Live Your Best Life

I have a bracelet I have worn every day for the past four years. Each morning I put it on. Each morning I smile. Each morning I am reminded of this particular day...

I was just a student then. Dressed in all white. Another early clinical day, but lucky this time to be at the local hospital just 6.5 minutes from home, not the typical hour plus drive away. Mid-morning. I was walking a patient out to the lobby, after learning, once again, how to thoroughly scan the liver without being intimidated. Phew! We arrived at the lobby.
Wait...who is that? I recognize a face sitting off to the side of the lobby. "Susan!" Let me say here that my town is a small town, and when you work in a local pub in the evenings and weekends while going through school, you end up seeing the same faces quite frequently. Susan owned an eclectic, homey, hippie shop just above the pub where I worked. We'd often chat. She'd frequent for lunch and on the evenings she and her friends would gather. We weren't close, but familiar. She looked tense. I walked over and sat next to her. "I hope you are here waiting for someone", I said. As she explained, I learned she was there for a consultation with one of the radiologists to schedule her lung biopsy. She was scared. I was scared, but did my best not to show it. "They", as we refer to whoever it is that makes these dramatic decisions, had told her "they" thought she had cancer all throughout her body, based from her PET scan. The biopsy was to determine what type of cancer so "they" could treat her accordingly. I was in shock. She seemed fine. Maybe a bit pale, but that was probably from the stress and worry of everything she was being told. I sat and listened to her talk about how her father had died of lung cancer...tears crept into the back of my eyeballs, but she was stoic. I held back the salt that was beginning to burn my eyes. I did my best to assure her that I knew she was strong and I knew her friends would be there for her...for she had a tight group of wonderful friends. She asked if I would be there the day of her procedure. I said I would try. Hugging her neck, I reminded her that God was in control, and I went back to the ultrasound department, walking the corridors in a fog. Did I just hear everything correctly? Cancer? Everywhere. So young!
The following week, I heard laughter coming from down the hall in the recovery area of radiology...it was Susan and her closest of close girlfriends. Susan was being prepped for her lung biopsy. Happy faces surrounded her. Coffee in their hands, they kept the conversation flowing, not allowing a moment of worry to rudely break its way into their strong fortress. I popped my head in around the curtains and smiled, "I see you brought your troops!" They were welcoming and I recognized each one. They asked me if, since they were being kicked out once she was taken back, that I update them on how she was doing; they would be waiting in force, in the lobby. I promised. Their love and devotion to Susan was powerful. I wanted to do more. I wanted to see it all first hand. I found the radiologist scheduled to perform the procedure, and ventured to ask, what probably a student should NEVER venture to ask. I informed the doctor that his patient was an acquaintance of mine and I asked to be present for the procedure. I was an ultrasound student and this was CT, but I wanted to be there. I told him I thought it would be beneficial for me since I had never seen this type of procedure before. Surprisingly he agreed. Unheard of. A protocol stickler. But he smiled and agreed.
'Good byes' and 'see you soons' were said and her comrades filed down the hall to the lobby. Susan was groggy with minor sedation and taken to the CT room. What was about to transpire, I could not have even imagined. There I stood, led gown on, standing at her head, leaning over her, cheek to cheek, and holding both her hands, whispering softly in her ear. "You are doing so good. Breathe in with me...hold it with me. Hold it. Hold....good, breathe out. Good job, Susan. One more time." How did I end up in here doing this, when moments before I was standing at the controls with the CT tech on the other side of the big glass window? There I was standing moments earlier, watching as she lay on the CT table and it slide into the big donut and images were taken. The spot in her lung was located. The table slid back out. The doctor entered the room. The largest needle guide and needle I had ever seen, went into her chest. He proceeded. Took a sample and left the guide in her. He and EVERYONE else stepped out of the room and joined me in the "safe" room and her table slide back into the donut. Again, it slid out. Again the doctor went in. Again he attempted obtaining a sample. Again she was left along as her table went back into the donut. The doctor said, "She just isn't taking in big enough breaths, I can't get to the nodule with her shallow breathing. The meds have her sedated too much for her to realize what exactly I am asking her to do." Then I spoke up, offering to help her breath. Surprisingly, again, the radiologist agreed. I went in with him. I spoke to Susan. She looked into my eyes, scared. "I am here with you. Right here." I leaned over her wavy brown halo of hair, took her hands, and the doctor tried again. We breathed together. When it was time to leave the room and slide her table back into the frequented donut hole, she didn't want to let go of my hands. She held me close and I didn't resist. The nurse, John, told me that I couldn't stay unless I wore the protective led gown. "Then hand it to me." I never let go of Susan. One arm at a time, I donned the heavy led shield and stayed. Again, EVERYONE left, and this time it was Susan and me. I moved with her and the table, taking little steps forward, and then little steps backward. Holding her close and helping keep her still. Then doctor, nurse, and staff entered, and the guide was finally removed. Finished. I hung the gown on the hook waiting next to the door and left only as she was being taken to recovery.
I reported to her friends that she had done very well. That I had been allowed to be with her during the procedure. They were relieved and gracious. I knew that deep down, they each wanted to be there holding her hand, and their faces told me how grateful they were that someone had.
Several hours later, I returned to Susan's recovery curtain and found her friends faithful at her side. Susan recalled more of the procedure than I thought she would have and she proceeded to tell her friends of the "angel" who was sent to her to hold her hands and cheek to cheek breathed with her, calming her fears. She asked her friend to reach in her back and take out the last bracelet. She had closed the shop and had some special bracelets saved back, 5 to be exact. She and her three friends had put theirs on that morning, each containing a different engraved phrase. She had picked which she felt was appropriate for each of her three friends and for her. One was left...one. "Now," she said, "I know why, it was meant for you, Stephanie. Ruth can you get it out of my bag please?" Ruth handed it to Susan and I was motioned to approach. I sat on the bed next to Susan, and she handed me the bracelet I have never forgotten to wear since. Nearly four years later...a daily reminder. 'LIVE YOUR BEST LIFE"...  and it still shines just as it did on that day.  Everyday when I slide it on, I smile and remember. I am filled with gratitude. Susan helped me find why I love what I do; it is because of the patient. I can hate needles and the sight of blood. I can be stressed, saddened, even scared. But, all of that goes away when I focus on why I am truly there; the patient. For Susan.
The next day I visited Susan in a hospital room upstairs. Her lung had collapsed and she had to stay for several days. It hadn't gone as planned, but she had the best support circle anyone could wish for. Her spirits were high and she thanked me again for being there with her. I graciously said, "I wanted to be. Thank you for letting me."
Several weeks later she had a liver biopsy. That time I was not there; in class instead.
Then, there she sat in the lobby again. She was beaming! Glowing! I sat with her once again and listened as she told me how "they" had been wrong. There was no cancer in her body after all, but rather fungus. The house she lived in was invested with mold and had made her sick. She was moving and was going to make a full recovery. I was relieved. I was happy. Now the tears could fill my eyes. "God had you all along, Susan. Thank you for letting share this part of your journey with you."
Everyday, I am grateful for Susan, not just for the bracelet that reminds me, but because she gave me something even greater; she gave me the understanding of true compassion. Because of her, I am reminded each day, literally, to LIVE YOUR BEST LIFE.

Traveling Sonographer ~ Happy Trails

As a traveling sonographer there are many unknowns, new adventures, some challenges, and always an array of new experiences. New people. New places. Always something new to learn. Every place has their own individualized culture, their own methods, and own characters. I have grown to love the varied encounters: from small town, 150 bed, hospitals where I am the only tech, day and night, and the day before Christmas, three different patients invite me over for Christmas dinner in their home with their families, to normal hours at a high risk ob center, where the majority of the patients speak only Spanish, and I do not. A little now, though...thanks to that adventure. Then onto level one trauma facilities where at any moment you can be called to Critical Care to perform a STAT scan on a mangled body. Femurs fractured in two. Pregnant carrying twins. Run over by her boyfriend in his truck. Intentionally. Or the not so mentally stable guy who strangles his testicles with a rubberband, while hanging himself from the ceiling for sexual pleasure. He is forced to wear a mesh mask since he tends to spit at you when upset. Grossly swollen testes, but never spit at me; thank God. Then the Burn Unit floor...that's another story all together. Case after case. The baby boy who has been raised in the hospital because he parents already have too many kids and he has too many health issues for them to tend to. I held him, stroked his air, sang him songs and whispered stories in his ear so the other sonographer could scan him without too much upset. Precious boy, in need of LOVE. They are ALL GOD'S CHILDREN!

Always a new experience to learn from. The trails are not always smooth and they get lonely at times, but I must say they are happy.

Happy Trails, Stephanie