Mission: ER : 0430: Wednesday: 5/23/07

So I'm sitting here thinking about how blunt my last post sounded, what with de-clothing patients sans choice and drawing blood. But tonight, I'm having a very quiet moment with an 80 year-old lady, very petite, and nearing the end of life: she is a cancer patient.

Her daughter was here earlier, before midnight, but now it's only the two of us. I hung her second unit of RBC's (blood) and have to wait 15 minutes before rechecking vital and making sure no reaction occurs. I ask about her grandchildren, her children, I tell her about my mother and how Mom didn't have a chance to know my siblings' children because she died in December.

The lights were low, only a lamp over the bed, the soft whooshing of the IMED pump, catcalls and laughter in the hallway (yep, at 0430) and I realize that her life is passing away at this moment. Sure she's getting renewed with the blood, but the chemo has whittled her body down to a mere stick where once was a tree.

When she looks me in the eye to say "Sorry" about my mom, I see a glimpse of fear that I had not noticed before. I want to help, but in this early morning hour, I offer good cheer and my ear to listen. But she doesn't talk, only replies to my questions.

My fifteen minutes of fame is now up and I do mention to her that The Lord's timing is just in every life and that we don't know why some are given longer to live than others, and she nods in agreement. She's wearing an elegant navy-blue hat to hide her baldness from the chemo, and she looks dressed for church.

She thanks me for helping her gain some health tonight, and the fear is in her voice again, since she knows that her time here is limited. So I take her frail, white hand in mine and thank her for being a good patient, and wish her well. She holds my hand a bit longer than I expected. I smile at her, and leave, not wanting to, but it is nearly time for me to go home and rest.

For her too.