Dear Caregiver,

You don’t know me. I’m just another nameless face in the crowd of the near dozen people who crowd into your chronically ill child’s hospital room every morning to discuss the plan of care for the day. Generally, you have no need to interact with me and I don’t have much to say to you. I’m just the pharmacist. I’m squashed into the corner, or whispering quietly into the resident’s ear as they enter orders into the computer.

But I see you.

I see you as you look at us all in weariness, having come in through the emergency room during the night. Your child is having her yearly battle with pneumonia.

I see you the next day as your second chronically ill child has been brought in during the night with the same pneumonia as his sibling. They do always get sick together, don’t they?

I see you as you go back and forth across the hall to their rooms. You want to be with both of them, but can only be in one place at a time.

I see you as your child is unable to protect his airway due to his frequent seizure activity. You remain calm, cool, and collected as the medical team sedates your child and puts a breathing tube down his throat.

I see you as you look forward to going home that day, only to have your hopes dashed because of a fluke in obtaining timely home nursing care or that night’s TPN.

I see you as you sit by the bedside of your premature baby. You wonder if today will be the day you can finally hold her for the first time.

I see you as you sit by the bedside of your baby, as you have every day for the past 12 months since she was born. Today, you receive the news that this turn for the worse is likely the turn for the worse.

I see you as you bring your child in, overwhelmed with her care and unable to understand how to best care for her due to a language barrier.

I see you as you bring your child with cancer in for abdominal pain, not knowing what is wrong this time…only for it to be his last day.

I see you as you play cards at the nurses’ station with an older child waiting for a heart transplant. All the while, you are hoping against hope that your own child receives a new heart before time runs out.

I see you as your recently transplanted child comes in showing signs of organ rejection. You pray that this is only a mild rejection and everything will be fine.

I see you as your immunosuppressed child develops a life-threatening infection from a cut on her finger. This infection will be her last.

I see you on your knees in the hallway, sobbing and shouting your child’s name as the medical team attempts to brings her back from the dead.

I see you as your child is brought in critically ill in the middle of the night. The hardest of choices has to be made. Do you allow the surgery, which would possibly result in his death? Or do you let him die from the condition he was brought in for? In the end, you choose to say goodbye.

I see you standing in the corner of the room as attempts are made to resuscitate your child, to no avail. You finally take a deep breath and say, “Stop. He’s gone.”

Dear Caregiver, I See You

I see you exhausted. I see you admission after admission, year after year. Caring for your chronically ill child consumes your life, even with home nursing care and caregiver after caregiver helping out. You hold on, hoping your child can hold on this time, too.

We, the members of the hospital staff, can’t imagine the strength it takes to do what you do, day in and day out. We celebrate your victories and mourn your losses. After years of caring for your child, we get attached to them too. And when the worst happens, we feel it too. It hits us hard. We hide our tears from you, but they do come.

The strength you have as a parent, grandparent, or foster parent, whoever you may be…is something that is rare. It’s something only a caregiver has.

So if you feel overwhelmed or invisible, just remember: we see you. And we thank you.

💛ribbonrx

Post written in honor of National Caregiver Month and all the caregivers I have had the privilege to meet.