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“But I could have been there for the family, for her. Anything to try to ease the loss.”
It’s in these moments I understand exactly why Shaw wanted Bizzy out of Pediatric Oncology and Hematology. The pain of the loss is heartbreaking, but the pain of watching the woman I love internalize it is excruciating. We’ve been through this before, and I know what to expect. The only upside to this tragedy is we knew treatments weren’t working, then pneumonia set in, and Kesha was moved to critical care, so she didn’t pass away on our floor. None of the other children are aware it happened.
“Let’s get you back in bed.” She only got home three hours ago; no way she could have slept long.
Her head pops up, and her cheeks are stained with tears. “I’m sorry, honey,” she barely whispers.
“I’m okay.”
She sucks in a shaky b
reath and tears well up again. “What about poor Maggie?”
Maggie and Kesha were tight. Same age, same grade in school, and similar treatment plans. Maggie is at home now, no longer staying at the hospital. “Maggie’s parents will be informed soon. They will choose whether to tell her.”
Claire’s struggling is evident by her quaking arms around my waist. Then it fades and a new expression of determination takes over. “Unicorn Pixie Fairy.”
“Sorry?”
“Tonight, I’m going to be the Unicorn Pixie Fairy again.”
“With all that damn glitter?” Memories of having glitter glued to my skin come back to me.
“Minus the glitter, but I’ll think of something to make it equally as fun. Maybe do pink and purple streaks in my hair. The kids loved it before.”
I try to hide my horror that she’d do anything to her gorgeous hair, but it doesn’t work.
“It washes out, sweetie,” she promises.
“It’ll bring smiles to their faces.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Now, let’s get you back in bed.”
“I’m not tired. I got two hours of sleep. I’d rather talk.”
I shuffle us to back to the couch and sit, arranging her across me. “You sure you want to do this? I don’t want to drag you down.”
“I’m okay, swear. My crying jag is over, but you need to decompress, and I want to do that for you.”
This is not a surprise. Each time we’ve lost a patient since we’ve been together, she works through her grief and turns to comfort me. “I was in my office when we got the call. Went downstairs and offered assistance if needed.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“Clint was with me.”
She tenses, her mouth dropping open. “Douche-dick Clint?”
“Douche-dick? Did something happen?”
“Not to me personally, but he’s sleeping his way through the single ladies and damaging morale.”
“That explains Evie’s morose opinion of him.”
“Morose?” She snickers.
“I gotta admit, he gave a shitty first impression. My opinion of him has been reserved. But, Claire, the man has a bedside manner that’s unmatched. He has skills, great medical knowledge, and asks the right questions. That’s all great, but his talent dealing with patients and their families is supreme. It can’t be taught. It’s superior to some of the best doctors I’ve worked with. He held Kesha’s mother’s hand, he spoke to her father about the beauty Kesha had for life, and when they asked him to pray with them, he finished their prayer with a poem that shook me to my core. He may be working his way through the nurses, but that man impressed me.”
