He died around 6 a.m last September 23; his death certificate indicated Herniation Syndrome as the cause after few weeks in a mechanical ventilator and a non-progressing GCS 3.
He was indeed one of the sweetest patients I've ever cared for ever since he was transferred from Pay ward. Not once, did he complain all the agony and discomfort from needles ( as what I remember, since he never grumbled when I was the one injecting him) nor he whined from the time he was on NPO for more than a week just for his operation to take place. I really missed him and the smile he flashed everytime I passed by his bed ( when he was still awake and the operation had not transpired yet). I missed how he would offfer me his snacks without his mother knowing and eventually putting it into my pocket alongside some empty syringes and my dirty scissors. I missed his sweetness the most, and all the countless times he had given me chocolates.
He was just nine years old. Who knows what crazy dreams he had and how he would pursue these dreams? His parents and brothers would probably know all the dreams he wanted to be-- but none of them knew that the life he had would be a life that was short-lived.
I know I was being immature and unfair then when I told a friend: why do kids like Ian have to be the one to experience this entire ordeal? Why not the kids on the streets who were sniffing "rugby" or those suicidals who wanted to die in the first place? They have steered their lives in their end, haven't they? I know that they too have the same shot at life but I think it would be much better if it was not Patrick or H. or C. (who were all diagnosed to have Brain Tumors and who underwent brain surgeries and developed certain complications at some point). These kids deserve to have a childhood, the kind I underwent: going up in guava trees, splattering at muddy holes, running around under a rain, being chased after by dogs and playing "patintero" under a moonlight. Or just simply have a life ahead, just for them to experience falling in love, being rejected or the thrill of riding bicycles.
The day Patrick died, I was assigned to C. Patrick's uncle had asked me earnestly not to let anything happen to C. He wanted C. to fully recuperate so as not to waste what Patrick had fought for. I could no longer hold my tears back then, but I could not cover up my transparency: that what he was asking from me was unattainable. Like Patrick, C. too was ventilated after his craniectomy and has very poor stimuli arousability.
I am not God, I am not capable of curing them or make any of their pain stop. (If I can, I must have done it to myself a couple of times) I am not capable of making them feel numb in every stinging pain from needles. If only I can, I will. But I can't. I can only touch their hands and let them know I am there with them. I can only reassure them that miracles really do happen with God.
I missed Patrick...
(It's been quite some time since I last felt this towards a patient's death. The good thing is, while I was writing this one, I was on leave and there is enough time for me to anesthetized this feeling
Last edit by sirI on Apr 25, '09