Chapter 77 The First Patient
Jane started her nursing job on a Monday in September. The children's hospital was bright, with murals of animals on the walls and toys in every corner. She wore blue scrubs and a silver locket under her collar.
Her first patient was a boy named Marcus. He was seven, bald from chemotherapy, still smiling.
"Are you new?" he asked.
"First day."
"Don't be scared. The kids here are nice."
Jane laughed. "I'll try not to be scared."
She checked his vitals, adjusted his IV, and sat with him while he ate lunch. His mother watched from the corner, exhausted but grateful.
"Thank you," the mother whispered.
"I'm just doing my job."
"No. You're doing more."
That night, Jane called me. "Mommy, I had my first patient."
"How was it?"
"Hard. But good. He asked if I was scared."
"Were you?"
"Terrified. But I couldn't show it."
I smiled into the phone. "That's called being a professional."
"I think it's called being brave."
"Same thing."
The weeks passed. Marcus finished his treatment. Jane held his hand during the last round. His mother cried. Marcus asked for a sticker.
"You get two," Jane said.
"For being brave?"
"For being you."
Sarah came to visit Jane at the hospital. She brought coffee and sat in the waiting room, watching through the glass.
"She's good at this," Sarah said to me on the phone.
"She practiced on her siblings."
"I bet they were harder patients."
"Much harder."
Jane's first loss came in December. A little girl named Elena, four years old, with a bright smile and a rare disease. Jane had sat with her for weeks, reading stories, singing songs.
When Elena died, Jane came home. She walked through the front door and into my arms.
"I couldn't save her."
"Sometimes we can't."
"I held her hand. She wasn't alone."
"That's what she needed."
Jane pulled back, wiping her eyes. "It doesn't feel like enough."
"It's everything."
Damian found her in the yellow room that night. She was sitting on the bed, the paper stars glowing above her.
"Your first loss," he said.
"My first. Not my last."
"No. But each one will teach you something."
She looked at him. "What did you learn? When did you lose people?"
He sat beside her. "That love doesn't end. It just changes shape."
Jane nodded. "I can live with that."
Spring came. The dogwood bloomed. Jane planted marigolds around its base, the same flowers she had planted as a child.
Marcus came back for a checkup. He was healthy, his hair growing back. He ran to Jane and hugged her legs.
"You're still here," he said.
"I'm still here."
"Good. I missed you."
She knelt down. "I missed you too."
Sarah came for Easter. She brought a basket of candy and a card. She sat in the garden with Jane, the dogwood petals falling around them.
"Do you ever think about having children?" Sarah asked.
"One day. When I'm ready."
"You'll be a good mother."
"I had good examples."
Sarah looked at her hands. "I wasn't a good example."
"You were an example of hard choices. That's important too."
Jane was twenty-five when she met someone. A doctor, new to the hospital. His name was David. He had kind eyes and a quiet voice.
She told me about him on a Sunday call. "He's not like anyone I've met before."
"In a good way?"
"In a steady way."
I smiled. "Steady is good."
David came to dinner. He shook Damian's hand, complimented the garden, and helped Rosa with the dishes. The children approved. Even Leo, who rarely approved of anyone.
"You can stay," Rose said.
"Thank you," David replied.
The wedding was small. In the garden, under the dogwood. Jane wore a white dress, simpler than she had imagined as a child. Sarah sat in the front row, next to me.
David cried. Jane didn't. She was too happy.
After the ceremony, Jane hugged Sarah. "Thank you for being here."
"Thank you for letting me."
"You're family. You always were."
Jane moved to a new house, closer to the hospital. The yellow room became a guest room, but she kept the paper stars. She put them in a frame and hung them on the wall.
David didn't ask about them. He knew.
Marcus turned ten. Jane went to his birthday party. He was tall now, with a full head of hair. He played soccer, got good grades, and laughed loudly.
His mother hugged Jane. "You saved him."
"He saved himself. I just held his hand."
"That's what nurses do."
The Sunday calls changed. Jane talked about David, about work, about the garden she was planting. Sarah still called too, shorter conversations now, but never missed.
One Sunday, Jane said, "I think I'm ready."
"For what?"
"To be a mother."
I put down my coffee. "That's wonderful."
"I'm scared."
"Good. That means you understand what matters."
The baby came in the spring. A girl. They named her Elena, after the little girl who had died.
Jane held her in the hospital room, crying for the first time in years.
"She's beautiful," Damian said through the phone.
"She's perfect."
Sarah came to visit. She held the baby, rocked her, sang the same lullaby she had never sung to Jane.
"I'm sorry," Sarah whispered.
Jane touched her shoulder. "No more sorry. Just love."
The dogwood bloomed that year, white petals covering the garden. Jane brought Elena to visit. She sat on the porch, the baby in her arms, the white pipe humming.
"I named her for someone," Jane said.
"I know."
"Elena didn't get to grow up. But my Elena will. And she'll know her name came from a brave little girl."
Damian stood behind her. "That's a good story."
"It's the only kind worth telling."
The yellow room is still there. The paper stars still glow. The box of letters is on the dresser, waiting for Elena to be old enough to read them.
Sarah still calls every Sunday. Jane still answers.
And the dogwood blooms every spring, petals falling like reminders.
That some things end. Some things begin. And love, in all its forms, never really leaves.