Memoirs of a Seasoned Nurse: "Jennifer"

After three years of med/surg nursing at Podunk General Hospital, on night shift, I decided to go to work at a local medical clinic.

I worked for a pediatrician, doing the usual childhood exams, immunizations, well-baby checks, etc. Doctor also did pediatric chemotherapy under the auspices of Children’s Hospital, Los Angeles. They developed the protocols, we did the chemo.

One of the “chemo kids” who really stood out for me was Jennifer. She was seven years old when I met her, bubbly and active, and she had the most beautiful, sparkling brown eyes. The only clue that she was suffering from a neuroblastoma was her head: she was as bald as a bowling ball.

Every month, when it was time for her chemo, Jennifer would come in the back door of the clinic with her mom. She always had a cute, “girly” outfit on and never came in without her “barf bucket.” She would sit at my desk, play with the toys in the bottom drawer of my desk and hum, or sing, her current favorite song.

Once a year, near her birthday, we would “surprise” her with a birthday party, complete with streamers, balloons, presents, and cake and ice cream. We could always count on all 5 pediatricians making time to join the celebration—plus the whole office staff and all the nurses and medical assistants.

When it was time to start her IV, and give her chemo, she would go into the exam room and climb on the table. She would point out to Doctor which vein he was allowed to “poke” and, bless his heart, he always honored her wishes. In return, his only request was that she hold perfectly still while he “poked”. It was okay for her to cry, or even scream, but she just couldn’t move her hand.

She never let him down: she would cry a little but, always, always held her hand rock steady. As the medication began to circulate in her little veins, she would begin to barf. As soon as the medication stopped, the “barfing” stopped. The smile returned and the humming began again.

When I decided to return to hospital nursing, it was partially because of Jennifer and all the other chemo kids: I couldn’t deal with their deaths; and several died during my 5-year tenure with Doctor. Jennifer was still alive when I left, and I could have called Doctor at any time and inquired about her. I didn’t ask the question because I couldn’t handle the answer.

More than a decade later, one hot summer night, I was in Marie Callender’s with a dear friend, Mary Anne, having dinner. I had just accepted a management position in another area of the hospital and was catching up, with my friend from my tour of duty in the operating room.

The meal was delicious, the service was excellent, and the conversation was fun. After dinner, we decided to have a piece of pie and, as she delivered it, our waitress looked at me and asked: “do you know Kathy _______?” I replied: “yes, and I know her daughter, Jennifer.” (Jennifer the Chemo Kid).

“I’m Jennifer” was her amazing reply! I looked up, tears forming in my eyes, to see the most beautiful young woman with sparkling brown eyes, and a full head of thick, shiny blonde hair.

We talked as long as we dared: I didn’t want her to lose her job. She was working at Marie Callender’s for the summer and going to state college to become a nurse. She thanked me for being her nurse, and I thanked her for teaching me so much about bravery.

Once again, the intangible benefits of being a nurse blessed my life and my career.