By: Jessica Taylor
Today, I carefully cleaned the wound above your eye, the result of a brutal punch. As I stitched the injury with two layers of sutures, I reassured you that the scar would blend into your eyebrow. I helped you apply foundation on your neck to mask the bruises left from where he choked you. Throughout the visit, I kept an eye on your airway for any signs of swelling. I wrote down the contact information for local shelters and hotlines for battered women, discreetly placing it in your shoe.
I offered to call the authorities for you at least ten times. I expressed my fear that next time you might not return home. Today, I treated your visible wounds, but I worry that tomorrow, when the injuries are deeper or more severe, we may fail you.
You came to me alone after fainting while working part-time at the local cinema. A college student, your family is far away. When I explained that your blood test raised concerns for cancer, I wasn’t sure if you truly grasped the gravity of the situation. You would need a blood transfusion and possibly a bone marrow transplant.
You requested a note to excuse you from your physics final. That might be the only note I can provide. Today, I was able to identify a potential diagnosis and set in motion life-saving treatments. Tomorrow, if you enter remission but experience heart complications from chemotherapy, we may fail you.
During our consultation about managing type 2 diabetes, I quickly realized you were already knowledgeable about dietary restrictions. I had assumed otherwise, given your emergency visit with a blood sugar level over 500. You explained that your insulin costs more than $1,000 a month, and with a fixed income as a retired senior, you’ve had to “get creative.” I listened as you shared how you stretch one week’s supply of insulin to last the entire month.
When you asked, “Isn’t it better than nothing?” my heart sank. Today, I coordinated with a social worker to secure a voucher for a month’s supply of insulin. Tomorrow, if your blood sugar rises dangerously high from rationing your medication and you become unresponsive, we may fail you.
I had you change into a hospital gown, carefully placing your clothing in separate bags. I collected samples from your mouth, private areas, and the bite mark on your shoulder. I documented the bruises and wounds, and provided medications to prevent pregnancy and HIV transmission. I expressed my sorrow for what you endured, assuring you it was not your fault. I let you shower, hoping to wash away at least a fraction of your shame. Today, I comforted you and dressed you in clean clothes. Tomorrow, I’ll stand by you in court as a witness for you and others who have suffered similar traumas. But when you struggle to find peace at night, haunted by flashbacks, we may fail you.
I changed your diaper and brushed your hair, singing nursery rhymes as I fed you scrambled eggs and avocado. I read our favorite book, On the Night You Were Born, telling you I loved you repeatedly. Today, I was your mother, and I will continue to fight so that no one ever fails you.
If you’re interested in exploring more about fertility journeys, check out this article. For those looking into home insemination, this resource is an authority on the subject. Additionally, Cleveland Clinic provides excellent information on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, the struggle against the AHCA is not just a political battle; it represents the fight for the dignity and safety of our patients. Each day, we witness the consequences of systemic failures and advocate for those who need us most.
Keyphrase: AHCA and patient care
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