Shelley and I have “dates” in the hallway outside of Amie’s
room whenever we can. We get a bite to
eat, and sit outside her room and talk.
Sometime it’s a quick debrief of the day, sometimes it’s some bit of
silliness that Amie did. But we know
that keeping connected in the middle of this is incredibly important, because
it would be so easy to drift apart in the middle of this crazy.
While sitting outside in the hallway tonight, we got to hear
a whole different experience of kids at Mott.
Amelie has been tolerating all of this extremely well. By this, I mean needles and
chemotherapy. She endures endless tubes
and chaos and new stuff constantly. She’s
been great, and the nurses and doctors, social workers and child life employees
are constantly telling us so.
So the girl in the next room over was (and please pardon my
language) utterly and completely losing her shit tonight. Screaming.
Moaning. Yelling. Kicking and
biting and hitting. (We know this
because we could hear the nurses sternly telling her that she could not bite
them, nor hit them, nor kick them) She was doing this for a long
time. 20 minutes?
At one point, an alarm went off, an a stream of nurses
rushed into her room….and then it kept going on and on and on. She was at a point of misery and despair and
pain and utter and complete DONE that
I’ve never experienced before.
It’s just sitting on my soul right now, and gave me another
silver lining. I’ve been looking for
them, over and over through this process, as has my sister. When we talk on the
phone, she’s always trying to spin things into a positive when she hears the
retelling of the day’s events.
So, knowing that both Anya and Amelie are handling things so
well, and knowing that if you talk her through verbally whatever you are going
to do, she’ll be an amazing shining star with it. She cries for a bit, don’t get me wrong… but
she’s able to be comforted, and gets past it.
Grace, the girl next to Amie tonight, was beyond
consolation. Beyond tolerance. She was utterly done with each and every bit
of everything that was happening to her.
On some level, it reminded me of several of my
students. They see school as something
that is happening to them. They do no
work, they actively perseverate on utterly annoying behaviors to drive me crazy….
because they want to disrupt the process.
They want “school” to stop. They
don’t care about the consequences, because they win no matter what. They are already in their own worst punishment;
they’re forced to come to school. Grace
was in hers…but it was far more full of actual and real physical pain.
As I was walking out for the night, knowing Shelley would be
sleeping within the half hour and Amie was far into sleep already, I stopped to
talk to Grace’s grandfather outside her room.
He was taking a breather. I said
to him that I hoped his night got better, and that I hoped that she (grace)
found some peace with the process. He
said that this was every single time she was admitted. He stated that she was always sorrowful at the
end of the screaming, but that it was always the same….each time she came
here.
I feel for her. I
feel for the nurses. I feel for the
grandfather. Man. That’s some seriously rough shit to have to bear
witness to.
Haunted Halloween?
Yes. Tonight I am haunted.
I love the insight here, comparing Grace to students who are disengaged when not actively obstructionist. Both feel powerless, at the mercy of forces they cannot see how to control. Reminds me of the very young woman I shared a labor room with some 35 years ago — screaming, thrashing, obviously frightened and having little idea of what was happening or how long it might last. Her reactions made things so much worse for her and, tangentially, for me. She had no family support with her and had obviously been unprepared. I really felt for her, even as I fervently wished she would just shut up.
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