On graduation day, May, 2005 I kept shaking my head in amazement that I was really graduating, that I could say that I was a "real" nurse, a Samuel Merritt University BSN graduate no less, in the top five percent at St. Mary's College in Moraga, California and that I was even accepted into The Honor Society of Nursing, Sigma Theta Tau International. It was too much for me, and it took a few sobs before I could leave my car, in wonder at what had occurred over the past seven years. Just seven years earlier I watched my three-year-old son rip down the street on his tricycle making noises that mimicked a modern-day Harley Davidson. He came to a screeching halt. He climbed off his tricycle and shrieked while grabbing his legs, limping toward me. My motherly radar, as I call it, identified that there was something radically wrong, so I rushed him to the pediatrician. My son Justice hadn't ever complained of leg pain or any other symptoms, which heightened my alarm. His pediatrician couldn't find anything wrong at first, but just before we left the office he called us back into our room, palpated Justice's abdomen, and informed me that there was a mysterious lump in his gut. He sent us to Children's Hospital where they completed an ultrasound, and informed me that he had neuroblastoma, a rare, aggressive childhood cancer, and that he was in a fight for his life. I was not a nurse, nor did I even dream of becoming a nurse, so neuroblastoma had no meaning at the time; I had given up on the nursing dream after high school where the fear of classes such as college chemistry or biology was extinguished.
The next 18 months consisted of learning how to give him medications throughout the day and night. I learned how to give him injections, how to draw his blood through his Broviac catheter, to do nasogastric tube insertions and feedings, and dressing changes. He received bone marrow aspirates, biopsies, chemotherapy, major surgery, and finally, his bone marrow transplant at UCSF. Somewhere along the line I opened my eyes and realized that I was living the dream of being a nurse while in a nightmare. I was continually making decisions about his care with medical jargon floating in and out of my head, yet with inadequate understanding, which was unacceptable to me. I was a single mother caring for my three other children, but I researched, and studied, and listened, and surrounded myself with other parents dealing with the same disease. Justice kept fighting.
After his 18-month battle, my son Justice Bongard relapsed; cancer was spread throughout his body, in his bones, lymph nodes, and several major organs, and he knew he was going to die. He had such a close bond with the nurses and doctors at Oakland Children's Hospital, that he chose to go there to die, to his home away from home, where he was embraced, sung to, played with, and yes, loved. His courage and faith in God changed my life and several others'. He got his wings, but so did I. Three months after his death I was enrolled in nursing school at Samuel Merritt University.
As I stepped out of my car on graduation day I kept hearing, "Laura, you got it! Oh my God its you!" I couldn't get out of anyone what I "got" let alone any other information through all the giggles and hugs. Finally, after arguing with the dean and a few other instructors that it couldn't be correct, I took it as true. I had earned the Florence Nightingale Award, and I was valedictorian. As you can see, a "little Justice" went a long, long way. And it is just the beginning. . .
Laura Bongard