RN Shift Report

It's Monday morning after Christmas at the Cancer Center. Sitting in the lobby I see Frank. He's been battling lung cancer since last summer. Along the way he's lost his best friend to a sudden heart attack. "Well, Hi Frank", I say. "How was your Christmas?" I spot the anxious look in his eyes and his fingers fidgeting with his Styrofoam coffee cup. He's a single man, never been married, no children. We'd helped him through an episode of depression last fall when it seemed like he might kill himself. Not so unusual for cancer patients. His answer to me that morning was, " Well, you'll be telling me how my Christmas was. I'm here to get the results of my scan." I panicked. What if the news was bad? What if the doctor had to tell him the cancer was back? What could I say? Could he handle bad news? Sheepishly, I resorted to my lame line, "Well, let's hope for the best." Quickly I sneaked back to the nurse's station to a computer where I could look up his report. As the report lit up on the screen, I scanned rapidly for the radiologist's final impressions. "No sign of tumor growth", I read. "Previous enlarged lymph nodes have decreased significantly in size." I couldn't rush out to the lobby to tell him, but at least I knew the good news. I didn't have to avert my eyes when I talked to him. Cancer patients are experts at reading eyes. They scan our eyes and it tells them more than their high tech, high dollar radioactive scans ever could. Now I could let my eyes light up. As soon as he got the news from his physician I could rejoice with him. He could have a Merry and complete Christmas and most certainly a Happy New Year.