Before Jackson’s cancer diagnosis, I didn’t have much interaction with nurses. Outside of the school nurse, or the nice lady who didn’t want to give me shots but had to, I never really had an understanding of nurses. To me, nurses were just doctor’s helpers. I should have known better.
My maternal grandparents lived next door to a nurse for close to 50 years. Like most nurses, if anyone got hurt, she was the first responder to examine a cut or a jammed finger. My grandparents trusted her implicitly. It was actually this “next-door nurse” that administered the life-saving Benadryl before the ambulance arrived when my grandma went into anaphylactic shock.
I still didn’t “get it” until I was 26 and my 13-month-old was diagnosed with cancer.
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