Friends

Two-year-old Shelby is wearing her dinner.

Around here, that is completely OK.

Lindsey Belcher, R.N., has just breezed into the young patient’s room on the hematology-oncology floor of Johns Hopkins All Children’s Hospital in St. Petersburg, Florida.

Shelby is in her highchair, digging into a plate of spaghetti. She’s here for her fourth round of chemotherapy to treat a form of acute myeloid leukemia (AML) that is more common in children with Down syndrome. 

But this toddler doesn’t much care about all that. She’s just happy to see Lindsey.

“Shelby, girl! How are you?”

Shelby’s face lights up with a spaghetti-sauced smile.

Lindsey helps to steer the bites of pasta into her mouth and then moves seamlessly into the tasks necessary to check vital signs — heart rate, blood pressure, breathing rate and temperature — all of this, while getting in plenty of good “nose boops” to make Shelby giggle. 

There’s no reason this can’t be fun, right?

Lindsey has recently wrapped up her first year as a pediatric oncology nurse at Johns Hopkins All Children’s, having just completed her nursing residency. It’s been a year of discovery for Lindsey — of learning what she is capable of and what her patients are capable of — a lesson in resilience.

Lindsey’s energy with kids — her special connection with them — is apparent.

“It lights my heart up to walk into a patient’s room and they’re excited to see me,” Lindsey says. “I’m that nurse who is going to make sound effects when I give medications. I’ll dance with them or talk Disney princesses. I love these kiddos.”

“She’s a very caring person, and she adores my little girl,” says Julie, Shelby’s mom. “She even offers me a listening ear on days when I feel overwhelmed.”

History

There’s another reason for the special connection Lindsey feels toward these children and their families. 

In 2007, when Lindsey was 7 years old, she was a patient at All Children’s, fighting the battle of her young life. On Christmas Eve, Lindsey was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia (ALL).

“It was devastating,” recalls Lindsey’s mom, Laurel Fortuna. “But I remember my first thought was, OK, what’s next? How can I normalize this for my child as much as possible?”

Lindsey recalls her own priorities at age 7. How was Santa Claus ever going to find her? (He found her.)

Lindsey’s family rallied around her, but her medical journey was not an easy one. She endured the side effects that can come with chemotherapy. She overcame a collapsed lung. For a time, she was treated for a blood clot in her brain. Especially hard for her as a little girl was losing her hair — three times.

Her father, Charley Belcher, a well-known feature reporter on Fox 13-TV’s morning show, Good Day, Tampa Bay, remembers the hardship during that time, but he gained a deep understanding of how dedicated clinical staff can make a difference for a child and their family.

“It was the most difficult time in our lives,” Belcher says. “But the care there was so amazing. I described the people there as ‘wingless angels.’ They were right where they belonged.”

Lindsey prevailed against her illness, and as she got older, there were career decisions to make. She always had interest in the sciences, partly due to her cancer journey. 

As a college student at the University of Florida, she explored several options, but something kept calling her to nursing — and to caring for kids. Was it possible that she could come full circle — to treat very sick children in the same place she was once a sick child herself?

It all began to make sense.

Coming Home

Lindsey remembers one of the first moments as a new nurse when she realized that she was exactly where she was supposed to be. She and her instructor had walked into a hospital room to find a little girl close to the same age she had been when she was diagnosed. Lindsey’s heart broke to see her anxious and scared, worried about losing her hair.

“I got down to eye-level with her and held her hands. I helped her control her breathing, wiped her tears away, “Lindsey says. “When I left that room, I realized that I had just given to her what others had given to me all those years ago.”

Being a pediatric oncology nurse is not for everyone. It requires more than empathy and compassion. It demands medical expertise, time management skills, boundless patience and energy, an extraordinary ability to communicate — and, yes, the resilience in the worst of times to cope with loss.

Lindsey credits her co-workers — the kind and dedicated staff she shares this sacred space with — for sustaining her through her first year.

“I’m surrounded by such an amazing work family,” Lindsey says. “Every single day I step out on the floor, I learn something new.”

For the parents who powered through a crisis and now have some perspective, it’s gratifying.

“I never lost faith,” Laurel says. “But now it makes me believe there is a reason for things. For Lindsey to go through what she did, and then turn around and use that to be there for patients and their families, it makes us beyond proud.”

Lindsey says her recall of her childhood illness is a bit hazy. Perhaps it’s buried deep in muscle memory. Sometimes, it’s more visceral — a fleeting recollection stoked by the smallest thing, like the scent of the hospital’s soap, or a whiff of an alcohol swab.

“I know there were some traumatic things that happened,” Lindsey says. “But more than anything, I remember all of the good things that happened. I was so well-loved and cared for.”

Maybe that is the ultimate goal for a nurse who cares for children who are diagnosed with cancer — to provide the kind of care that not only helps a child to heal, but that ultimately leaves them with more good memories than bad.

Day is Done

Lindsey makes her way down the hall and knocks softly on the door of 7-year-old Samantha (Sami). 

Already dressed in her pajamas for the night, she sees Lindsey and reflexively reaches out for her. Lindsey gathers the child up in her arms as Sami rests her head on her shoulder, all the tension and worry releasing from her little body. She’s been waiting for this. 

After rocking her gently, she eases Sami down and takes the patient’s hands in hers. They begin to dance around the room together. 

For a moment, there is no chemotherapy, there is no sickness, no pain or fear. Just these friends.

After a little while, Lindsey leaves the patient’s room and moves on down the hall … just one more “wingless angel” — one of many — doing what she is meant to do.