What Does It Feel Like?

 By Nicole Kucine, MD, MS

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“What do you do?” they ask.
“I’m a pediatrician,” I say, my standard reply.
They follow with, “Do you have a specialty?”
Sigh. Here it comes.
“Pediatric hematology/oncology.”

The reply always starts with an “Oh.”
Pained, catching their breath in their chest,
like I’ve cut them.
“Oh, that must be so sad.”
Or “Oh, what is that like, is it awful.”
Or “Oh, what does it feel like to work with
such sick children?”

I smile and remind them of the generally
better outcomes in pediatric oncology,
of the resilience of children, and of the plethora
of crafts and treats in pediatrics.

What does it really feel like?

    Guilt
You called for the wrong dose, in the middle
of the code, as his small body shook.
You made a mistake.
Labs came back, mysteries revealed,
the right treatment identified.
He recovered quickly. You did not.

    Love
He looks up at me.
His parents had gone home to rest, and I was
taking call from his bedside.
He clearly had something on his mind.
“When I die, do you think I’ll go to heaven?”
Something heavy slowly squeezes
what’s inside me.
“I haven’t always been a good kid,
maybe I won’t get into heaven.”
Pause. Breathe. Eyes close.
Pause. Breathe. Eyes open.
I take his hand. “You’re a great kid; of course
you’re going to heaven.”
He smiles.

    Pain
She screams and squeezes the bedrail.
I freeze. My hand shakes.
“I’m so sorry that we can’t sedate you,” I say.
“The mass is too large.”
More pain medication. A small pinch. It burns.
Squeeze tighter. Take a deep breath.
She cries. Later, so do I.

    Love
She hands you the drawing she made,
glowing with pride. Birds. Trees. Color.
The words “I love you.”
She hugs you as you take the drawing.
You hold back warm tears.

    Loss
She stayed.
Longer than anyone expected,
longer than we thought she could.
In the quiet room in the corner, she refused to go.
Her mother held her hand and stroked her hair.
She leaned in close. A kiss. And a whisper.
“Mama’s gonna be okay. You can go now
if you need to. You can rest,” her mother said.
Stillness. And departure.

    Joy
He looked up at me from his tiny chair.
“Hi!” I said and waved.
He jumped up and grabbed my hand.
He began to dance.
Spinning, jumping, smiles and giggles.
Cheers and clapping
for our impromptu dance party.
He is light.

What does it really feel like?

Everything.