A Mother’s Fight
This one still pains me to my core.
You weren’t even 50 years old. Your weight wasn’t even double that. You had two young kids at home, who needed you more than most people could understand. Your BMT, or bone marrow transplant was supposed to cure your rare form of Celiac disease, but instead it killed you. After a yearlong fight in the hospital, you left in a body bag.
You could never catch a break. You were hit with one infection after the next, and every complication under the sun. For every step forward, you took five back. Your body may have become weak, but your fight always remained strong. For you, fighting to live was less of a choice and more of a maternal instinct because nothing meant more to you in the world than your two sweet kids.
You may have been very soft spoken, but you were a fierce advocate for yourself. I always admired that about you. You knew what you wanted and what you didn’t want, and what you wanted most was to return home and be a mother to your two beautiful children.
Over the span of my three years as a nurse, I had never seen anyone suffer like you did. It killed me to see the pain you endured day after day, for 365 days straight. But if you weren’t giving up, neither was I. I took care of you so often I couldn’t help but consider you family. You quickly began to care for me, and everyone around you. In fact, you offered your love and your kindness to anyone that entered your room, despite how miserable you were feeling. I can’t understand why someone with so much to give was taken away from us. The impact that you had within the hospital alone said a lot about your character. You had this natural energy about you that attracted people within different roles of the hospital, creating one big, loving family. I can’t imagine what kind of an impact you would have had in the world, if only you had made it out alive. We celebrated your birthday in the hospital. We even celebrated Christmas in the hospital with you and your kids. That was such a special day for all of us, and I could see in your face how much it meant to you.
I quickly lost count of the number of times you were transferred to the ICU for respiratory failure. You hated going there, and I could see the fear in your eyes each time the discussion about transferring you to the ICU occurred. I feared it too. I knew if you required intubation, the chances of you recovering were slim to none.
It was the day after Christmas. I was at home when I found out your sister had made the difficult decision to pull the plug. We had run out of options. We had tried everything. Your suffering was never-ending. It pained your sister more than anything to make that call, but she knew you were tired, and it wasn’t fair to allow you to continue suffering any longer. I was told I had about an hour to get to the hospital if I wanted to say goodbye to you. My coworkers and I joined together around your bed in the ICU. We took turns holding your hand, talking to you one last time. Your sister had your favorite music playing in the background. Your poor mother was beside herself; her cries took over the room. We all stood there around you speechless, watching your breaths slow, until they ceased completely. I will always remember your beauty-your smile, your big brown eyes, and your infectious laugh. I was so lucky to have known you.
I’m sorry you couldn’t be a mom to your kids. I’m sorry your kids must now reach every milestone without their mom by their side. I’m sorry your sister had to make such a tough decision, and I’m sorry beyond words that your mother had to watch you take your last breath. I wish we could have done more for you. I wish the outcome was different. I wish more than anything we hadn’t failed you, and your family.