The Veteran

Families come and go all the time in here, but there's a definite elementary school feel in how the families interact. Remember how the older kids would close ranks against the younger ones, claiming prime schoolyard space at recess and the back seats in the school bus. And then the older kids would move on to high school and you'd be the new older kids repeating the cycle. Same thing here, except that not all the older kids move on at the same time. I'm happy for the families leaving here for the last time, but at the same time I feel like we've been held back, flunked, while the rest of our schoolmates move up a level.

Tomorrow, one of our "gang" is being released. I'm absolutely thrilled for them, because they have had a very long, hard year. But that makes Benjamin one of the veterans of long term care on this floor. There are three others who have been here as long if not longer than him, but all the other faces are new - or newer. Two weeks ago another veteran mom and I had a chuckle over a newbie who was frantic over her child's beeping IV pump. Since this happens on average 10-15 times a day, it's become incredibly routine for us. I've actually gotten to the point where the beeping doesn't wake me up instantly anymore. What struck me as sad afterwards was not the fact that we found this woman's panic amusing, but that we knew enough to know that there was nothing to panic about. This woman's reaction was perfectly normal and understandable for most people; we should all react like that. But we've lost our innocence. Fevers and loss of appetite and pumps beeping are our normal. Our vocabulary has been enriched with words that only medical staff should know - and we can actually use these words in complete sentences! And new parents are looked upon with sadness, because they will too soon loose the looks of panic, and replace them with looks of resignation.

Our little veteran Benjamin is doing great. On Sunday his counts stabilized, and are now finally starting to go up slowly. His energy levels are through the roof - we're having a hard time containing him in his tiny room. Every time the door opens when he's on the floor he makes a beeline for it. He's pulling himself up on everything, and taking his first cruising steps. This activity is not without problems. There is an issue with Benjamin's Broviac, a crack where the lumens split. Although there is no leakage, he will probably have to back to OR to have the Broviac replaced before his fourth course of chemo starts. They always told us that this line could last from 3-6 months, and it's been just under 3 months. We figure that in an older, less active (or more aware) child it would last longer. But Benjamin is constantly getting himself twisted and tangled. And his cord gets spun around so much that it looks like a telephone cord, and I have to hold him and spin on the spot until I'm dizzy to unravel the line.

Roger and I managed to go to the visitation for the little boy last week. We went with several other parents from the floor. I've now waited in line only three times to pay my respects: Pierre E. Trudeau, Maurice Richard, and this little boy. It was very difficult and heartbreaking, but necessary for us to show solidarity and support to a family who had become family to us in the short time we knew them. It also gave us the closure we needed to move on here in the ward. Among the hundreds of mourners were most of the nurses not on duty, as well as other staff and parents of children no longer needing the services of 8D: proof positive of how close people get here.

So it doesn't matter whether you are a newbie, a veteran or a graduate. By the end of the process we'll have been all three. But like elementary school, in the end it's not where you sit on the bus that's important. What's important is that by the time you get off that bus for the last time, you're ready for the next step. And if you're not ready, they'll hold you back until you are.