her eyes were telling everything

August 29, 2007

Yesterday I went with Catherine for the second time for her Sando injection.... today I am able to write about it.

I have given or witnessed thousands of IM injections but these were different. I went, I thought as a doctor “to make sure the injection technique was good, to get acquainted with the staff and just to be with her..”

Last time - two weeks ago, I went with her to her appointment, an opportunity that was long overdue. I had many reasons for not going before, none worth mentioning because none were valid. Her prior injection had clearly been in the wrong location and she had pain for days. I was concerned because of poor injection technique and there was a lot of unnecessary pain and bruising.

This week we were both reassured by the return of her regular nurse Christina from maternity leave.

As we sat in the chemo room , we admired photos of her new baby. All moms are proud of their new little ones. We talked about breast feeding, balancing work and mothering, how her mom was driving down from northern Virginia to stay for three days so she could work for three days each week. As they talked I observed a real connection between the two of them. Catherine seemed to be reassuring her about motherhood, she was reassuring Catherine “I hate it when I’m not here to give you your injection.”

The medication arrived from the pharmacy and we moved to another smaller room. Talk about the baby continued.... I stood on the other side of the room to observe Catherine's face, confident in the skill of Christina to adequately define landmarks - she needed no instruction.

I have learnt a long time ago in medicine that the face and the eyes tell all. If you want to know if there is pain in a child’s abdomen, watch the face as you gently palpate their tummy. Watch the eyes, watch the corner of the mouth - they will tell you everything. Don’t watch the tummy – you will see only – well, only a tummy.

I was watching her eyes, I saw them immediately fill with moisture, her brow furrowed and her lids narrowed. I felt her pain and looked away as if I somehow felt the shot.

I looked back – embarrassed that I had looked away and asked “are you okay?” She hesitated as if to catch her breath and said “I guess so.”

We thanked the nurse and said we would see her again in two weeks. We walked out, slightly more slowly then when we walked in. Catherine was limping but not complaining.

This is the price she pays to live.

Next time I will not look away. Her eyes were telling everything.

Maybe I can help her pay the cost.