How Do You Do it?

How do you do it? It’s a question I get asked all the time about my job. Some days, on days like today, where I mourn the loss of a patient who was near and dear to my heart, I wonder. I wonder how do I continue to do this? But here’s the thing, even when my heart is laced in grief my response is this – how could I not do it? You see, the deeper I dig into the question, the longer I’m an oncology nurse, the older I get – the more aware I become of how things in life aren’t necessarily meant to be easy. Especially the best things in life.

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I still remember when I was 17 walking into a hospital and my thought was “this feels like home”. Sounds crazy, right? But there was something that drew me in, and continues to draw me in. The more I thought about and experienced the oncology field, the more I was hooked. I can’t explain it, and I’m not sure that any one of us can. This is what I do know though – you ask any of us who feel called to the oncology field and we can simply answer “I was made to do this”.

So instead of looking for ways for it to be easier, I’m looking for ways to walk through it well.

So as I have thought through and continue to think through the question “how do you do it?” I still keep coming back to, how could I not? I mean, I could not. I could walk away and enter another field of nursing and some day I might. But as for now, this is my calling, and I know this with my whole heart. So instead of looking for ways for it to be easier, I’m looking for ways to walk through it well.

I’m making a conscious decision to every day develop who I am and my coping mechanisms. I’m choosing to surround myself with community that will walk through life with me. I’m digging into who I am, how I was created, and working on making myself the healthiest I can possibly be.

Most importantly though, I’m choosing to focus on the things that make me love my job. I mean, for a science nerd, to be in one of the fastest advancing medical fields is incredible. The amount of new drugs coming out is breathtakingly awesome. Not to mention I work with some of the best doctors, nurses. CNAs, midlevels, and other office staff around. They are like family to me.

I wish that just for a moment you could get a glimpse into the incredible people’s souls who entrust me to walk with them through the hell they are living in.

The best part though? The patients and their loved ones. The fact that because of my job, I have met some of the most amazing people is enough, but it doesn’t stop there. I wish that just for a moment you could get a glimpse into the incredible people’s souls who entrust me to walk with them through the hell they are living in. I have witnessed what true love looks like in all sorts of relationships. It’s in the husband who still finds his wife beautiful, even when all her worldly beauty is gone. It’s in the son who makes his work schedule around when his mom has chemo treatments. It’s in the friend who cancels her plans on spare of the moment to take their very sick friend to treatment. It’s in the adult kids who take care of their dying father in his final days so he can be at home.

So instead of asking me “how do you do it?” Ask me “how can I help you do this?”

These people, the patients and their loved ones, challenge me to be a better person. To love deeper. To live well. To embrace all emotions – both the good and the bad.  To be the best me I can be.

So instead of asking me “how do you do it?” Ask me “how can I help you do this?” Because that is what we need. Any of us in fields that are as emotionally tough as the oncology field need the cheerleaders on our side. Walking with us, crying with us, listening to us. This is the best thing you can do for us, so that we can continue to do what we were made to do, and do it well.



Winter Blues Got You Down?

Americans every day have their routine down perfectly. When summer is here, we take our vacations, visit the beach or travel somewhere exotic. We make sure we slather on that sun block to protect us from harmful rays. At the end of the vacation, we go back into our routine of getting up early when the sun is no longer there to greet us. We work our eight hour shifts, often inside, and too often see the sun setting for the day when we leave, forcing us to drive home in the dark.

What are we missing in winter? Our healthy dose of vitamin D!

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Continue reading “Winter Blues Got You Down?”

Dear Breast Cancer Patient-Round 2

Dear Breast Cancer Patient,

Since I first wrote to you a lot has happened. New research is coming out every single day. Recently I received another e-mail about another genetic marker for breast cancer. But here is the thing. Since I first wrote to you, some of you have passed on for this earth. Some of you far too young. It wasn’t that long ago that I was first meeting one of you. You had been battling this awful disease for many years. You were fighting to have just a few more days with your young children. You were fighting until your very last breath. And when I said goodbye to you we both knew it would be the last time I saw you and you collapsed in my arms crying. I’ll never forget that day. I’ll never forget what you taught me about life, love, fight, and utter and complete strength.


I’m so thankful for all the money that has been donated to help, but I still sit in awe as it often isn’t hard to figure out why a young woman is sitting in a chemo chair worried about her babies at home. Often it is breast cancer. Not always, but more times than not. 1 in 8 women will get breast cancer in her life. That is 12%! (Source). And this is something I am not okay with. Not at all. Lung cancer is the first leading offender in cancers causing women to die followed by breast (Source).

I’m so incredibly thankful for those of you I have had the privilege to rejoice with as we dance around celebrating your last chemo. I’m so glad to know that thanks to the money that has been donate to research deaths caused by breast cancer have been decreasing since 2000 (source). But my heart continues to break every single time a women sits in that chemo chair and I talk with her about her cancer.

Breast cancer patient, seriously, you have made my life so much richer. Every. Single. One. Of. You. I’m blessed to get to work with you and I look forward to fighting for a cure with you.

Until then, thank you for the honor of getting to be one of your nurses.

With gratitude,

One of your nurses

Today I Closed a Door

It was my last day at the job I’ve been at for the last year and a half today. It was a tough decision to leave, but I am so incredibly at peace about the decision it is kind of scary. But I’m sitting here tonight reflecting on all this job brought me. It brought me so much that I have to be thankful for, my heart is overwhelmed. I leave knowing I am leaving incredible coworkers behind, but that I will get to continue to have them as friends. I leave reflecting on all the patients who’s care I have been a part of. Some are in remission, some are still fighting a courageous battle, and some have moved on from this world. I leave this job a much better person because of all the people I came in contact during it.

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Change is never easy. Even good change is still hard.

I will be getting over an hour back of my day between commuting and a shorter shift. I will be able to learn more about many cancers that I don’t yet know about and chemos that I’m not familiar with. Overall it is a step to continue to advance in my career. It is a GOOD step. But with every new door there is an old door closing. There are the things I am looking at saying “I will never do that again”. This is how I process. This is how I work through things and move on. This is how I close doors.

I have the absolute joy and privilege of being a chemo nurse. This job provided that open door to me. This job set the foundation for me to step into the world I now call my career. It isn’t an easy one. And on some days let me tell you that it just plain sucks. 100%. There are days that I as a person with very little of a temper am so incredibly pissed off at cancer. There are days that I step out my front door and sprint as long as I can because I don’t understand it. I don’t get how so many amazing people are taken so young by such an awful disease.

But amid the trials, pain, and grief I get the privilege of seeing the beauty. Of seeing the love. And I am so beyond excited to step into the next step of my career. This new job will allow me to be happier, healthier, and more whole myself. And as a nurse that is one of the biggest gifts I can give my patients.

So even though the decision to switch jobs was hard. Even though in the middle of this transition I’m freaking out the majority of the time. I know it’s right.  So I’m taking this step for my health. For my sanity. Thankful for my experience, but ready to continue the job I love in a healthier environment. And reminding myself that even some of the best changes I will make in my life are still going to be hard. Change. It is one of the most beautiful and yet difficult aspects of life.

Raising Awareness Month: Pediatric Cancer Awareness

I love what the ice bucket challenge did. I love that it brought so much awareness to a disease that has brought so much heartache to so many people. I did the challenge, but here is my challenge to all of you. Choose a disease or disorder every month to learn more about and even potentially donate to for the next year. If we all chose to do this, I think we would be a lot more aware and hopefully financially we as a whole could propel medicine and research along faster.


We live in a world that is full of brokenness, hurt, and trials. 1 in 285 children before the age of 20 will be diagnosed with cancer (1). While less children than adults are diagnosed with cancer on average a child loses 71 years of life compared to an adult who loses 17 years of life (1). Worldwide on average each day 720 children are diagnosed with cancer and 250 die from cancer EACH day (2). In the U.S. childhood cancers is the leading cause of death by disease in those under the age of 15.. the LEADING cause (2). The average age of death for those kids who do die of cancer is EIGHT years old (3). And for those 80% that do survive, 2/3 of them will have chronic conditions related to treatment as a result (2). Chemo sucks. I know I give it 5 days a week and I help patients manage through symptoms 5 days a week.

So friends, let us ban together to help fund research. To help fund support for these children going through treatment. To help find better treatments that cause less side effects and work even better. Let’s work together to find treatment so less kids are doing early. Let’s fight for these kids and their parents. Let’s be aware of what far too many little ones and their families are dealing with on a daily basis. Because it isn’t just about survival statistics, but it is about quality of life and longevity after the 5 year survival mark. Together we can make a difference. Together we can help take back some of those years being lost by a war against cancer






Dying Well Means Living Well

I remember sitting there in a midweek service at my church as the speaker said “you young adults listen up… you don’t even think about death but you need to be aware it is real, it is very real.” I sat there as a young adult and wanted to yell.. heeey! not all of us.


I haven’t ever died and I haven’t personally stared death in the face myself. But I have walked with a lot of patients in their final days. I have been the one to listen and hear no heart beat. I have managed medications as someone is in their last hours… even minutes to make them comfortable. I have cleaned up bodies and placed them in body bags. I have wheeled them on that cold metal cart down to the morgue. I have mourned more than anyone at the age of 28 would want to for patients and their families when lives were in our definition “cut short”. Oh and “The Fault in Our Stars”… yeah I sobbed like a baby but loved every minute of it.

Why are we as a culture so terrified of death? Why do we avoid talking about it? What about it is so terrifying to us? These are questions I’ve been mulling over and over. I personally am of the Christian faith so I have a confidence in a hope… but even some people I talk to who are of the same faith are utterly terrified of death.

Death is final.

In the last many months I’ve made it a point to research and truly figure out what dying well means. From the message at my church, to TED talks, speaking with others, and even some patients. After this thought process here is what I’ve come to conclude…

It is about LIVING WELL. And here are some things I’ve concluded about living well….

1. Make amends. Wherever you need to … make them. Leave nothing hanging.  You’ll have a lot more peace and those that are left behind will have peace as well. Even if its 50 years old, call that person up. You’ll feel a lot better. And this is not just for the people who know death is upon them. This is for EVERYONE.

2. Make a bucket list, but don’t just make it DO IT. Enlist one or two people to help you accomplish it.

3. Figure out what you believe and why about life after death. Don’t just leave it for tomorrow, because you aren’t promised tomorrow.

4. Don’t live like you have tomorrow. Live like you have only today. That means doing the things that really need done, but also leaving what doesn’t. It means spending time with your loved ones and not just working to excel at work. Truly LIVE each day.

5. Have it written down somewhere what you want if you become unable to speak for yourself. Do you want your organs donated? Do you want to be a full code? Do you want extreme measures taken? Have the tough decisions made for your loved ones. Trust me, this is a lot easier for them in times of trouble.

6. If you do know your life is coming to an end sooner than you had hoped, write letters, make videos… leave things to help those who are grieving your absence.  Let them know its okay to move on. Even if you don’t know this, start writing journals to those who matter most to you. Write them with plans to give them to them at a set time, but also know that that journal will be there if your life ends sooner than you expect it to.

7. Explore who you are. REALLY dig deep. Do some of those silly personality quizzes. Figure out your passions and what makes you tick. Learn to love the person you were created to be… because there is only one of you. There will only ever be one of you. Be the best you that there is.

8. Love deeply. Love hurts. It’s hard. But at the end of the day love as deep as you can so that at the end you know that you gave it your all.

9. REST. Don’t be afraid to take some breathers. To refresh yourself. Our bodies were made to require rest. Rest will help you to truly live.

10. Cut out the things that don’t matter. Focus on what really matters.

Friends, death is a hard topic. Not a fun conversation, but it is inevitable for every single one of us. Let us stop running away from it, but instead make the most of our run towards it, because that is in fact the direction we are all headed. Let us all make a point to not just live, but to live well. Live everyday with passion, purpose, integrity, and truth.  Truly LIVE each day. Each moment.

Why childhood cancer awareness month matters…

This month is Childhood Cancer Awareness month. It’s a cause that hits really close to home to me because it hit my home as a first time new mom. I wrote about our experiences last September. At that point we were just 2 months into our son, Charlie’s, treatment. If you’d like feel free to read my blog post from last year, but I will briefly summarize our son’s diagnosis.

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My son was born May 5, 2013 – healthy, normal, happy baby boy. At 6 weeks old I started noticing a strange glow in his eye in certain lighting. It was just a flash, and very hard to replicate. We also noticed a strange glow in his eye while taking pictures of him with the flash on. It glowed white instead of the normal red. Call it mother’s intuition, the prodding of the Holy Spirit (I think both), but we made an appointment with a specialist at Riley Children’s hospital. July 19th, 2013 was the day our world was turned upside down. We were told that our 11 week old baby had Retinoblastoma (a rare eye cancer… read more about by clicking). A level D tumor in his right eye (second to the largest). Typically they would have removed his eye, but they felt he was too young. Our only other option was chemo. Hearing the news, and wondering what the next few months would hold for our son was the most gut-wrenching pain I’ve ever experienced. The next week was filled with an MRI, an eye exam under anesthesia, central line placement, and two days of chemo. We were also given a crash course on central line care which was incredibly intense, especially for two people with no medical background. If a central line is not cared for properly, it could cause a fatal infection for someone especially with virtually no immune system. So, that’s where my last post left off. We were new to this cancer parent club, but beginning to get our feet under us.

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At the end of September, Charlie had his first exam under anesthesia since beginning treatment. At our last visit we were told Charlie had a 0% chance of keeping his eye, his retina had fully detached, and therefore he wouldn’t ever have vision in that eye. We were just buying time to keep the cancer at bay until he was old enough to have his eye removed. Well, the exam in September told a much different story. His tumor had shrunk dramatically and his retina spontaneously reattached!!! This was an amazing miracle! There is no medical explanation for retina reattachment. The only explanation I have is God. This was incredible news, but we still had a long road ahead of us.

Our next hurdle was genetic testing. There are two kinds of retinoblastoma: unilateral (one eye/typically not genetic) and bilateral (both eyes/genetic/more aggressive/possibility of sarcoma type cancers in the future). We had the genetic testing done, and it came back that he does not carry the RB1 gene! Such another amazing praise and another huge sigh of relief!

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The next few months brought a total of 6 rounds of chemo, 11 blood/platelet transfusions, and 73 – three hour long infusions pumped through his central line at home. Amazingly Charlie never had any fevers, infections or colds. That is pretty much unheard of when someone is receiving chemo. Charlie also had very minimal side-effects of from the chemo, just threw up a handful of times. God was really protecting this little guy. The time went by fairly fast even though we were homebound. Scott, my husband, would still go to work and the grocery store for us, but that was it except for Dr.’s appointments. Charlie and I never left the house for 6 months. People have asked, “How could you do that?” “That must have been so hard”. It was, but it wasn’t. When you are faced with the alternative that your son could be admitted to the hospital with a life-threatening infection or cold, suddenly Target runs become less important. It was worth it to protect him. I also can say for the most part, our time was joyful. We did have moments of tears, anxieties, frustrations, and self-pity, but I can honestly say it was very minimal. Again, the only explanation I have is God. How could one be joyful in a time so dark as this?

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We finished our last day of chemo December 11th – what a great Christmas gift! In January we had our baseline follow-up with another exam under anesthesia, and everything looked great. We were given the green light to start patching his good eye in order to see what kind of vision, if any, was in his bad eye. You see, even though his retina reattached, his tumor was so large that based on what the Dr. saw he thought it still could have damaged his vision. I had high hopes that he would see to of that eye immediately, and things would be great. This unfortunately was not the case. It was very difficult to watch Charlie’s happy demeanor change to nothingness every time we patched him. He would hang his head, and sometimes fall asleep. He would not respond at all to Scott or I visually and that was pretty heartbreaking. It seemed cruel to me to be putting him through this, but we knew we had to stay with it. We began to pray. Jesus healed the blind in the Bible, right? God has brought Charlie this far, so why wouldn’t he continue to work in his little life? So we continued to patch, but I needed an attitude adjustment with it. Patching was something I dreaded because Charlie didn’t enjoy it, and it’s unbelievably difficult to keep an eight month old engaged for a couple hours a day when he can’t see. I tried new things everyday to stimulate his other senses, but I was definitely running out of ideas. I was reading one morning in my devotional, “Jesus Calling” (highly recommend!) and it challenged me to thank God for the very things that were troubling me. Patching immediately came to mind! It hit me that I really should be thankful for the very opportunity to patch Charlie’s eye – just 6 months ago we were given a 0% chance of saving his eye. Six months ago the idea and patching and the possibility of having vision let alone an eye were out of the question. How sad that I quickly forgot how far God has brought us. This “light-bulb” from God changed my perspective, even though patching still was a challenge. A few days later while patched Charlie smiled at Scott’s silent silly faces! He then reached for a remote! This was another complete miracle! For over two weeks Charlie was blind in that eye, and now he could see! To this day we still patch, and I can’t say it’s an enjoyable experience. Charlie now can rip the patch off in less than a second, so he requires a very close eye while patching. However, he will “play” golf while patched! It’s truly, truly a miracle, and we are indescribably grateful!

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February brought another eye exam under anesthesia, but this time a new small tumor popped up. Thankfully, the tumor was small enough that the Dr. could take care of it with cryotherapy, but this was a discouraging set back. You see the last day of Charlie’s chemo back in December I kind of thought cancer was now in the past – not something that we were still fighting. How naive. He had an eye exam in March and May which both came back clear, and another one in July which came back with another tumor in the peripheral. Once again it was small enough to have cryotherapy done, but still discouraging. We went back on September 2nd for another exam and it was clear! We were so relieved and grateful for the good news. We will go back yet again in November, and be praying for clear results!

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So, as you can see from our story that while it has been a really difficult time, we also have SO much to be grateful for. You see retinoblastoma has the highest survival rate (95-99%) of all pediatric cancers. A lot of kids lose their eye(s), but most survive. While at times I worried about whether or not Charlie would survive this – we had hope, a lot of it. When our Dr. diagnosed Charlie he told us he would survive. I can’t say I believed him 100%, but it was hope – something that a lot of other parents of children with cancer don’t have. Also, even though we’ve had two new tumors pop up, we’ve been so fortunate that they have all been in the peripheral so they have not effected his vision. Almost all of a persons vision comes from a small central focal point in the eye. If a tumor would have popped up there with cryotherapy the vision that he does have in that eye would have been destroyed. So while we have received bad news along the way, it’s always been the best of the bad.

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Like I said, a lot of kids and families are not as fortunate as we are. A lot of other children’s stories don’t sound like Charlie’s. Their treatments are a lot more aggressive and a lot longer. Yes, a lot of kids survive childhood cancer, but a lot don’t. I’ve seen it first hand. There was a little 7 year old girl that we have seen, and got the honor of meeting at several pediatric cancer events. The latest event I saw her at was at a camp for kids with cancer (Camp Watcha Wanna Do). She was in a wheelchair, incredibly frail, bald, and had hearing aides (some chemo drugs can permanently damage hearing). It was an 80 degree day and she was bundled up in a quilt. She was sweet and definitely enjoying herself at camp.

Two weeks after camp I got word that she had passed. During this time I learned that this sweet girl had been battling cancer for 6 years-her whole life. A short while later I called our pediatric oncology unit in Fort Wayne to let them know of Charlie’s newest tumor. While speaking to the nurse, we both sobbed on the phone. They as an office had 2 patients of theirs that had died that month and the nurse said she didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to continue working there, and trust me this nurse has a gift! She was angry – understandably. So was I. These kids deserve better – they deserve to be kids. And yes, like I said, a lot of kids survive, but not without battle wounds – a lot of retinoblastoma kids lose one or both eyes. I’ve gotten to know a little 7 year old Amish boy who lost part of his leg due to a bone infection while he was receiving treatment for Leukemia, which by the way for boys is 3 years long! And that is just the physical effects (which there are many more) not to mention the emotional and intellectual effects that these harsh treatments that will last the rest of their lives. This is why supporting/funding research for pediatric cancer is so important. It matters. For example, just a few years ago neuroblastoma was a death sentence. Now, kids are surviving, and it’s because of research. I admit I was ignorant to childhood cancer prior to Charlie’s diagnosis. I would turn the channel when a St. Jude’s commercials came on because it made me too sad. But their sadness is reality, and they need people to come along side of them and fight because they can’t do it alone. Below are some links for donating if you feel led to do so. Thanks for reading our story, and we welcome prayers for our little hero.

Alex’s Lemonade Stand

Dear parent of a diagnosed child

I have never walked in your shoes, and I hope I never will. My heart aches that you have to go through this right now! I have one, soon to be two children and there is no way for me to even imagine what you must deal with every day. The thoughts, the hopes, the disappointments, and the exhaustion must be overwhelming.


When I was 8, my grandfather died of cancer. I had no idea what was going on though. He came to live with us; my mom took care or him. Life went on. That was my only exposure to the disease killing someone I loved. I was 8, now I’m 25 and my outlook on life has definitely changed.

Watching a child go through something difficult if painful even if you aren’t the parent. You must be so strong. You sacrifice more than the typical parent does; long hours at a bedside, frequent specialist visits, mountains of medical bills. What do I sacrifice? My last bite of cake, “my” time.

I admire you.

Thank you for keeping your chin up even when the whole sky is falling around you. Thank you for believing in your medical staff. Thank you for helping your child have hope even until the end. Thank you for supporting the search for a cure even after your little one’s chance is gone. I wish there were awards given out for bravery; awards that would recognize you.

There is nothing quite like the love a parent has for a child.
Thank you for keeping a smile on your face even when you want to crawl away and hide.

I salute you.

Tough Conversations; Through the eyes of an oncology nurse

I’m an oncology nurse. I knew when I signed up for the job that it was a tough one and that tough conversations was part of it. But some weeks the tough conversations are never ending. And sometimes the tough conversations rip my heart to shreds. And sometimes I want to hop in my car and drive for miles. Or put on my running shoes and run until it makes sense. But here is the thing; it won’t make sense. Cancer doesn’t make sense.


Some weeks cancer pisses me off more than other weeks and this week was one of those. On Friday I opened my e-mail and had two e-mails of bad news from patient’s loved ones. I’ve said it often, but I think we need a punching bag in our office. A place for both employees and patients to take out some anger. And let me tell you, this Friday morning I needed it. 

Why? I sat there and asked… why? But here is the thing, I’m the nurse. I’m the supporter. And I had to get myself together and call these loved ones. I knew the status of one of these patients from the e-mail, but called to get the plan of care. The news kept being worse, but this patient’s loved one was so gracious. They were in shock and upset, but they graciously took the news and were taking the bull by the horns and ready to fight. And at the end of the conversation you want to know what this patient’s loved one said to me? Thank you. In the middle of their battle when all I can be is the communicator and the emotional support; when I have nothing else left that I can do at that moment and they are facing a huge new unexpected battle she stops and thanks ME. 

After this phone call I went back to speak with the PA. I told her I wasn’t ready to make the next phone call. After the news of the first two patients I was spent. I went to make the phone call anyways, because it needed to be done. My heart broke. It isn’t the first time and won’t be the last time that a patient’s loved one asks me to tell them what is really going on. What they really need to prepare for. But every time I have these conversations it hurts the same. 

I had this conversation twice that day with two different loved ones. And here is the thing that struck me yet again… both of them stopped and thanked me. After the phone calls were concluded and the rest of my day was wrapped up I got in my car and I sat stunned. It was a tough week and a really tough day, but yet again I was reminded why I do my job. Because even when I have very little I can do for patients and their families and even when I have to be the truth bearer, they teach me so many things.

The tough conversations will continue to come throughout my career. The days of needing a punching bag will continue. The days of wanting to run as fast and hard as I can until something makes sense will still occur. But this is what I was created to do at this time in my life. And those “thank yous” make it worth it. 

So to my patients and their loved ones. Thank you. Thank you for all you teach me through the tough conversations. Thank you for your thank yous. 

As we step into pediatric cancer awareness month let us all learn more about the tough conversations so many families are going through. And let us learn how we can help them as they walk through these tough battles. 

Dear Cancer Patient-Thank You

Dear Cancer Patient,

Thank you. Thank you for teaching me about living. Truly living. Thank you for teaching me what it means to look forward even when a storm is chasing you from behind.



Thank you for showing me what it means to “fight like hell” as the ABC Family show “Chasing Life” says. Thank you for showing me what sweet surrender means.  Just thank you.

The reason I do what I do is because of each of you.  Because your thank yous, your hugs, because of your fight and your stories, because of who you challenge me to become. You challenge me to be a better person and a better nurse.

I choose to do my job. I choose to fight with you. I choose to be quiet with you. I choose my job every day because of you.

So I’ll walk beside you and let’s continue to do this. Let’s fight like mad until we can do a sweet victory dance. Let’s fight like made until its time to surrender. Let’s fight.

Thank you for making my job worth it.


One of your cancer nurses