SIlence

It's 3 AM, and I'm hiding in one of the callrooms in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU). Those of you who know me well know that I hate the PICU. The kids are too sick and the stories too sad for me to enjoy it up here. I am beyond thankful for those God has called to minister to these precious ones, but I know my time here is only for a season.

I've got the TV on in the background to break the silence, but even silence would be a relief from the beeping of the monitors I hear every time I walk through the doors of the unit. Alarms are constantly going off, and something is always happening up here. It's never silent, never totally quiet. Some of these kids will walk about on their own with little proof they were ever here. Some will walk out physically broken from the tragedy of a horrible accident or from a crippling disease. Some will never walk out. We all hope and pray that our patients will fall in the first category, but those who don't simply break me. In between the lack of sleep (I've spent 51 of the last 82 hours here and will spend 20 of the next 30 here as well) and the emotions, I'm worn out.

Morning labs will be coming back in less than an hour, and then I'll have more decisions to make. Change the ventilator settings or not ... increase IV fluids or go down ... continue antibiotics or turn them off ... the decisions never end. Fortunately my shift does in about six hours, and I will be off for a refreshing ten hours before arriving again, coffee in hand, ready to face the battles all over again. Six more nights ... eighty-six more hours ... then I will move to a different battlezone.