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Remember Your Promise
Weeks after Michael's funeral, Kathy was still struggling to make it through each day. One night, she had a dream -- though she believes it was more like a message. She saw Michael dressed and looking as healthy and handsome as ever. "Mike, are you okay?" she asked, getting a whiff of his trademark Perry Ellis cologne."Mom, I'm fine," he said. "But you have to stop crying now. You have to remember your promise."
The dream spurred her to action. On May 28, a month and a half after Michael's death, Kathy took placement tests at a local community college. "What am I, nuts?" she asked herself. "I haven't opened a textbook in 25 years." But she scored well.
Nursing school was grueling, especially for someone who'd never used a computer. It took her twice as long as the younger students to complete assignments, and there were several times she thought she'd quit. But Matthew and her family continued to encourage her. "Her head was always in a book," recalls daughter Melissa. "She would study on vacations. I know Michael was on her mind the whole time, and that was her driving force." Doubling up on courses and even taking summer classes while working part-time at the deli, she earned her nursing degree, graduating cum laude in May 2006 from Thomas Jefferson University, and soon became a registered nurse.
The fall before she was due to graduate, Kathy attended a nursing career fair. She walked directly up to Beverly Emonds, a recruiter at the UPenn table. "Hi, I'm Kathleen Staub, and I want to work at your hospital," she said. "But it has to be on Rhoads 7, bone marrow transplant." In early November, Emonds called Kathy to tell her there would be an opening. But it was far from a done deal. Kathy had to convince the floor's nurse manager that Michael's history wouldn't interfere with her performance on the job. Finally, Emonds called to offer her the position.
A few days after starting, Kathy stood in one of the patient rooms holding a syringe full of Neupogen -- the same drug she used to give Michael. The young leukemia sufferer, her very first patient, was about Michael's age, and he hated shots just as much. As Kathy began the procedure and felt the familiar moistness on her brow, she couldn't help thinking of her son. But suddenly a guiding confidence came over her. She jabbed the shot quickly and precisely, like a pro. That wasn't so bad, she thought.
Each day as Kathy walks into the UPenn hospital elevator and pushes the button to the seventh floor, she takes Michael's angel medallion from her pocket, holds it in her palm and says, "Michael, get me through the day." The 12-hour shifts are rewarding but intense. Though memories lurk everywhere, she loves working alongside many of the same nurses who cared for her son.
Kathy doesn't often share Michael's story with the families of patients, because she doesn't want to dash their hopes. But sometimes word gets out and they ask her about him. One of Kathy's first patients, a young woman with leukemia, had developed a complication from a bone marrow transplant. She was dying. Kathy flashed back as she saw the girl's mother crying at the foot of her daughter's bed. The woman turned to Kathy: "How do you get through it?"
Kathy walked her into the hall, and the woman collapsed in tears. "You never forget, but you will get through it." She fingered the angel medallion in the pocket of her uniform. "You'll find a way."
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