I questioned my ability to care for burn patients as I
drove to work, when the only thing I could recall from anatomy lectures seemed
utterly trivial: The skin is the bodies’ largest organ. Its main function is to shield
and protect.
The sting of betadine, alcohol and floor polish
saluted me when I entered the restricted Burn Treatment ICU. Overhead lights illuminated the nursing
station like a night-time road construction zone. I introduced myself to the charge nurse, as
the nurse from the supplemental staffing agency. An advantage to employment as an independent
contractor is being able to choose the place and time to work. But that perk was overridden earlier in the
day when the staffing coordinator called.
“I don’t do ICU assignments,” I told her. “Check my profile: no ICU, no ER, and no
pediatrics. I don’t like trauma;
especially fresh, serious suffering.
And, I don’t like seeing kids sick enough to be hospitalized. It’s hard
enough to keep my own daughter healthy.”
“How bad could it be?”
She asked. “Just one evening
shift in the burn unit, OK? They really
need a nurse there tonight. Finish making those cupcakes and get your nurse
groove going. You’ll be home by
midnight.”
The timing of the shift worked. John and I juggled schedules to reduce
childcare needs for Sara, our five year old daughter. When an overlap was necessary I took her to
a neighbor’s house for a couple of hours. Our recent move, from co-op housing
in a risky neighborhood to a ranch house on a quiet street, reflected our shift
from a counter culture life to mainstream living; all efforts to keep Sara
safe.
“Mom, please don’t ask to see my cards during the party”,
Sara requested as we decorated Valentine treats. She was fine with my role as the kindergarten
parent helper, but wanted me at a reasonable distance in the classroom
tomorrow. Cornrow braids of long blond
hair framed her face. Her green eyes searched mine. The delicate balance of protector mother
versus promoter of independence was already a daily dance.
I brushed flour from her face; it clung to her smooth,
moist skin. I pinched her cheeks the way my grandfather used to do mine. “Sure.
But if a boy tries to kiss you I will break his knees”, I called as she
ran away squealing.
“You’ll l have two patients this evening. Molly, age six, fell into a campfire—burns on
her back and arms. Amanda, age 7,
burned her face and chest when her dress caught fire at a birthday party” the
charge nurse said.
She pointed across the unit to two small, bandaged
bodies in adult-sized beds. Molly’s
mother was reading Winnie the Pooh.
Amanda’s mother knitted while her daughter slept. Valentines and red streamers dangled from
the bed frames. Both mothers looked
exhausted and sad.
Children? Young girls?
I expected the patients to be adults. My mouth went dry and my hands
shook.
“Where were
their parents? How could that happen?”
“The parents were there. Just not close enough.” She
explained the circumstances: normal, everyday events that just turned out
wrong.
Memories of Sara around fires flashed in my head: my parents’ fireplace, fireworks, barbeques….
I donned the required isolation gown, mask and gloves
and immediately felt hot, stuffy and clumsy. The incessant monitor alarms
seemed to shout these lives were forever
changed by one fleeting, unlucky moment, when parents were not able to keep
their children safe.
The evening seemed to last for days. Each painful bandage change, request for pain
medication and tears of frustration and fear, pierced my heart so deeply that I
still hear their cries and see the
crimson, wet and tender skin.
The house smelled like chocolate cake when I walked in
the front door, well past midnight. I
sat in the quiet kitchen and read the Valentines Sara had created with her dad.
The cupcakes, sporting heart-shaped candy, were lined up in neat rows in a
cardboard box, ready for the class party.
I knelt by Sara’s bed, swept long, loose hair away
from her prefect skin, stroked her face and whispered, I am the largest presence in your life.
My main function is to shield and protect.
Video made for Sara, Mother's Day 2011
