James squealed. Kathy cried. And I felt like I could finally breathe.
“You really mean it?” he checked again, looking down at the catheter in the back of his hand.
“I really mean it,” I assured him with a wide smile pulling at my cheeks. “I’m going to go see if I can find a nurse to come and take that out and then, little buddy, you’re out of here.”
Turning to his mom, James bounced to his knees. “Mom! Can we get a cheeseburger on the way home?”
Kathy was barely holding herself together. After everything, I knew there were times when she wasn’t sure if this day would ever come, I know there were days I wasn’t entirely convinced, so I couldn’t imagine the absolute hell she’d been dragged through. But in moments like this, it’d all been worth it.
Sending home my patients was the best part of my job. Even though he’d still have regular checkups, I was hoping last night was the last he’d ever spend in a hospital bed.
He hugged me and told me he’d miss me, then ran down the hall, the sounds of his laughter and his ‘Nananananananana … Batman!’ bouncing off the walls making everyone who heard him smile.
Kathy had thanked me, cried some more, then chased her son out of the hospital headed straight for the nearest burger joint.
“Clear!” someone called and as the nurses and doctors working on James’s young body stepped back, raised their hands, and reality smashed into me like a freight train.
Murmurings followed.
“Clear!” was called again.
I heard the thump.
I saw the moment the jolt passed through his tiny body.
I held my breath.
I waited for the familiar beeping to fill the room.
It didn’t come.
It was taking too long.
Way too long.
“Come on, James. Come on,” I begged quietly, sending a quick prayer up hoping someone was listening.
Around him, doctors continued to work, trying to perform a miracle while I stood in the back of the room completely useless. Hopefully James wouldn’t need me. Hopefully the reason that’d resulted in him ending up here had nothing to do with me. A broken arm, I could handle. Even a bad case of pneumonia. But if his cancer had returned my heart would break.
Twenty heartbreaking minutes later, James Jefferies, the six-year-old, Batman obsessed fighter was pronounced dead.
There was nothing for me to do but to slide down the wall. I didn’t cry. I didn’t sob or yell or beg for them to keep trying.
It’d all been for nothing.
All that work. All that pain. All that suffering. All that hoping and praying and wishing, it’d all been nothing more than a waste of time.
“I’ll go find the family,” Doctor Jury announced unemotionally as she peeled off her gloves and tossed them in the trash.
My feet were propelling me before I had a chance to think. “Doctor Jury?” I called out as I jogged down the corridor after her.
“Doctor Rowe,” she replied, slowing her steps waiting for me to catch up.
“James Jefferies …”
“It’s always harder when it’s kids,” she offered softly.
“He is … he was ... my patient.”
