hey my loves
you caught me at a bad time
I don't make it a habit to blog when I am in a bad mood but i feel like I need to get this out.
I hate my pediatric rotation.
So much so that when I got home yesterday afternoon, I was wondering if it was too late to call the dean of my program and tell her that I quit. That I just cannot handle it.
I was shadowing a nurse in the pediatric intensive care unit (PICU) on Friday. One of her patients was a young boy who had osteomylitis (an infection of the bones) of the shoulder and hip and pneumonia who was on a ventilator. They couldn't keep the poor thing sedated despite him being on maxed out doses of pentobarbital, versed, fentanyl, and ketamine. He kept waking up and trying to fight the ventilator so they had his hands restrained so he wouldn't pull the tubes out.
Jesus. There were so many tubes. The one down his throat to help him breath and a nasogastric (one down his nose that runs to his stomach) so he could be fed. The Foley catheter that was in place so that he wouldn't have to be rolled over and changed so often. Two chest tubes to suction out the crap from his lungs. A PICC (peripherally inserted central catheter)line because he is going to have to be on long term antibiotic therapy as well as 2 lines placed in his femoral arteries.
All I could do was stand there and stroke his hair and tell him that it would be okay while he looked up at me with these big brown puppy-dog eyes that would flutter closed when the nurse pushed yet another dose of whatever sedation was ordered.
I felt so helpless.
He had never been sick before, never been in the hospital. A week ago, he was playing football and video games and going to school with his friends. Now he is hooked up to a machine breathing for him.
My professor came to check on me after about 3 hours of being on the unit. She asked if I was okay and I shuck my head no and that I needed to step out for a moment. She lead me out of the PICU and to a bathroom where I cried and cried and cried.
I couldn't go back.
She understood and let me stay on one of the other pediatric units until it was time to go home (nearly 6 hours later).
God and I have a strained relationship but I prayed yesterday.
I prayed that this little boy, this little 8 year old who has never done anything wrong and had never really lived doesn't remember any of this when he gets out of here.
I prayed he doesn't remember the tubes or the pain or the needles.
He'll have the scars forever but, God, please don't let him remember how much it all hurt.
I feel like I failed him.
That I wasn't strong enough to stay there with him and comfort him.