Today, I treated a laceration on your eyebrow, the result of a brutal punch. As I stitched the wound with precision, I reassured you that the scar would blend into your brow line. I assisted you in applying makeup over the bruises on your neck from where he had choked you, all the while monitoring your airway for any signs of swelling. I wrote down local resources for battered women’s shelters and hotlines and discreetly tucked the information into your shoe.
I offered to call the authorities for you countless times, expressing my deep concern that the next time you might not make it home. For now, I patched up your external injuries, but I worry that when deeper wounds emerge, we may not be able to help you.
You arrived alone after collapsing during your shift at the local movie theater. A college student far from family, you sat there as I broke the distressing news about your blood work, which indicated the possibility of cancer. I explained that hospitalization for a blood transfusion and bone marrow transplant would be necessary, but I sensed you were struggling to comprehend it all.
Your request for an excuse note for your physics final was the least of my worries. Today, I initiated a diagnosis and organized treatment, but I fear that when you enter remission only to face complications from your chemotherapy, we may again fall short.
I reviewed dietary guidelines with you regarding your type 2 diabetes, but you already knew all of this. You came in with a blood sugar level exceeding 500, feeling dizzy and disoriented. You told me your insulin costs over $1,000 monthly, a burden you struggle with on a fixed senior income. You shared how you’ve been rationing your insulin, trying to make a week’s supply last for the month. When you asked, “Isn’t this better than nothing at all?” I was able to arrange for a social worker to provide a month’s supply of insulin. But I worry that when your blood sugar spikes dangerously high due to rationing, we may not succeed in saving you.
I had you undress for a thorough examination, collecting samples from various parts of your body where your attacker had harmed you. I documented every bruise and cut and provided you with medication to prevent pregnancy and HIV transmission. I expressed my sorrow for what you had endured, reiterating that it was not your fault. I let you shower, hoping it might help wash away some of the shame or fear you felt. Today, I was there to comfort you and ensure you left in clean clothes; tomorrow, I will stand up for you and others who have faced sexual violence. But I know that when you are haunted by nightmares, we might once again fail to protect you.
I cared for you tenderly, changing your diaper and gently combing your hair while singing nursery rhymes. I fed you scrambled eggs and avocado, reading you our favorite story, On the Night You Were Born. I kissed you goodnight, reminding you that you are deeply loved. Today, I was your mother, and I vow to fight tirelessly so that no one ever fails to protect you.
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In summary, as a nurse practitioner, I witness the impact of societal issues on individuals’ health daily. Standing against policies that threaten our care is essential to ensure that no one is left vulnerable.