A ticket to Fiji

I am at work as planned. This was never where they were supposed to be, not at all planned. They booked tickets for Fiji and they’ve landed in Tokyo. No one speaks their language, and even those who try have a heavy accent. This is not what they expected, and they are not prepared. They packed for and read about Fiji. NOTHING is how it was supposed to be.

But there is a baby. In front of all of us. A fighting, living, breathing baby.

He is my new patient. He is their new child.

I will administer care to prolong and try to save his life. They gave him life.

I will take care of him. They love him.

This job is my choice. They have no choice, this is their life, and he is theirs. He was real to them and a part of their life long before he came to me.

I know how to read the innate signs and reflexes. They’ve known him from the start, in their minds and in their hearts.

He is my one of my patients. A part of my days work. A set of tasks to be completed. He is their one and only newborn baby, their ticket to Fiji, why am I talking to them in Japanese?

My place of work is their baby’s unexpected home and their second home, for however long it takes for him to be able to go to where he truly belongs.

If we all had our way he would be home. But he’s not. We have a responsibility for this baby. We need to combine our powers, skills, will and knowledge to help this vulnerable human being – their son, survive. Minute by minute. Hour by hour. Day by day. Everyday.

All I have are expertise and if I can help I will. They have love, thought, worry and prayer to whatever power will listen. They would do anything for their child. They are experts too with unique and intimate knowledge at times more vital than any specialist.

I work with him during my shift, my allocated working day. They want to and will try to be there always, for all the time he may or may not have. They don’t want a relative stranger telling them about their son’s day. Something new he did for the first time, a small step forward missed. But that’s how it is. No choice, no plans – everyone learning together.

They have entire responsibility for his existence. I can never ask them to hand responsibility of him over to me. They need my compassion, knowledge and respect. They need me to be honest and open. They should never feel embarrassed. They do not need to be patronised. They need to feel involved and empowered.

They are a family. A mother, a father and a child who at times with my help need to be alone, together.

I should never try or pretend to be a superhero. They wish I was, but I’m not even close, and we all know it.

When I look at and care for their child, they need me to remember the people that I love and hold that love in my heart as I care for and treat their tiny baby.

I am working for them – their warrior of light.