses. A primary nurse writes a plan of care, administers medications, delivers the patient for treatments, keeps track of vital signs, measures and marks down everything that goes into or out of the body. I spent hundreds of hours caring for Jane and witnessing the process of her dying and death. Having worked in intensive care areas of hospitals for many years, this was not a unique experience. So when I found myself often thinking about Jane’s dying and death months after I attended her funeral, I was troubled. I wondered if it was a stress-related phenomenon that would pass in time. I took a vacation to put greater distance between myself and the events. But Jane’s story kept repeating itself in my mind. Whole scenes would play back. I would watch myself go into her room and begin changing IV lines and hear us talking again. “ How come you’ re late with my medicine, ding-dong?” she says in an insinuating voice. “ Hey, listen, sister, it’s not my fault you needed platelets,” I shoot back. “ I’m not your sister and I’m damned tired of your excuses,” Jane says, smiling. “ So, fire me!” “ Oh Jesus, I’ ll give you one more chance.” 28 Clinton St. Quarterly—Winter, 1989-90
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