I‘ve learned that what you do for a living can be a great conversation-starter when meeting people for the first time. That is, if your line of work is basically anything different from mine. I have the best and worst job in the entire world. I am a paediatric haematology/oncology RN. When I tell people what I do, I can guarantee that nine times out of 10, people are going to respond in one of two ways. They will either say: “That must be so sad,” or “I could never do that.” People don’t want to hear about dying children. 

To the first response, I cannot deny that there is a lot of heartbreak that comes with paediatric oncology. These are the fiercest of the fierce warriors and the bravest little superheroes. They have been dealt the worst hand a child can be dealt. They don’t understand why you need to poke them to do blood work every four hours, or why you’ve awoken them at 2 a.m. to take an awful-tasting medication. It breaks your heart when they tell you they’ve had enough and that they just want to go home, because that’s exactly where you’re trying to get them; they just don’t see it. 

But there is also another side to my work that many people fail to see. I’ve eaten freezies with a beautiful child at 3 a.m. who was less than a week away from dying. I’ve had kids take my vital signs with their play medical kits as I’ve taken their temperature, silently praying they haven’t spiked another fever. I’ve done blood pressures on stuffed animals and cut heart- and fish-shaped stickers to cover the plain stickers on tubes. I’ve held the hands of little ones as they’ve taken their first steps – steps we never imagined they would take. I’ve sung Disney’s Frozen songs to a beautiful little girl as I was preparing her to go home to be with her incredible family for the last time. I’ve played peek-a-boo while applying pressure to a tiny nose during a massive nosebleed while transfusing new blood at the same time. I’ve compromised with a stubborn little girl, agreeing to let her do my hair in a Princess Elsa braid if she let me do her eyedrops, secretly proud of myself because the braiding would also serve as a form of physiotherapy and occupational therapy in disguise.

When I hear the second response to my career choice, all I have to say is: “Good thing you don’t have to, but what a shame, because there’s so much you’re missing.” I wish that paediatric oncology nursing and paediatric cancer did not exist; but they do. And I could not be more honoured to spend each work day learning and growing from the bravest people I have ever met. There is no better feeling than seeing a child finish their treatment and go home. And there is no feeling as devastating as seeing a child relapse or leave this world.

My patients (or “kids” as I like to call them) do not lose their fight against this insidious disease. If you could see what I see on a daily basis, you would know they fight every step of the way, whether it is until they hear that incredible word “remission” or until they take their last breath. My kids all win their battles against cancer. Some just win them in a way we hadn’t hoped we would have to see.

September was Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. It may be behind us, but please take a moment to honour our little heroes who are fighting, and those who have finished their fight.

This reflection was originally published on Becca Côté's facebook page on Sept.1, 2018.