Protection

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