- Joined
- Jul 5, 2005
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Since the PS i posted made me sound like an idiot who did not comprehend the English language, here is an entirely different PS. I am still hoping that my fellow SDN'rs can help. I took the comments about being listy with my diverse experiences and narrowed it all down to the one experience that means most to me. ANY CRITIQUES + or - is appreciated. Thanks in advance
As I drew the clear liquid carefully into the syringe, I was petrified that an air bubble would make its way into the plastic cylinder undetected. After tapping the little dispensing bottle along with the needle, repressing the syringe down and up again to get it just right, I drew out the previously determined amount. With my young eight year old brain concentrating extensively, I stuck the minute needle quickly into the rind of the juicy orange sitting on the kitchen table. With all of the water successfully injected into the bright orange fruit, I nervously looked up into the eyes of my onlooker. I was met with a warm expression and smile from my cancer ridden friend. Perfect, she said, you are practically a natural. Just do the same exact thing when its the real medicine and my leg you are injecting it into.
From the days of kindergarten, I painstakingly drew anatomical hearts on my valentine cards rather than the traditional bilobed morphology and used medical terminology when playing Hangman on the blackboard. I cannot remember a time in which I had any wavering idea of the path I wanted to pursue in life in a career in medicine. When a close family friend was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer in 1992, it became my outlet for learning and discovering how I could help someone in need. With the recent death of my grandmother from ovarian cancer and with another loss looming near, I couldnt let her slip away. With the cancer wreaking havoc on her body, Althea turned to me for help and asked if I would administer her rounds of injections. Her body was on the brink of giving up, everyday being harder than the last, until she just couldnt will her mind to inject herself. I became her little doctor, even though her team of physicians and nurses peered on with skeptical eyes at the idea of a 1st grader giving her her shots at home. I can vividly remember how proud I was at the ripe age of seven, the first time I successfully drew water into a real syringe and carefully injected it into that orange. With the technique perfected, I got the privilege to administer my friends medications and play an active role in her battle for survival. I accompanied her to doctor visits and left an impression on the staff that keeps them asking about me to this day. She has said to me that her pain would disappear when I grasped my little fingers over her pale hands and talked with her, better than if she was given doses of drugs and left to sit alone in the chemotherapy room. It was more than just my suppressing the syringe that I helped her with; I unconsciously was helping heal the wounds that a seemingly terminal disease had opened up in her mind and spirit. After these 13 years, she still refers me as her Doc and the admiration she has for me is something I hold dear to my heart.
As I drew the clear liquid carefully into the syringe, I was petrified that an air bubble would make its way into the plastic cylinder undetected. After tapping the little dispensing bottle along with the needle, repressing the syringe down and up again to get it just right, I drew out the previously determined amount. With my young eight year old brain concentrating extensively, I stuck the minute needle quickly into the rind of the juicy orange sitting on the kitchen table. With all of the water successfully injected into the bright orange fruit, I nervously looked up into the eyes of my onlooker. I was met with a warm expression and smile from my cancer ridden friend. Perfect, she said, you are practically a natural. Just do the same exact thing when its the real medicine and my leg you are injecting it into.
From the days of kindergarten, I painstakingly drew anatomical hearts on my valentine cards rather than the traditional bilobed morphology and used medical terminology when playing Hangman on the blackboard. I cannot remember a time in which I had any wavering idea of the path I wanted to pursue in life in a career in medicine. When a close family friend was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer in 1992, it became my outlet for learning and discovering how I could help someone in need. With the recent death of my grandmother from ovarian cancer and with another loss looming near, I couldnt let her slip away. With the cancer wreaking havoc on her body, Althea turned to me for help and asked if I would administer her rounds of injections. Her body was on the brink of giving up, everyday being harder than the last, until she just couldnt will her mind to inject herself. I became her little doctor, even though her team of physicians and nurses peered on with skeptical eyes at the idea of a 1st grader giving her her shots at home. I can vividly remember how proud I was at the ripe age of seven, the first time I successfully drew water into a real syringe and carefully injected it into that orange. With the technique perfected, I got the privilege to administer my friends medications and play an active role in her battle for survival. I accompanied her to doctor visits and left an impression on the staff that keeps them asking about me to this day. She has said to me that her pain would disappear when I grasped my little fingers over her pale hands and talked with her, better than if she was given doses of drugs and left to sit alone in the chemotherapy room. It was more than just my suppressing the syringe that I helped her with; I unconsciously was helping heal the wounds that a seemingly terminal disease had opened up in her mind and spirit. After these 13 years, she still refers me as her Doc and the admiration she has for me is something I hold dear to my heart.