The badge was still fresh on my chest when I stepped into Hospital Vida Plena for the first time as an employee. My heart was racing, my hands were cold, but there was a sense of victory running through my veins.
I was greeted by Carmen, my colleague and now coworker. She smiled excitedly:
"Welcome to the chaos, Gio. Today you'll already feel the weight of being here."
I barely had time to breathe. An urgent call came over the radio: X-ray in the pediatric ICU. My stomach churned. Pediatric. Child.
I followed Carmen to the ICU. The environment was cold, marked by the beeping of monitors and tense voices. As soon as we entered, I saw a scene that broke my heart: a little girl of only seven years old, unconscious, having a respiratory arrest. Three doctors took turns in resuscitation maneuvers, while nurses adjusted tubes and wires.
A doctor approached us, breathless.
"We can't do the X-ray now. We need to stabilize her first."
I nodded in silence, my heart heavy. We left the room, and I felt my eyes welling up. Carmen touched my arm.
"It's like that, Gio. We can't always act right away. But you'll learn to deal with it."
Before I could process it, another call: motorcycle accident in the emergency room. We rushed over there.
A young man, perhaps just over twenty, was on the stretcher, groaning in pain. His leg had an open fracture, blood was running down the white sheet, and the sight made me swallow hard. The doctor looked at me:
"I need this X-ray now."
My hands were shaking as I positioned the equipment. Inside, I screamed: I can't do it, I can't do it. But my movements were automatic, the result of years of study. I adjusted the focus, took a deep breath, and pressed the trigger.
"Very good, Geovana" said the doctor, without even taking his eyes off the patient. "Quick and precise."
A knot untied inside me. I had done it.
That morning, I was called twice more to the little girl's ICU. The first time, they were still trying to stabilize her. The second time, she had had another crisis, and again it was not possible. My heart ached every time I saw that fragile little body struggling between life and death.
Only on the third time, when the situation finally calmed down, was I able to perform the X-ray. As I adjusted the machine, I observed the little one, so helpless, connected to tubes and machines. I did my job carefully, almost as if my hands could transmit strength to her.
When I finished, I looked into the nurse's eyes, who murmured:
"Now, yes, we can have answers."
I left the ICU exhausted, but with the feeling that I had passed a trial by fire. The hospital was not just a job. It was a daily battlefield, and I had survived my first combat.
As I walked through the corridors, I thought:
"I'm going to endure. For myself, for my mother… and even for that little girl I'll never forget."
It had been a few weeks since I started working at Hospital Vida Plena. Each day was a new challenge, each shift seemed to suck all my energy, but at the same time it gave me the feeling of being alive, useful, necessary.
It was on one of those hectic mornings that Silvia, the ICU head nurse, approached me. She was known to be strict, but she had always shown sympathy to me, as if she saw something beyond my insecurity as a newly hired employee.
"Geovana, can I talk to you for a moment?" she asked, adjusting her glasses on her face.
"Of course, Silvia." I replied, trying to hide my nervousness.
She smiled slightly.
"I've been following your work. You are dedicated, attentive, and don't let the pressure get to you. I like that."
I felt my chest swell. Hearing that from someone like her was almost a prize.
"Thank you, Silvia. I've been trying to do my best."
"I know." she said, firmly. "That's why I thought of you for a recommendation. A partner hospital, Sao Rafael, is in need of a radiology technician for the night shift. It's heavy, but it pays very well. I could arrange a conversation for you, if you're interested."
For a second, I was out of breath. Two jobs. Doubling my income. The chance for my mother and I to finally no longer depend on my father's crumbs.
"I… I would love it, Silvia!" I replied, my voice choked with emotion. "That would change everything for me."
She smiled once more, almost maternally.
"Then consider the invitation made. I'll talk to the director there. I trust you will handle it."
That night, when I got home exhausted, I couldn't keep the news to myself. I ran to the kitchen where Mom was preparing dinner.
"Mom! You won't believe it. I'm going to work at Sao Rafael too, at night. That will double my salary!"
She dropped the spoon into the pan, her eyes welling up.
"My daughter… you can't imagine how proud I am of you."
We hugged each other tightly, as if it were a pact of hope. For the first time, I saw a sincere smile on her face, a smile that my father had never been able to give her.
I knew that the routine would be tiring, that my nights would be short, but the feeling of freedom compensated for everything.
As I went up to the room, I thought to myself:
"This is just the beginning. The world may be cruel, but I'm not going to live off crumbs anymore. I'm going to build my future with my own hands."
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