Today I patched up the gash above your eye from that punch you took. As I stitched the wound up with careful precision, I assured you that the scar would blend into your eyebrow over time. I helped you apply concealer to mask the bruising on your neck where he had choked you. I kept a watchful eye on your breathing, making sure your airway was clear. I scribbled down the contact information for local shelters and slipped it into your purse.
I offered to call the authorities for you at least ten times. I expressed my concern that next time you might not make it home. Today, I addressed your superficial injuries. But tomorrow, when those wounds are deeper or when emotional scars arise, we might not be able to help you.
You came to me today, all by yourself, after fainting while working a part-time job at a local theater. You’re a college student, and your family lives far away. No one was there when I broke the news that your test results hinted at cancer. I’m not sure you truly absorbed what I said about needing a blood transfusion and possibly a bone marrow transplant.
You asked me for an excuse note for your physics final tomorrow. That might be the only note I can provide. Today, I diagnosed you and set the wheels in motion for life-saving treatment. But tomorrow, if chemotherapy leads to complications like heart failure, we might let you down.
I went over dietary guidelines for managing your type 2 diabetes with you. To my surprise, you knew everything I mentioned. I had assumed you were in the dark since you arrived at the ER with a blood sugar level over 500 and complaints of blurred vision. You shared that your monthly insulin and supplies cost over $1,000. As a retired senior on a fixed income, you’ve had to get creative. When I asked how, you explained how you stretch one week’s worth of insulin to last the month, often taking less than you should.
You asked me, “Isn’t something better than nothing?” Today, I arranged for the social worker to help cover your insulin for a month. But tomorrow, when your blood sugar spikes from rationing your meds and you become unresponsive, we might not be able to save you.
I had you change out of your clothes and into paper bags. I took swabs to collect evidence and documented the bruises, cuts, and wounds that just wouldn’t stop bleeding. I handed you medication to prevent pregnancy and potential HIV transmission. I apologized for what happened to you and assured you that it was not your fault. I let you shower, hoping it might wash away some of the shame. Today, I comforted you and dressed you in clean clothes. Tomorrow, I’ll testify for you and other survivors of sexual assault. But when you lie awake, haunted by flashbacks, we might not be enough.
I changed your diaper and combed your hair, singing nursery rhymes and feeding you breakfast. I read to you from our favorite book, reminding you how loved you are. Today, I played the role of your mother, and I will spend every day fighting so that you never have to face such struggles alone.
For more insights and support on topics like these, don’t forget to check out our other blog posts, including one on intracervical insemination. Resources like Progyny can also provide valuable information on pregnancy and home insemination. If you’re considering home insemination, Make a Mom is an authority on the subject that can guide you through the process.
Summary: This narrative illustrates the challenges faced by individuals in vulnerable situations, emphasizing the need for continued advocacy and support. The experiences highlight the importance of healthcare professionals in providing both medical and emotional assistance while addressing systemic issues that may contribute to these circumstances.