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The Right Touch Editor's note: The Post and Courier, in honor of Nurses' Week, asked local nurses to submit essays describing their experiences. Debbie Deisher, a nurse on the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit at MUSC’s Children’s Hospital, was one of many nurses who submitted stories. Deisher's story was one of four chosen for publication. Following is the article printed in its entirety with permission from the Post and Courier.  by Jennifer Berry Hawes Post and Courier staff   They care for us at birth, and they comfort us at death.   Today nurses find themselves in heavy demand, at hospitals and in doctor offices and even by insurance companies. They focus as much on keeping us healthy as treating us when we’re sick.   Yet, there aren’t enough of them, especially to fill the high-tech areas of critical care, the jobs that mean so much to patients—and that demand so much from the nurses. Debbie Deisher I want to be a nurse because I wanted to help people when they are sick. I play nurse and I try to learn a little about it. I want to be a very good nurse and that takes a long time. But if you’re a nice little girl you might be a good nurse. My mom and dad say that it would be very nice. I am going to try to be a very, very good nurse for people. Being a nurse is what I think about most and give them a party on their birthday. (written in 3rd grade)   Thirty years later, and I’ve been a nurse for 17 years.   Some days, when alarms in the Intensive Care Unit seem to never end and 12 hours aren’t enough, I wonder: “What am I doing here?”    Then, while transferring another patient out of the ICU, I see James.   I look down at this 3-year-old blond, curly-headed, bright blue-eyed boy sitting in his pint-sized wheelchair, holding a huge package of cheese puffs. I say, “hi,” and James shyly smiles and starts asking questions.   I remember why I am here.   James was a patient in our Pediatric Intensive Care Unit for about five weeks. When I first took care of him, he was in a fight against a deadly, quick-acting disease. His little body was swollen, discolored and masked with all the machinery and drugs of modern medicine.    It was hard to find the little boy beyond the lines and machines, as the medications dulled his blue eyes.    I learned from Mom and Dad that fishing and dogs were two of his favorite things.   Taking care of him was draining physically and emotionally, watching as slowly but surely this little guy became another miracle. As we were able to discontinue some of the drugs and machines, James started to “shine through.”   It was difficult to get him to smile or talk. He endured daily dressing changes that I don’t think I could handle.   Even though he would get mad, later he might give you a shy look that said, “It’s OK.”   I remember the first day I got him out of bed into a chair. It took effort with his lines and all, and he stayed up only a few minutes before he wanted back in bed! That’s OK, he found my soft spot, and I would do what I could to help James smile.   One day before he was transferred from our unit, he was grumpy after his dressing changes and I couldn’t get him to say anything, but only to shake his head, “no.” I kept talking and I asked, “Do you think I’m goofy?” I looked down in time to see that shy little smile light up the little round face and nod with a yes.   He made my day—this little fighter. He reached right inside of me and found that spot that lightens the spirit. A lot of people know James in the hospital. He’s been there for a while.   I know that chubby-cheeked, bright blue-eyed face is spreading the miracle of life with his smile.