It happened again last week. Someone I had just met said to me, "You work in oncology? Isn't that depressing?" I have heard that remark countless of times during my sixteen years plus as an oncology nurse and my response is always the same. I tell them no, and that I love it. And then I smile.

I work in the Bone Marrow Transplant Unit on 7 Monti at North Shore University Hospital in Manhasset. Most of our patients are with us about thirty days when they are admitted for their Bone Marrow Transplant (BMT) and often they are readmitted multiple times over a four or five year treatment course. We get to know our patients very well and invest a lot of ourselves into the care we render to them.

We learn about their likes and dislikes and what their favorite TV programs are. So when we are in their room to give them some pain medication or to check that their chemotherapy is infusing properly, we remind them that their show is on. We get to meet their families and they look at pictures of ours. They tell us about a favorite vacation they once took and they wish us a good time when we are leaving for one. They say enjoy every moment of the day because you never know when life is going to change. And we try to listen and learn. And after awhile, when they tell us that they are afraid and ask us to stay with them, we do.

I am thinking of a recent experience we had with our patient Jim, a thirty-six year old man with four children under the age of six. He was diagnosed with chronic leukemia a year ago, failed some very rigorous treatment and was facing the very real possibility that he did not have long to live. We sat together one afternoon in his hospital room and he said to me, "What is dying like?" It was difficult to be present in that moment because I felt so sad for him. But he needed someone that he trusted to answer that question. So we talked about why he was asking and I offered him all the information that I thought he would find comforting and helpful.

He then asked for the medical team's assistance in helping him live until Christmas, so his children would have one more holiday with him. We were honest as we could be. We told him that no one could promise that, but we woud do everything in our power to support him in the weeks to come. And then we cried.

Because Jim decided to try for some very experimental therapy, he spent Christmas in the hospital. Like so many of our patients who have so much to live for, he was unwilling to give up. The staff made sure our conference room was cleaned and decorated so his family could come and celebrate the day with him. The little Christmas Tree and homemade garland lent such warmth to the room. I will never forget the super-human strength he showed in making sure that his children saw him sitting up and dressed, even though his pain was beyond description and he was unable to stand. They got to open their Christmas presents sitting on Daddy's lap.

Jim got into remission. It is Easter Sunday now and Jim is home with his family. Jim got a miracle. The thing about working in oncology and an important reason why I stay in it, is that sometimes, not usually, not even very often, miracles do happen. And when they do, I am filled with gratitude and pride, that as a nurse, I can be a part of that miraculous process.

Now you know why I smile when people ask me if I find oncology nursing to be depressing. I recall all the miracles I have seen and I remember what my patients have told me and I can't help but smile.

– Eileen Fitzgerald, RN
North Shore University Hospital