DAY ONE
I'm nervous. Fearful even. But why? Not because of the plane ride, or even the suggested "political unrest" of Haiti. My fear lies in how my heart will handle the new experiences I'm about to face. I'm afraid of my reactions. I'm afraid of my ability to fit in. And while my fellow travelers carry fear in regards to threats to their lives, I once again, am afraid to live.
But then I enter this place. The sun is hot and close. My clothes are sticking to me within minutes and sweat drips from my forehead. I stay close to my new and still unfamiliar companions. We load the bus full of various supplies we've collected from home and climb aboard as it will be our transportation to the mission.
The roads. Oh, the roads. Or are they roads? They're more like broken pathways through the piles of garbage. The entire area of pavement is filled with craters that cause us to lurch forward and backward in a vehicle with a rusted, duct-taped door and several broken windows. We narrowly miss other vehicles and even people as the driver expertly navigates the only street system he's ever known. We're filled with a nervous excitement and we play the tourist role immediately with our selfies and drive-by candid photos along the way. As we leave the city and travel further into the more remote areas of Haiti, the roads become even more treacherous, if that's possible. I'm watching the front door of the bus, wondering why the driver keeps opening it. Then I notice that he isn't. It's simply swinging in time with the push and pull of the bus' movements. Ok...the door just doesn't close. This is perhaps my first "Haiti moment."
We are pulling up to the mission now. "Hopital Christ Pour Tous" the sign reads. This must be the place. There it is. That word. Christ. It's true, I'm not going to fit in. I guess I'll just wait and see.
The metal gate opens and our rusty bus screeches and whines its way to a "parking spot." Chickens. I hear chickens. And...is that a donkey? Yes, it is. There are no fences, just animals roaming freely. This is where we are staying. This will be my home for the next week. I stay close to my co-worker and hope that she has accepted my differences enough at this point to include me in her journey through this place. All seems ok so far. We climb the hill with our heavy bags full of supplies and we unload them before finding our rooms.
The fatigue of travel should be overwhelming at this point, but I can't help but recognize the rush of adrenaline brought on by watching my new team sorting and separating supplies. I'm struck by the obvious labor of love that started long before any of us boarded that plane. I glance over at the pile of rice and oil in the corner, and I know my boy is there. The money his supporters raised is represented there. It's a floor to ceiling, tangible reminder of the love that my family continues to feel from our community. This will be my first emotion-filled moment, and I feel tears of gratitude threatening to spill over.
Now it's time to find our rooms, and to shower before bed. As I gather my towel, toothbrush, and pajamas and head to the bathroom, I'm transported for a brief moment, back to my days at Children's. I'd carried my toothbrush there, too. But the similarities end there, and I'm snapped back to this place. The bathroom is nice enough, and even closely resembles my own at home. It does, that is, until I see the shower. The "showerhead" is nothing but a piece of pvc pipe. When turned on, I realize that they weren't kidding about the "no hot water" claim. I brace myself and take the fastest shower of my life. I'm told that the water comes from a tank on the roof and at times we may have to wait for the tank to refill before any water will be available for showering!
And now we're ready to sleep. Janeen and I share a full-sized bed and have the first of many late night conversations. She's a good listener, and I feel us growing closer, even within the first night. I am grateful...
DAY TWO
It's dark outside, but I'm awake. Why am I awake? What's that sound? A rooster? Yes, a rooster. But, it's dark. Aren't they supposed to make that sound with the break of day? This rooster is confused. And that other sound...a cat? Yes, the cat wants in. I guess I'm done sleeping for the night, which isn't all that different from home I suppose. My sleep is often interrupted there too, and as long as I'm awake, I may as well enjoy the barnyard symphony outside my window.
The rest of the house begins to stir and we prepare for our first full day in Haiti. We begin with a morning devotional time, and prayer. The plan for today is to organize ourselves, go on a tour of the compound, and to play with some of the local school children.
The tour of the compound is lead by Betty Prophete. She is the director of Haitian Christian Mission, and as I see it, she also appears to be the unofficial Queen of the area. She clearly works tirelessly, and is highly respected. Betty shows us the school rooms, which makes me think of the days I used to watch "Little House on the Prairie" on tv. The desks are essentially a long board connected to a bench big enough for several children to fit on one. The teacher writes on a piece of plywood which is their makeshift chalkboard. My mind is immediately transported back home and I briefly ponder the recent push for a SmartBoard in every classroom in America. Hmmm....
We then move on to the peanut butter factory and Betty shows us some of the completed jars of peanut butter. She also promises to give us each our own jar before we leave, and we're American so we'll hold her to that. :) As we are touring, we hear the familiar sound of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" coming from one of the classrooms. Betty ushers us over to a small room filled with children having band practice. They play a special song just for us and we clap along to encourage them. In that moment there are no lines, no color differences. No language barriers. Just an appreciation for music.
As the tour comes to a close we notice some children gathered around what appears to be a few pieces of misplaced tile on the ground. We soon discover that these are students being taught how to lay tile right there in the middle of the compound. I wonder if they can come back and teach my children such a skill!! Walking through the compound brings curious children, and they've learned the phrase, "Hey, You!" to get an American's attention. Nine times out of ten they are stopping us to ask if we'll buy one of the bracelets that they've made. It's pretty great marketing considering we are bleeding heart missionaries and they have quite possibly the most beautiful brown eyes I've ever seen....by the way, I'm the proud owner of at least 5 bracelets...
After the tour, Betty takes us on a short walk out of the compound and down to a local orphanage. This place is not what I was expecting. The children are well-dressed, polite and seem very happy. I glance over at the perfect time and see that Janeen recognizes one of the little girls she'd visited on this very trip three years ago. I'm grateful to have witnessed such a beautiful moment. We're told that several of these children lost their parents to the earthquake. We play with the children and hold them close when they'll let us. I'm still uncertain what my role is here, but being surrounded by these beautiful kids puts my mind more at ease. This particular orphanage is set up very much like a large family. There are about 10-12 children in total and a mother and father figure. The kids line up and sing a song for us before we leave, and I'm struck by the sense of camaraderie between these "siblings".
It's time to return to the compound for dinner, and once again I enjoy the food prepared for us by the mission workers. Even more enjoyable are the exchanges of dinner conversation between team members. I realize rather early in this trip that there will be as much laughter as there are tears. How could it be any other way when Dr. Friye is convinced that we're going to either be attacked by a dinosaur or a flying Indian? I mean, you can't make this stuff up...
DAY THREE
It's Sunday. Today is a church day. Although church isn't necessarily my thing, I'm excited to experience it in this place with these people. I actually find myself looking forward to going. The music is beautiful. I could listen to the Haitians sing all day long. It makes no difference that I can't understand a word they're saying. A beautiful voice is just that whether heard in English or in Creole.
For a couple of hours we listen to a spirited, albeit foreign, message from Betty as she preaches to her congregation. We don't know what they're saying, but they're definitely enjoying themselves. This is the perfect time to take in the crowd. Janeen points to a young baby with a stocking cap on his head!! It's easily 85 degrees in this church and full of people! A stocking cap?? The randomness of Haiti shows its face again. And if that isn't enough, a little boy about 2 years old, walks past us down the aisle in a full WHITE tuxedo, complete with tails! We can't help but smile at that one.
After awhile, it is our missionary pastor's turn to deliver his message. He must speak slowly as his words are interpreted for the Haitian people by a man speaking their native, Creole. As the words begin to take on the form of a story, I feel myself tense. He is speaking about a mission trip in his past in which his daughter became extremely ill and many of the local people and pastors prayed around her. I can feel it coming....I can't stop it and there is nowhere to go. And although I've grown a bit closer to these people on my left and right, I'm still uncertain when it comes to matters of my broken mother heart. The tears are threatening, but I'm holding them in for now. The burn is right on the edge of my eyelids and I can feel myself losing the small amount of control I have left. ...then he says it, "they prayed for her and the next day she was completely healed and running and playing with the other children." Yep. There it is. I can't. I just can't. I have to get out of here. My chest hurts. Certainly they can see the fire rising from it. I need to hide. To go inside myself. But I am unfamiliar with this place and even as I break through the front doors and drink in the sticky, hot haitian air, I cannot leave my group. I turn my face away to hide my pain but it can't be done. Then I feel arms. Just arms. All around me, and I hear soft, soothing words. My team is comforting me. They are attempting to bridge that gap that separates us so deeply. My body gives in and a flood of tears spill over. I can find no words, but take comfort in their love and support. I can't explain it to them in a way that would close the gap of our divide. I don't know how to tell them that although I am eternally grateful for the wonderful outcome and health of another child, I will never be able to hear a message such as that one and NOT feel the pang of guilt and betrayal. The stab of those words cuts deeply, and I have no defense...because I prayed, too.
That burning is all I can feel for now, and try as I may, I can focus on nothing else but the searing pain. I try to hide once again back at the house. But these people, my team, these strangers turned friends see my pain and they don't run away. They offer very few words, only the comfort of their presence. Janeen proves, once again in this moment, that I can trust her with my brokenness. A doctor I have worked with time and again, sheds tears with me and says she is there if I need her. It is salve on an open wound. And again...I am grateful.
As if the day hasn't held enough emotion, we are now boarding a couple of vans that will take us to an orphanage on a mountain. I'm excited to get there, as I've never experienced something like this before and every corner seems to bring with it something more incredible than the last! Little do I know what lies ahead...
After twisting and turning in our crammed white vans for what seems like hours, we reach the metal gate that leads us to GVCM orphanage. Before we can even get out, a little boy climbs in through the side door, and sits on Janeen's lap. She is the pied piper after all... When we're all able to get out, he wiggles himself down and Janeen begins to walk around and take in the sights. I notice he seems to be looking for her, so I step up and take his hand and point to her, indicating that I will take him back to her. He looks up with his incredibly beautiful eyes, shakes his head and reaches for me to pick him up. This would be my job for the remainder of our trip to this orphanage. I carry him everywhere. We are immediately bonded. I speak English and he only knows creole, but we understand one another instantly and I fear ever having to let him go. As I walk around the grounds, I am struck by the love I feel for this child stranger, and also by the intense feeling of gratitude for the weight of his little body in my arms. I have been craving the "burden" of that weight for over three years now, and to have it again fills me with a peace and hope that I haven't felt in entirely too long.
I stop for a moment to take it all in and find myself swaying and singing my Easton's goodnight song to him.."You are my sunshine, my only sunshine...please don't take my baby way..." After a minute, I notice that his body has become heavier, his head is lying on my shoulder, and I look over at Chaka who says, "Shannon, he's asleep." Sweet, sweet Kerventz...you repaired a piece of my soul. I will always carry you with me.
DAY FOUR
Time to get to work! Our first clinic day at the compound. I'm more than a little nervous. Janeen assures me that I will be fine and that I'll catch on faster than I think, but I'm not so sure. After all, the whole of my nursing experience involves some very specific parts of the female anatomy...what the hell do I know about being a "normal nurse"?
We spend the first half hour or so setting up our clinic. We have access to a few exam rooms, but those are reserved for our providers. The nurses are set up at a folding table on the front porch with our stethoscopes, bp cuffs, a thermometer that doesn't work, and a scale. Patients who have walked for miles line the benches on the porch and look on with remarkable patience as we catch our breath. Ok...here goes nothing! We first meet our translators. I have been told several times that we'll become close to these people, but I have no concept of just how true that will become down the road. Roselande, Michaelle, and Dewins are assisting the nurses today and during our "downtime" we are able to discuss their plans for the future and to learn about their families.
The first patient for each nurse comes to the table and we begin to gather our information. Ok...Janeen was right...I can do this. My biggest problem so far has been remembering to direct my question to the interpreter instead of the patient! I learn this lesson quickly though, considering each question is met with either a blank stare or a string of syllables I couldn't hope to decipher! :) The interpreters are wonderful and they help us navigate the language barrier in such a way that eventually I don't even notice it's there. And you know what? Skin color, language differences, cultural practices cannot change our humanness. Blood pressure is still blood pressure. I still obtain a pulse by taking my patient's hand in mine. Their hearts beat with the same intensity. Although the world of the clinic is alive and buzzing around me, I notice these special moments that bring us together despite our differences.
I notice Janeen looking in my direction, and realize that she is showing me that she has a patient who has a very large abdomen. The woman is 50 years old, and appears pregnant, but as we both suspect, she is not. I had heard of these very large tumors before ever coming on this trip and I am certain we've found our first one. She is triaged and sent to the OR for evaluation by our docs. We continue to work with the rest of the people on the porch, but both of us are wondering what has become of that patient.
As we wait, I see a 17 year old boy who is hunched over in obvious pain. He tells the interpreter that he can't remember the last time he peed! I ask about even a small amount and I watch as he searches his thoughts for a time when even a small amount of relief had been found and he just can't. I feel so sorry for this poor boy who had clearly been in pain for entirely too long. And he'd waited to be seen, why? Because he had no other choice. We are incredibly spoiled by our ability to see a physician and get relief early in our physical pain experience. This boy had to wait until someone came along to help him. My mind can't fathom such a concept.
As I contemplate the fairness of that, Janeen makes her way over to update me on the patient with the large abdomen. I anticipate that she will say that we've scheduled her for surgery and we'll get to see the docs remove that giant burden from her. But as I get closer, I see in her eyes that this isn't the case. The physicians have diagnosed her with metastatic cancer. She is beyond our help, and so the docs deliver the news, pray with her, and send her on her way...to die. I had heard that this was a possibility, and while it was difficult to hear, witnessing it was something else altogether. I had laid eyes on her. I had hoped for her relief from pain. And I'd been crushed for her. This is why we've come. This is Haiti.
During one of our many conversations with the interpreters, I learn that each one of them has dreams and aspirations that involve learning in America! Roselande wants to be a surgeon! So, I tell her that I will talk to the docs and ask if she can stand in on one of the surgical cases. They agree, because they're awesome, and because we're in Haiti and HIPPA does not exist. :) I get Roselande all of her OR garb and explain to her how to stand back away from the sterile field, which honestly seems a little silly considering the "OR" literally has a fly swatter hanging on the back wall...
She stands in happily for the first of our many hysterectomies and is just mesmerized. The surgery was filled with surprises, interesting learning moments, and a rather unpleasant smell...but my favorite part was watching her WATCH the surgery before her. She was filled with such wonder and I realized how fortunate I was to do a job that I love every day. I don't have to wonder if I will have an incredible opportunity in medicine each day that I clock in. This girl is soaking up every moment of what may very well be her last experience in medicine. Haitian government doesn't exactly consider whether or not it's fair to issue someone a visa. She may never have the opportunity to set foot on American soil, let alone pursue a career in which she would undoubtedly excel. Again...I am grateful.
Clinic time is over and it is time to pack up some supplies and board the bus for a little trip to "The Village of Faith." The beauty of this place is astounding!! As we enter the field that serves as their "driveway" the horizon comes into view. Several white stucco buildings line up in front of crystal blue water, complete with a mountainous green backdrop. It's breathtaking, and I need a moment to let it sink in...but we're here and the children of the village are excited. Janeen nudges my side and points out the window. There, on the porch of the first house is a little boy about 18 months old proudly displaying a superman shirt. Ah...hello, my baby boy! #EastieGoesToHaiti!
We are taken behind the houses to a small tent that serves as their "church ". They claim to fit nearly 70 people in there at times. I can't imagine it, but there it is. The children sing for us and we distribute clothing we've brought. They're incredibly grateful, and as other team members pass out rice and oil from the back of the bus, I have the terrible misfortune of playing tickle tag with several of the young children. Language barrier? What language barrier? We're just running and laughing, with tickles that turn into hugs. We don't need language. And again...I am grateful.
After awhile, we reluctantly board the bus once again to return "home". The bus ride is nice though because Michaelle and I are discussing our similarities and differences as we drive. She is a 19 year old student interpreter who aspires to come to America to study music. I tell her about my Easton and give her an ETO card. I then ask her what most Haitians believe to be true of most Americans. Without a moment's hesitation she states in her broken English that "you are good and your hearts are full of so much love for others!" I contemplate asking her if she's ever heard of the Kardashians or Trump...but think better of it. :)
When we returned to the compound and were on our way to get ready for bed, Emily, the surgical nurse who'd stayed behind during our trip, informed Janeen and I that there was a laboring patient in the delivery room! As tired as we were, you couldn't have pried us away from attempting to be present for a delivery, so in we went!! The midwives at the compound aren't all that excited about having labor nurses in their rooms, stepping on their territory, so we asked if we could simply stand back and watch. The midwife politely agreed and we wedged ourselves into the back of the room. I think that position may have lasted approximately 2 minutes! We are both awestruck at the apparent dismissal of the patient who is writhing in pain on a bare "birthing table". We each reached for a hand and in our best, broken creole, coached her to push more effectively. Again, language is of little importance in the face of pain. What mattered was the gentle touch and soothing voice of Janeen. I watched and took it in. I followed suit, and within two or three pushes, a little boy was born. They handed the baby to me and I quickly went into receiver mode. It's amazing how that comes back to you, even having been away from work for 9 years. And as I dried him, I took in the gratitude I felt for being allowed to witness his entry into the world. I will never take that for granted. It's beautiful every single time.
As we prepare to leave, the patient reaches up, grabs Janeen's arm and with pleading eyes says, "Mesi, mesi!" Thank you. Thank you. I am, in that moment, simultaneously awestruck by what I've just seen, grateful for the experience, and proud of this woman that I'm getting to know on a personal level. I'm thankful for the privilege of training with her, and I recognize one of the many reasons I was fortunate enough to be counted among the team members on this trip.
DAY FIVE
Today is our first mobile clinic day! I am very excited about this, as I've heard that going to the villages is very rewarding. This bus trip is no different than the others and brings with it several, "OH CRAP!" moments as we toss and turn our way to the village. Our clinic team consists of three providers, Dr. Nathan Reed, Chaka Batley, NP and Alison Vander Ley, NP, three nurses, Janeen, myself, and Lori, and 4 team members who have jobs outside of the medical field served as our pharmacists. We also, of course, had our interpreters with us. They are our right hand at this point!
We set up our "clinic" which consisted of several benches for a "waiting area" at each station. The patients were first directed to Dr. Benson's station. He is a Haitian physician who was there teaching about the importance of education and testing regarding HIV. Each person within his specified age demographic was tested. They then would move on to our station of triage nurses. Lori and I are to triage first, and Janeen will be the go-between in the middle of the room to keep things flowing. The patient then sees the provider, gets their prescription filled by the pharmacy, receives a bag of rice and a bottle of oil, and then exits the building...at least that's how it flows in theory, and in actual practice for most of the day. We did end up having a few hairy moments, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
As I move through patients, I essentially see the same symptoms over and over again. Honestly, I think most of the people feel as though they have to make up symptoms to be seen. I want to tell them that isn't the case that I'd gladly just sit with them, but the never-ending line doesn't allow for that! One of my patient's is a schoolteacher. Haitians put high priority on teachers and students, and regardless of line length, if a teacher came in to be seen, he was sent to the front of the line. As soon as he sits down I can see that he is in pain, but what I didn't realize at first was that his pain was more spiritual than physical. He has dark circles under his eyes and rarely meets mine as he speaks. The interpreter tells me that he is terrified because he truly believes that someone has preached voodoo to him, and has given him a disorder that has changed the color of his face. Hmmmm, can't say that I've seen that particular symptom in labor and delivery! I summon Pastor Chris, and tell him that although he needs to be seen by a doctor, I thought that maybe his healing would come more in the form of spiritual comfort. This is another significant moment for me, and I feel it right then and there. I realize that this is yet another reason that I am here. I have accepted the importance of the role of the pastor on this trip, and although our opinions differ, I recognize the need to allow his beliefs to flow alongside mine in order to bring some hope to this particular man. I. Am. Grateful.
While Lori and I are triaging, Janeen decides that this would be a great opportunity to roll her ankle! She is clearly in pain almost immediately, and trades me places so that she can sit for awhile. We would later learn that she has broken it...not that her stubbornness would have let her stop doing what she loved!
We return to the compound and have dinner with the other half of our team who has successfully completed 6 surgeries, including removing a large growth from a young girl's ear. They said that her face was priceless when they showed her it was gone! As we enjoy our food, and their company, we tell of our adventures in the field. We discuss the moments of fear when the door was accidentally left open, and many desperate people PUSHED and SHOVED their way into the room to be seen. We had nowhere to go, and I was afraid that they would take our medications in their desperation. We also talked about how we couldn't even begrudge them their greedy behavior, because we could recognize the fear in their eyes. Who knows when they'd get this opportunity again? Once again, I am struck by my incredible fortune...and I am grateful.
DAY SIX
Today is an OR day for Janeen and I! I'm excited and nervous, as I have not been a useful part of an OR in NINE YEARS! I am the circulating nurse for the day, so that Janeen can rest her foot. But first, we learn of another labor patient! Again, we make our way to the delivery room and ask/beg to be in there to "watch." :) The patient is an 18 year old prime (first time mother) who has been in labor for 3 days. She is terrified, alone, and receiving no help from the midwife. Do not misunderstand me on this, I recognize that this is their culture and I'm not saying that the midwives are wrong in their approach. It just doesn't happen to be ours. Anyway, back to the patient. She looks at me with pleading eyes and reaches out her hand to me, saying, "Si vous plait! Si vous plait!" Please. Please. Well...that's enough for me! I reach for her hand and stroke her head. Janeen takes position on the other side of the bed and does the same. We encourage her to push effectively and gently guide her into the position to do so. We repeat over and over the very few creole expressions we've learned, which include "Poussez! Poussez!" Push...Push, and "Oui! Oui!" Yes...Yes. A couple of effective pushes later, and the head is delivering. As it becomes completely visible, a geyser of thick, green "pea soup" amniotic fluid comes pouring out. Janeen and I look at each other and silently think what every single one of my L&D friends are thinking right now..."Oh, SHIT!" We are going to have to resuscitate this baby with absolutely NO equipment! I don't even see something as simple as a bulb syringe. Sure enough, the kid comes out completely limp and Janeen hands her to me and frantically searches the room for something suitable to use for suction. When she can't find it, she motions to the creole speaking midwife by making a slurping sound and forming her hand in the shape of a bulb syringe. She points her in the right direction! Mission accomplished!! Who needs English?! She hands it to me and I continue to stimulate the baby while suctioning her nose and throat. She lets our her first lusty cry and we both breathe for the first time in what seems like hours! Welcome to the world baby girl. I feel so privileged to have been here for your first moments of life.
Again, the young mother reached for us, but this time for my hand. She stared straight at me and exclaimed, "Mesi! Mesi! Mesi!" Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!, and I laid her brand new daughter next to her...I am grateful.
We would go on to do 8 surgical cases throughout the course of this day! We did 3 total hysterectomies, 2 penile issues (males are uncircumcised), and 3 facial abcesses. My favorite part of the surgeries today would be the interaction with the incredible surgeons we brought on this trip. I worked all day long beside my own OB/GYN, Dr. Gina Dietrich. I've worked with her several times and she delivered three of my children, but I have never had so much fun with her! We laughed and talked most of the day. She acted as the scrub tech for a few cases, and by the time we got to our third case, we had that OR cleaned and up and running for the next case in minutes! We really got into a good rhythm there for awhile, probably due to the excellent playlist of music she brought along. I think the things that stick out most in my mind are when she said that I was in charge of the fly swatter and I laughed, and she informed that she wasn't kidding, then when she acted like the ALP (leg squeezing machine) during surgery, and of course when she just took off her shoes in the middle of the case because she was hot. :) What happens in Haiti, stays in Haiti!!
I also had the privilege of working with Dr. Degreef again! We have all missed him so much. He's an excellent doctor and an incredible person. I watched as he worked with his "dream team" of physicians to tackle things they don't usually deal with, and do so with expert hands. It was an amazing thing to witness.
That brings me to Dr. Pam Friye. She, too, delivered several of my children, and I have worked with her on several cases over the years, but this experience with her was altogether different. She certainly continues to be her caring, compassionate self, and I have her to thank for many of the laughs along the way. Her quirky personality brought me back from the brink more times than I can count. And her role as the underdog in the OR had me in stitches on more than one occasion. Rest assured, Quincy, you got lucky when that woman decided to return to us. I know that I am grateful.
DAY SEVEN
So, today is our final clinic day. We are sad to be so close to the end of our trip. The clinic we visit today will be the poorest of the ones we've seen. Many of the children wear no pants at all. The illnesses are more dire, and the desperation is palpable.
One of Janeen's patients is a young mother who has brought her adorable baby to be seen. She tells me to take a look at the baby and I glance over at a beautiful child in a "Little Sister" onesie with pink socks. Janeen then says, "guess what the complaint is??...THREE testicles!" Ummmm, that's three too many! We realize in that moment that the mother has no idea what the shirt says. Why would she? It's in English. She also obviously is unaffected by American gender norms. I'm sure our faces were priceless when Janeen pulled back the diaper and revealed that our "little sister" was most definitely NOT a girl! :)
This would also be the clinic in which I would take a blood pressure that was 240/130! For those of you who are non-medical, this is another one of those "OH SHIT!" moments. We also saw a patient with a blood sugar of 492, several kids with mumps, and syphilis case. I thought for a brief moment about how incredibly grateful these people would have been for the vaccinations that we take for granted every day. I am grateful.
It was a short clinic day, because we have an early flight the next day and we have to go back and pack. When we get back to the house, Dr. Friye and I discover that our only source of Wifi is on the steps outside the house. Although it seemed slightly annoying at the time, I wouldn't trade that hour for anything. I think I laughed harder at her in that hour than I had all week. Such a funny little human. :) We were interrupted by a request to gather all of our team to take a photo together on a "tap tap". This is a vehicle the Haitians use to get from place to place. It's essentially a taxi cab that they literally "tap" to get it to stop so that they can get off. However, they pile on these "trucks" in a slightly different fashion than Americans would...so, in true Haitian style, we piled on and got our souvenir photo!
It's dinner time now, and we talk about the day as we wind down our final meal at HCM. It is a bittersweet moment as we recount our time there together, how close we've grown as a team, and how we've come to love and respect the Haitian people. We do one final "Good, Bad, GOD" moment among the team, and it's incredible to hear how the trip has affected each one of us. I know in that moment, that I will never be the same.
Later, we return to our house to shower and hang out for awhile before going to sleep. While waiting for my turn in the shower, one of the team members asks me about Easton. I bring her an ETO card, and I explain our mission to remember our boy with love and compassion for others. It's as if the floodgates just open up at that point, and I find myself pouring my heart out to Sandy, and to Dr. Dietrich. They are both so kind and willing to listen and allow me to hurt. I am incredibly touched by their words, and their touch. I would go on to have more conversations with Dr. Dietrich during our trip home that would prove to be among some of the most important of my grief journey. I am grateful.
HOME AGAIN
The trip home is supposed to feel like a long one. But I realize that I'm not ready to let go. My beautiful family meets me at the airport as a surprise, and I'm overjoyed to be coming back home to them. However, I'm also struck by the very physical pull of the abrupt separation from my team. I can't leave them. Although it's only been a week, the amount of emotion expended during that trip was enough for a year, and I have bonded closely to these people. They are my Haiti family. I know I will see most of them at work as soon as a few days from now. Janeen I will see most often, but I can't seem to let go as I hug her good-bye on that day. We are no longer co-workers. We are more than friends. We are family. And the intensity of the bond follows us home.
Thank you, Haiti, for your beautiful people. Thank you for your hospitality. thank you for sharing your pain and your brokenness, as I felt so many times that it mirrored my own. I have completely fallen in love with your country, and I will absolutely be back. Thank you, Haiti...I. Am. Grateful.
Saturday, March 19, 2016
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
My Job
I love my job. Really, I do. I get a front row seat to the first few moments in a person's life. I get to be among the first to say, "Happy Birthday!" I get to comfort and educate parents as they experience the birth of their child. But, sometimes my job is too much. Sometimes it's hurtful and hard in those happy moments. Sometimes the smiles feel like knives.
I've learned over the past few years that each day is likely to bring with it, some sort of punch in the gut. At first it was every corner of my house that had this effect. I couldn't get out of bed without noticing that the crib was missing. I couldn't brush my teeth or get the mail without feeling the pang of emptiness at the thought of the little curly haired boy who was no longer on my hip. Those things still hurt at times. I still feel the knife, but the edges have softened as the new "routine" of the past few years have taken over. But, work is a different story.
I left my job as a labor nurse when I became pregnant with my third child. So, being back there now feels both new and devastatingly familiar at the same time. I realized that in a moment recently when I had to follow a patient from labor into the c-section room. In the hustle of the day, I hadn't realized what was about to happen. As I stepped into that room, it hit me. The last time I had been in this particular space was the day I gave birth to Easton. It was a ton of bricks. The first cries of my patient's new son only twisted the knife further.
I wanted to crawl into a hole. I wanted to scream at the top of lungs to release some of the suffocating pain. But there is no time for that in those moments. That day is not about the agony in my heart. It's someone's birthday. It's the day my patient met her son. It's the day I have to hold her hand and smile and tell her how happy I am to be there. And it isn't heroic, smiling through the pain. It isn't martyrdom. It's necessary. It's the only way.
When we left that room and I was out of earshot of the patient I told a co-worker and friend what I'd experienced. I needed to hear it come out of my mouth. I needed to acknowledge it. But when I heard the words leave my lips, it felt as though I'd simply commented on the weather. It felt forced and fake, like perhaps I was hearing someone else say the words. Because if I'd been able to articulate what I'd felt in that moment it would have been something along the lines of the world falling out from under my feet. I would have described the shredding feeling that ripped through my chest, the way my legs felt as though they couldn't hold me any longer. I would have told her that hearing that baby cry and seeing the relief on the parents faces cut deeper than I ever could have imagined. I would have explained that I'd remembered that same relief, and now knew that I'd been entitled to none of it. That first breath, that first cry from son's lips marked his first day of pain. And I'd been happy about it. That's what I would have said if I could have done it in that moment.
Instead I finished the day. I clocked out. I came home. And when my head hit the pillow, the realization of the days events washed over me and I felt it all over again. These are the days of grief, and I know this is my life sentence. The knives will keep coming, the memories will continue to force me to my knees, and I'll learn to smile through more pain until it's safe to feel it. I'm grateful for the moment. I'm grateful for the experience of pushing through that hurt in order to be there for someone else on what could possibly be among the happiest days of their lives. And I'm grateful for all triggered memories of that precious little boy of mine. Even the ones that cut. I love my job. Really, I do...
I've learned over the past few years that each day is likely to bring with it, some sort of punch in the gut. At first it was every corner of my house that had this effect. I couldn't get out of bed without noticing that the crib was missing. I couldn't brush my teeth or get the mail without feeling the pang of emptiness at the thought of the little curly haired boy who was no longer on my hip. Those things still hurt at times. I still feel the knife, but the edges have softened as the new "routine" of the past few years have taken over. But, work is a different story.
I left my job as a labor nurse when I became pregnant with my third child. So, being back there now feels both new and devastatingly familiar at the same time. I realized that in a moment recently when I had to follow a patient from labor into the c-section room. In the hustle of the day, I hadn't realized what was about to happen. As I stepped into that room, it hit me. The last time I had been in this particular space was the day I gave birth to Easton. It was a ton of bricks. The first cries of my patient's new son only twisted the knife further.
I wanted to crawl into a hole. I wanted to scream at the top of lungs to release some of the suffocating pain. But there is no time for that in those moments. That day is not about the agony in my heart. It's someone's birthday. It's the day my patient met her son. It's the day I have to hold her hand and smile and tell her how happy I am to be there. And it isn't heroic, smiling through the pain. It isn't martyrdom. It's necessary. It's the only way.
When we left that room and I was out of earshot of the patient I told a co-worker and friend what I'd experienced. I needed to hear it come out of my mouth. I needed to acknowledge it. But when I heard the words leave my lips, it felt as though I'd simply commented on the weather. It felt forced and fake, like perhaps I was hearing someone else say the words. Because if I'd been able to articulate what I'd felt in that moment it would have been something along the lines of the world falling out from under my feet. I would have described the shredding feeling that ripped through my chest, the way my legs felt as though they couldn't hold me any longer. I would have told her that hearing that baby cry and seeing the relief on the parents faces cut deeper than I ever could have imagined. I would have explained that I'd remembered that same relief, and now knew that I'd been entitled to none of it. That first breath, that first cry from son's lips marked his first day of pain. And I'd been happy about it. That's what I would have said if I could have done it in that moment.
Instead I finished the day. I clocked out. I came home. And when my head hit the pillow, the realization of the days events washed over me and I felt it all over again. These are the days of grief, and I know this is my life sentence. The knives will keep coming, the memories will continue to force me to my knees, and I'll learn to smile through more pain until it's safe to feel it. I'm grateful for the moment. I'm grateful for the experience of pushing through that hurt in order to be there for someone else on what could possibly be among the happiest days of their lives. And I'm grateful for all triggered memories of that precious little boy of mine. Even the ones that cut. I love my job. Really, I do...
Saturday, October 31, 2015
Holiday Rain
I'm glad it's raining today. It feels right that this morning while driving, I couldn't determine whether my inability to see was due to the rain on the windshield or the tears in my eyes. In an odd way it's comforting when I see that the world is crying too. It's less lonely for the moment.
Halloween hurts. All holidays hurt. I remember very early in my grief when someone said, "Well why don't we just CANCEL Christmas!!" He meant it facetiously, and in a way that said, "what a ridiculous idea", but I remember thinking (and probably saying, because let's face it, I'm not quiet), "Yes! Let's do!" And I meant it. Holidays aren't worth the ache for me anymore. I've discovered that the things that hurt the most, usually do so because they were the moments we loved so much before loss. Grief steals so many things, and the anger and pain of stolen happiness is sometimes just too much to bear. I used to love the holidays. I remember thinking that I would NEVER miss a Christmas morning with my kids. Being a nurse, that could have proven to be difficult. But now, I'm honestly considering signing up to work extra that day. At least then maybe I could pretend it wasn't happening.
That last thought reminds me of something else I've noticed throughout this process. Obviously, I release some of this continuous pain through writing. I often describe my experiences, mostly for a way to "see", in a concrete way, what I'm feeling. This gets difficult for some people because they make assumptions that my anger or pain is directed at a certain person or moment. While I'll admit that I've had several not-so-pleasant moments regarding others and my grief, I have to say that a huge majority of the time I don't remember who said what. I just know the ache in my heart and the burn in my chest. I would venture to guess that this is true of most grieving people. Sometimes we're just angry and we just hurt. It probably has nothing to do with you. Grief is very selfish. We won't be fair or even kind sometimes. I'm not saying that's right or even ok, but it just IS. I understand that it's difficult for some to accept this aspect of grief, and it's ok with me if it's something you just can't handle. Just know that I can't be around you. That isn't meant to hurt, it's just reality. I'm doing what I can to live in my skin right now. I can't add hurdles to a race in which I'm barely crawling.
And maybe I "should" be done with this phase by now. Or maybe that's the perception of some. I'll tell you something else about grief...time is a sonofabitch. I've noticed recently when asked "how long has it been" that I hesitate and then answer, incorrectly, that it's been two and a half years. It's actually been almost 3. But I don't want that to be true, and for me it isn't. For me, it was a million years and simultaneously just a second ago. I can't describe the hell that this time confusion creates within my body. Recently someone said, "wow, I didn't think it had been that long ago." My body immediately reacted (and not because it was "wrong" to say it or because I now "hate that person forever"... see above paragraph). Honestly, I don't even remember who said it or where I was. I just know what my heart went through after hearing it..."wait...has it been long? It was just a minute ago that I was tickling him after his bath and trying to keep him from crawling away as he giggled. It was just yesterday that I was standing in the kitchen and heard him call 'Mama' from the living room. That wasn't 'years' ago. Years are long and time is supposed to heal. But my heart still burns." It's like if I say three years out loud, I lost him all over again. Every day that comes, is a day further from the last moment I kissed his face and my tears fell in his hair. I already feel so far from him. I can't admit to the amount of earthly time.
My grief has changed over time, but I still ache every day. I miss him with every breath. I am no longer afraid of my own death and sometimes would honestly prefer that it come quickly. That isn't weird or worrisome. It's just reality. If you have children, you typically know where they are and who they're with, right? Even if they're grown, you know where they live. You've seen their space. That's all I want. He isn't here. I want to be where he is. You would too. It's just part of loving your children. You may have to get a plane ticket to see your children, but you do it, because nothing could keep you from it. Well, my plane ticket doesn't exist, but you could bet that if I found a way to see him, I'd swim and ocean to do it. Or die trying.
My thoughts are random and haunting today, as they are for most holiday celebrations. I have no plans for the day, and I like it that way. I give myself the space to hurt, but also enjoy. And today I'll be grateful that the world cries with me.
Halloween hurts. All holidays hurt. I remember very early in my grief when someone said, "Well why don't we just CANCEL Christmas!!" He meant it facetiously, and in a way that said, "what a ridiculous idea", but I remember thinking (and probably saying, because let's face it, I'm not quiet), "Yes! Let's do!" And I meant it. Holidays aren't worth the ache for me anymore. I've discovered that the things that hurt the most, usually do so because they were the moments we loved so much before loss. Grief steals so many things, and the anger and pain of stolen happiness is sometimes just too much to bear. I used to love the holidays. I remember thinking that I would NEVER miss a Christmas morning with my kids. Being a nurse, that could have proven to be difficult. But now, I'm honestly considering signing up to work extra that day. At least then maybe I could pretend it wasn't happening.
That last thought reminds me of something else I've noticed throughout this process. Obviously, I release some of this continuous pain through writing. I often describe my experiences, mostly for a way to "see", in a concrete way, what I'm feeling. This gets difficult for some people because they make assumptions that my anger or pain is directed at a certain person or moment. While I'll admit that I've had several not-so-pleasant moments regarding others and my grief, I have to say that a huge majority of the time I don't remember who said what. I just know the ache in my heart and the burn in my chest. I would venture to guess that this is true of most grieving people. Sometimes we're just angry and we just hurt. It probably has nothing to do with you. Grief is very selfish. We won't be fair or even kind sometimes. I'm not saying that's right or even ok, but it just IS. I understand that it's difficult for some to accept this aspect of grief, and it's ok with me if it's something you just can't handle. Just know that I can't be around you. That isn't meant to hurt, it's just reality. I'm doing what I can to live in my skin right now. I can't add hurdles to a race in which I'm barely crawling.
And maybe I "should" be done with this phase by now. Or maybe that's the perception of some. I'll tell you something else about grief...time is a sonofabitch. I've noticed recently when asked "how long has it been" that I hesitate and then answer, incorrectly, that it's been two and a half years. It's actually been almost 3. But I don't want that to be true, and for me it isn't. For me, it was a million years and simultaneously just a second ago. I can't describe the hell that this time confusion creates within my body. Recently someone said, "wow, I didn't think it had been that long ago." My body immediately reacted (and not because it was "wrong" to say it or because I now "hate that person forever"... see above paragraph). Honestly, I don't even remember who said it or where I was. I just know what my heart went through after hearing it..."wait...has it been long? It was just a minute ago that I was tickling him after his bath and trying to keep him from crawling away as he giggled. It was just yesterday that I was standing in the kitchen and heard him call 'Mama' from the living room. That wasn't 'years' ago. Years are long and time is supposed to heal. But my heart still burns." It's like if I say three years out loud, I lost him all over again. Every day that comes, is a day further from the last moment I kissed his face and my tears fell in his hair. I already feel so far from him. I can't admit to the amount of earthly time.
My grief has changed over time, but I still ache every day. I miss him with every breath. I am no longer afraid of my own death and sometimes would honestly prefer that it come quickly. That isn't weird or worrisome. It's just reality. If you have children, you typically know where they are and who they're with, right? Even if they're grown, you know where they live. You've seen their space. That's all I want. He isn't here. I want to be where he is. You would too. It's just part of loving your children. You may have to get a plane ticket to see your children, but you do it, because nothing could keep you from it. Well, my plane ticket doesn't exist, but you could bet that if I found a way to see him, I'd swim and ocean to do it. Or die trying.
My thoughts are random and haunting today, as they are for most holiday celebrations. I have no plans for the day, and I like it that way. I give myself the space to hurt, but also enjoy. And today I'll be grateful that the world cries with me.
Friday, October 23, 2015
Back to Work
I suppose I should stop being surprised by the roller coaster of emotions I go through on a daily basis, following the loss of Easton. But I'm constantly amazed at how many conflicting feelings I can have in a 24 hour period. This is especially true since I recently decided to go back to work.
I often wondered how that would work exactly. I mean, how in the hell do you fit grief into a work schedule? Since the weather is changing, and my especially difficult season is coming, I've noticed, once again, that daily life has become more tiresome and painful. I guess I kind of expected that again this year, but this time I've added another layer. I'm working. My job involves caring for others. I still wonder how that's going to work some days. I recently had one of my truly awful days in which breathing was particularly painful. As hard as I tried to push past it and ignore the burning in my chest, I just couldn't do it. It was one of those days where even my skin wasn't enough to hold me together. I felt like one wrong move and I would go everywhere at once. The pain is so intense during moments like these and I have no choice but to succumb to the feelings.
I cried at work. Big, awful, crocodile tears in the break room. I couldn't stop them. The pain just leaked from my eyes as I sat trying to eat lunch. But you can't eat lunch when your body hurts like that. The sight of food is exhausitng. As I sat there, I contemplated what I should do next. Would I be able to pull it together long enough to care for my patients again? Was a 30 minute "break" a sufficient amount of time to release some of this pain? Should I go home "sick"?
That last one crosses my mind a lot actually. I suppose I'm not actually "sick" but I can't think of a time in my life where my body physically hurt more than it does now. I guess I can't call it an illness, but God does it feel like one. One without a medication. One without a cure. I think about those times when I've been ill in the past and how that first day of feeling well again was so amazing. I've wondered what happens to those of us who can't "get better." There is no magic pill. I will be broken until I die. I will hurt with each breath I take.
I don't know what the answers are in those situations. I didn't go home sick that day. Maybe some other day I will. Who knows? I've decided that having all the answers is overrated (and impossible). Instead, I had a conversation with a compassionate co-worker. I put my uneaten lunch back into its bag, and I stood up. My heart still ached in my chest and my lungs still burned at their struggle for a less painful breath, but I put my stethoscope back around my neck and I walked back onto the floor.
It's healing in many ways, this job I do. I see happy families learning life with their newest members. I talk with scared parents as they navigate their new role. I give pain medication for a pain that can actually be relieved. I love being a nurse, and it hurts me. I adore my job and it wears me out. It brings me great pleasure and intense pain. I suppose that's just what life is now. This is how it feels to be broken.
But, in a way I'm grateful for my brokenness. I'm a different nurse because of it, and I've enjoyed discovering myself in my new/old role. It makes me appreciate the good moments so much more. I'm grateful to my patients and coworkers for the brief distractions from my pain. I'm grateful to my body (flawed as it may be) for carrying me through those hellish moments and allowing me to take that next step. And I'm grateful to my son, whose spirit I can feel with such intensity each time I clock in, that it sometimes takes my breath away. So, I guess I'll just keep clocking in. I'll probably keep crying. I'll keep putting one foot in front of the other, and I'll probably continue to be caught off guard by the dips and turns of the roller coaster.
I'm grateful to my co-workers for their compassion and patience. I'm grateful to my husband for his constant support (and the flowers I came home to yesterday "just because I'm proud of you"). And I'm grateful to my patients for allowing this broken mother to care for them.
I often wondered how that would work exactly. I mean, how in the hell do you fit grief into a work schedule? Since the weather is changing, and my especially difficult season is coming, I've noticed, once again, that daily life has become more tiresome and painful. I guess I kind of expected that again this year, but this time I've added another layer. I'm working. My job involves caring for others. I still wonder how that's going to work some days. I recently had one of my truly awful days in which breathing was particularly painful. As hard as I tried to push past it and ignore the burning in my chest, I just couldn't do it. It was one of those days where even my skin wasn't enough to hold me together. I felt like one wrong move and I would go everywhere at once. The pain is so intense during moments like these and I have no choice but to succumb to the feelings.
I cried at work. Big, awful, crocodile tears in the break room. I couldn't stop them. The pain just leaked from my eyes as I sat trying to eat lunch. But you can't eat lunch when your body hurts like that. The sight of food is exhausitng. As I sat there, I contemplated what I should do next. Would I be able to pull it together long enough to care for my patients again? Was a 30 minute "break" a sufficient amount of time to release some of this pain? Should I go home "sick"?
That last one crosses my mind a lot actually. I suppose I'm not actually "sick" but I can't think of a time in my life where my body physically hurt more than it does now. I guess I can't call it an illness, but God does it feel like one. One without a medication. One without a cure. I think about those times when I've been ill in the past and how that first day of feeling well again was so amazing. I've wondered what happens to those of us who can't "get better." There is no magic pill. I will be broken until I die. I will hurt with each breath I take.
I don't know what the answers are in those situations. I didn't go home sick that day. Maybe some other day I will. Who knows? I've decided that having all the answers is overrated (and impossible). Instead, I had a conversation with a compassionate co-worker. I put my uneaten lunch back into its bag, and I stood up. My heart still ached in my chest and my lungs still burned at their struggle for a less painful breath, but I put my stethoscope back around my neck and I walked back onto the floor.
It's healing in many ways, this job I do. I see happy families learning life with their newest members. I talk with scared parents as they navigate their new role. I give pain medication for a pain that can actually be relieved. I love being a nurse, and it hurts me. I adore my job and it wears me out. It brings me great pleasure and intense pain. I suppose that's just what life is now. This is how it feels to be broken.
But, in a way I'm grateful for my brokenness. I'm a different nurse because of it, and I've enjoyed discovering myself in my new/old role. It makes me appreciate the good moments so much more. I'm grateful to my patients and coworkers for the brief distractions from my pain. I'm grateful to my body (flawed as it may be) for carrying me through those hellish moments and allowing me to take that next step. And I'm grateful to my son, whose spirit I can feel with such intensity each time I clock in, that it sometimes takes my breath away. So, I guess I'll just keep clocking in. I'll probably keep crying. I'll keep putting one foot in front of the other, and I'll probably continue to be caught off guard by the dips and turns of the roller coaster.
I'm grateful to my co-workers for their compassion and patience. I'm grateful to my husband for his constant support (and the flowers I came home to yesterday "just because I'm proud of you"). And I'm grateful to my patients for allowing this broken mother to care for them.
Friday, September 18, 2015
#NursesUnite
Unless you live under a rock, you have most likely heard about the recent issues surrounding nurses and some comments made by co-hosts of "The View". Apparently, some things were said in a moment of ignorance, perhaps even disinterest. It's caused quite the uproar. And as a nurse myself, I have a reaction to this as well.
I'm actually grateful for the moment. I think we all have periods of ignorance and we may have even made the mistake of voicing that publicly. However, do any of us really know what other professions do with their day? I have no idea what goes into a day in the life of a mechanic. I couldn't pretend to understand the day to day goings on of a schoolteacher. In fact, it would probably be rather enlightening to sit down with others from time to time just to catch a glimpse of who they are professionally.
And admittedly, I too felt that hair-raising sensation when I heard the pageant contestants scrubs referred to as a "nurse's costume" and her equipment called a "doctor's stethoscope". But, I think we have those kinds of reactions to things when we fear that there is an element of truth to how we're perceived. As nurses, we do a lot of the grunt work. We're also responsible for people's lives, their well-being, their overall health. And although all of that is obviously vitally important, we neglect to give ourselves and our co-workers the credit for our work. We can be our own worst enemy at times. I think we owe it to ourselves and our profession to take a look at why this outrage was felt on such a deep and personal level. I believe we can do better, as a nursing community, to remind ourselves and our fellow co-workers, just how important our work has always been.
How do we do that? We give credit where credit is due. That means building each other up, and recognizing the hard work and compassion it takes to do this life-saving job. And that means ALL of us, from the newest nursing student, to the chief nursing officer. All of our jobs are vitally important. I would encourage nurses to purposely engage in a conversation with a new nursing student. They walk into a situation knowing very little about the day to day happenings, but are wide-eyed with desire to learn. TEACH them. Let's work hard to completely eradicate our self-inflicted "eat your young" mentality. I don't know about you, but someday I'd like to be able to take a vacation. And how does that happen? Someone else is doing my job, while I take time off. Part of being a good nurse means that we worry about our patients even when we're not clocked in for the day. I personally want to know that if I do happen to take some time off, that my patients will be well taken care of by the new nurses coming to our units. How do we do that? We encourage one another. We show them just what using a "doctor's stethoscope" means. We ask them to be a part of our team. We thank them for sharing our love of nursing, because let's face it, you can't do this job without passion. The work is too hard to do simply to collect a paycheck.
Even the most cynical and negative person you work with is passionate about her job. It may be habit for her to spout negativity, but as her co-worker, you see the compassion and care she gives to her patient at the bedside. Remind her of that when you can. And thank her for it. It's also equally as important to build up the positive person. She'll get wary after awhile, because the job is just hard. It is. There are bad days, and we all know it. Thank her for her contributions, for her positive attitude, and allow her a place to vent too. And why not build up our administration? Some of us can get awfully nit-picky about specific things happening within our workplace. We do the "talk behind her back" grade school thing, and forget that at one time, that administrator was a new nurse. She was wide-eyed and ignorant of the actual job, but filled with so much hope and compassion. She has worked her way to a position that may have taken her from the bedside, but it didn't erase her compassion, or her ability to be a good nurse. You may not always agree with the decision, but I guarantee that 99% of the time, the decision is made for the betterment of our jobs.
Conversely, administrative nurses must remember that feeling of fatigue after an extra shift. They must remember what it's like to lose a patient and then try to work again the next day. They must remember what it means to raise a family, while also providing excellent care to their patients while at work. Build up your staff. Let them know that you SEE them. You recognize their fatigue and their hard work. Hell, put on a pair of scrubs from time to time, and remember your roots, as they will reconnect you to your team.
So, what has a nurse done for me? Oh, I could fill a book with that information. When I had my first baby, it was a difficult and scary delivery. Things were not going well at all. It became a rather dire situation, in which a hysterectomy was possible. I was 21 years old. I was terrified. My family was terrified. And do you know what I remember? I remember Janeen. I remember Sandy. I remember their calm, compassionate faces. I remember their quick thinking and excellent skill. I remember getting to hold my baby for the first time, and because of their incredible knowledge and care, I would go on to experience that "first" three more times. I thank Janeen and Sandy.
That delivery stunned my son, and resulted in him being quite ill for awhile. But there were nurses there. Nurses whose skills and knowledge eventually brought my son to my room and helped him to nurse for the first time. A particular nurse was there to receive him and give him the necessary treatment he needed immediately after delivery. Her name was Rose. Thank you, Rose.
I had a miscarriage, and I was afraid and alone in the recovery room after surgery. I remember opening my eyes and seeing a face I didn't recognize. But it was a kind face. Her name was Wendy, and she held my hand and with tears in her eyes, told me that she was sorry for the loss of my baby. I thank Wendy.
And then of course there is my boy. My sweet, precious Easton. The nurses who made an impact on this child's life are immeasurable. In our hometown hospital, I remember Carla, and Crystal and Libby. We became repeat offenders to the pediatric unit, and seeing their faces always brought a sense of peace. I remember Becky. My phone call to her would be the first of many. Her continued excellence in the care of my son and my family is inspiring. When we had to travel to St. Louis Children's hospital, I saw a level of nursing care that I never knew existed. I continue to be in awe of the knowledge and skill level of these men and women. I remember Danielle, Lindsey, and Maggie. I remember Sarah and Ericka. I recall countless other faces that brought such relief in the most horrific time of my life. I watched as Lindsey administered pain medication at my request, as my son took his last breath in my arms. How do you thank someone for that? I'm not sure I'll ever know. But, I thank you. All of you.
Nurses are integral parts of the healthcare system. Without us, it would not survive. Without our compassion, our dedication, our sore feet, our tired eyes, our constant worry for people we don't even know, it would cease to exist. I encourage you to remind a nurse just what he/she means to you. We love to hear that our work hasn't gone unnoticed. And fellow nurses, instead of just anger at the ignorance, let's do what we do best. Let's teach them. Let's show them. Let's strengthen our profession by empowering one another and educating the public about our work. If that means using a "doctor's stethoscope", so be it. If it means donning our "nurse's costume", we can do that too. But do it with the kindness and compassion that you were born to share. #NursesUnite
I'm actually grateful for the moment. I think we all have periods of ignorance and we may have even made the mistake of voicing that publicly. However, do any of us really know what other professions do with their day? I have no idea what goes into a day in the life of a mechanic. I couldn't pretend to understand the day to day goings on of a schoolteacher. In fact, it would probably be rather enlightening to sit down with others from time to time just to catch a glimpse of who they are professionally.
And admittedly, I too felt that hair-raising sensation when I heard the pageant contestants scrubs referred to as a "nurse's costume" and her equipment called a "doctor's stethoscope". But, I think we have those kinds of reactions to things when we fear that there is an element of truth to how we're perceived. As nurses, we do a lot of the grunt work. We're also responsible for people's lives, their well-being, their overall health. And although all of that is obviously vitally important, we neglect to give ourselves and our co-workers the credit for our work. We can be our own worst enemy at times. I think we owe it to ourselves and our profession to take a look at why this outrage was felt on such a deep and personal level. I believe we can do better, as a nursing community, to remind ourselves and our fellow co-workers, just how important our work has always been.
How do we do that? We give credit where credit is due. That means building each other up, and recognizing the hard work and compassion it takes to do this life-saving job. And that means ALL of us, from the newest nursing student, to the chief nursing officer. All of our jobs are vitally important. I would encourage nurses to purposely engage in a conversation with a new nursing student. They walk into a situation knowing very little about the day to day happenings, but are wide-eyed with desire to learn. TEACH them. Let's work hard to completely eradicate our self-inflicted "eat your young" mentality. I don't know about you, but someday I'd like to be able to take a vacation. And how does that happen? Someone else is doing my job, while I take time off. Part of being a good nurse means that we worry about our patients even when we're not clocked in for the day. I personally want to know that if I do happen to take some time off, that my patients will be well taken care of by the new nurses coming to our units. How do we do that? We encourage one another. We show them just what using a "doctor's stethoscope" means. We ask them to be a part of our team. We thank them for sharing our love of nursing, because let's face it, you can't do this job without passion. The work is too hard to do simply to collect a paycheck.
Even the most cynical and negative person you work with is passionate about her job. It may be habit for her to spout negativity, but as her co-worker, you see the compassion and care she gives to her patient at the bedside. Remind her of that when you can. And thank her for it. It's also equally as important to build up the positive person. She'll get wary after awhile, because the job is just hard. It is. There are bad days, and we all know it. Thank her for her contributions, for her positive attitude, and allow her a place to vent too. And why not build up our administration? Some of us can get awfully nit-picky about specific things happening within our workplace. We do the "talk behind her back" grade school thing, and forget that at one time, that administrator was a new nurse. She was wide-eyed and ignorant of the actual job, but filled with so much hope and compassion. She has worked her way to a position that may have taken her from the bedside, but it didn't erase her compassion, or her ability to be a good nurse. You may not always agree with the decision, but I guarantee that 99% of the time, the decision is made for the betterment of our jobs.
Conversely, administrative nurses must remember that feeling of fatigue after an extra shift. They must remember what it's like to lose a patient and then try to work again the next day. They must remember what it means to raise a family, while also providing excellent care to their patients while at work. Build up your staff. Let them know that you SEE them. You recognize their fatigue and their hard work. Hell, put on a pair of scrubs from time to time, and remember your roots, as they will reconnect you to your team.
So, what has a nurse done for me? Oh, I could fill a book with that information. When I had my first baby, it was a difficult and scary delivery. Things were not going well at all. It became a rather dire situation, in which a hysterectomy was possible. I was 21 years old. I was terrified. My family was terrified. And do you know what I remember? I remember Janeen. I remember Sandy. I remember their calm, compassionate faces. I remember their quick thinking and excellent skill. I remember getting to hold my baby for the first time, and because of their incredible knowledge and care, I would go on to experience that "first" three more times. I thank Janeen and Sandy.
That delivery stunned my son, and resulted in him being quite ill for awhile. But there were nurses there. Nurses whose skills and knowledge eventually brought my son to my room and helped him to nurse for the first time. A particular nurse was there to receive him and give him the necessary treatment he needed immediately after delivery. Her name was Rose. Thank you, Rose.
I had a miscarriage, and I was afraid and alone in the recovery room after surgery. I remember opening my eyes and seeing a face I didn't recognize. But it was a kind face. Her name was Wendy, and she held my hand and with tears in her eyes, told me that she was sorry for the loss of my baby. I thank Wendy.
And then of course there is my boy. My sweet, precious Easton. The nurses who made an impact on this child's life are immeasurable. In our hometown hospital, I remember Carla, and Crystal and Libby. We became repeat offenders to the pediatric unit, and seeing their faces always brought a sense of peace. I remember Becky. My phone call to her would be the first of many. Her continued excellence in the care of my son and my family is inspiring. When we had to travel to St. Louis Children's hospital, I saw a level of nursing care that I never knew existed. I continue to be in awe of the knowledge and skill level of these men and women. I remember Danielle, Lindsey, and Maggie. I remember Sarah and Ericka. I recall countless other faces that brought such relief in the most horrific time of my life. I watched as Lindsey administered pain medication at my request, as my son took his last breath in my arms. How do you thank someone for that? I'm not sure I'll ever know. But, I thank you. All of you.
Nurses are integral parts of the healthcare system. Without us, it would not survive. Without our compassion, our dedication, our sore feet, our tired eyes, our constant worry for people we don't even know, it would cease to exist. I encourage you to remind a nurse just what he/she means to you. We love to hear that our work hasn't gone unnoticed. And fellow nurses, instead of just anger at the ignorance, let's do what we do best. Let's teach them. Let's show them. Let's strengthen our profession by empowering one another and educating the public about our work. If that means using a "doctor's stethoscope", so be it. If it means donning our "nurse's costume", we can do that too. But do it with the kindness and compassion that you were born to share. #NursesUnite
Saturday, August 15, 2015
One Desk Short
It's coming. God, it's coming. The first day of school. I guess I was right about one thing...that first day is going to be hard. What I didn't know was why. The first day of every school year is hard. Now with social media, that day is full of pictures of kids dressed and ready for the day. ALL of their kids. That's the part that burns. It actually causes a physical reaction. My stomach will be in knots and it will feel as if someone is holding a lit match to my chest all day long.
I really wanted to feel the "burden" of buying school supplies for four children this year. I wanted so badly to complain about my empty nest and how time has flown and my baby has grown up. I realize now what a gift that complaint would have been. It used to anger me when people complained about things I no longer had the privilege of experiencing. Time has changed anger to encouragement. I say to those who get to experience the gift of this "last" to complain away! Do it. It's a gift you're being given. I'm not saying I'll receive it well, but that should never deter someone from having their own unique experience. I know the stab and twist of pain associated with the first day of school will come. But that's MY gift. It's my perspective and my experience.
Easton should be entering kindergarten this year. Most mothers who have lost children at a young age will tell you that this particular missed milestone is a big one. We notice the children of those mothers whose bellies were swollen right along with us. We see them with their new haircuts, their backpacks that look too big on their little bodies. We see their hesitancy at leaving mom's side. That burns. It causes such a fire inside that we will wonder if others can actually see the flames. We'll be simultaneously happy for them and crushed for our own missed opportunity.
So, dear teacher, this year you will be one student short. He would have had loose curls and brilliant blue eyes. He likely would have been ornery and I would have to apologize for his sheepish, guilty grin. He probably would have needed some extra help and I probably would have been a permanent fixture in your classroom. He would have been kind and loving. He would have been inclusive and brave. He would have held my hand to the door, but then let go willingly to try something new. He would have been amazing. And I'm sorry that you will not have the opportunity to teach him, because he would have had plenty to teach those around him. Teacher, I will watch your class this year from afar. I won't be signed up to bring in the snacks. I won't volunteer at class parties. And you won't see me at the parent/teacher conference. But I will still feel the ups and downs of your school year. I will watch silently as the five year old babies become 6 year old children. I thank you for your willingness to include me and my son in the ways that you already have. I know this year will get very busy. You'll have plenty to do, and time will fly. But, selfishly, I beg of you not to forget that you are one backpack, one set of gym shoes, one desk short. And that my broken heart will be with you and this very special class of 2028.
Happy first day of kindergarten, my precious boy.
I really wanted to feel the "burden" of buying school supplies for four children this year. I wanted so badly to complain about my empty nest and how time has flown and my baby has grown up. I realize now what a gift that complaint would have been. It used to anger me when people complained about things I no longer had the privilege of experiencing. Time has changed anger to encouragement. I say to those who get to experience the gift of this "last" to complain away! Do it. It's a gift you're being given. I'm not saying I'll receive it well, but that should never deter someone from having their own unique experience. I know the stab and twist of pain associated with the first day of school will come. But that's MY gift. It's my perspective and my experience.
Easton should be entering kindergarten this year. Most mothers who have lost children at a young age will tell you that this particular missed milestone is a big one. We notice the children of those mothers whose bellies were swollen right along with us. We see them with their new haircuts, their backpacks that look too big on their little bodies. We see their hesitancy at leaving mom's side. That burns. It causes such a fire inside that we will wonder if others can actually see the flames. We'll be simultaneously happy for them and crushed for our own missed opportunity.
So, dear teacher, this year you will be one student short. He would have had loose curls and brilliant blue eyes. He likely would have been ornery and I would have to apologize for his sheepish, guilty grin. He probably would have needed some extra help and I probably would have been a permanent fixture in your classroom. He would have been kind and loving. He would have been inclusive and brave. He would have held my hand to the door, but then let go willingly to try something new. He would have been amazing. And I'm sorry that you will not have the opportunity to teach him, because he would have had plenty to teach those around him. Teacher, I will watch your class this year from afar. I won't be signed up to bring in the snacks. I won't volunteer at class parties. And you won't see me at the parent/teacher conference. But I will still feel the ups and downs of your school year. I will watch silently as the five year old babies become 6 year old children. I thank you for your willingness to include me and my son in the ways that you already have. I know this year will get very busy. You'll have plenty to do, and time will fly. But, selfishly, I beg of you not to forget that you are one backpack, one set of gym shoes, one desk short. And that my broken heart will be with you and this very special class of 2028.
Happy first day of kindergarten, my precious boy.
Sunday, August 9, 2015
I'm Sorry You're Here
It's dark down here in this hole I've grown accustomed to calling "home." Its cold and dark. Sometimes it's quiet and sometimes you can hear the screaming for miles. It's crowded too. But, in some sort of sick and twisted trick of the universe, there will always be room for one more. I wish no one else ever had to come down here, but they do. And we recognize them as they join us.
For the first few days they'll be in such a bizarre tunnel of disbelief that they almost seem energized at times. This couldnt be happening. It isnt real. You can see the utter denial in their faces and body language. That denial is periodically pierced with realization and the stabbing pain it causes them is so powerful that it resonates through all of us. Our wounds are reopened at the sight of fresh agony.
It's an awful club, with forced membership and a lifetime sentence. We are the mothers whose children have left this earth before us. We recognize one another by the vacancy of our eyes. We hurt for one another on a level understood only by us. And we wish with our whole being that our numbers would never grow. But inevitably, they do...one more thing for which we have no control. We are powerless to spare another mother of this horror. So, we learn to live with our pain and lean on one another as we try to remember reasons for breathing.
And so I say to the newest members, the ones stumbling around in the dark of this place, certain that they are alone...we're here. We're here and we're hurting too. We're broken and in pain and at some point during your flailing about, you'll reach out and bump into one of us. We'll offer love and support, but never a fix. We know this can't be undone. The pain can't be removed. In fact, your pain will reignite in us, that same horrifying agony that we see in your eyes. But despite the pitch black that you see before you now, I can offer this...there will eventually be the smallest glimmer of light down here. There is a ladder that will take you out when you need to see the sun for a moment. Don't worry, you won't get there too quickly and you'll even stumble back down a few times on your way up. But there are hands to hold as you climb both ways, because if you'll notice, during your flailing, you ran into us. It's because we still need to be here sometimes. We need the feeling of solitude and the odd comfort of our new friend, grief.
Although it seems impossible to you now, you will find the ladder someday. Reach for those who have gone before you. They know the way. But for right now, scream. Hit things. Hurt. Be angry. Be LIVID. I am so sorry for your pain, dear sister. It's one I wish I would never have to share. I will see you in the dark, even if you can't see me.
For the first few days they'll be in such a bizarre tunnel of disbelief that they almost seem energized at times. This couldnt be happening. It isnt real. You can see the utter denial in their faces and body language. That denial is periodically pierced with realization and the stabbing pain it causes them is so powerful that it resonates through all of us. Our wounds are reopened at the sight of fresh agony.
It's an awful club, with forced membership and a lifetime sentence. We are the mothers whose children have left this earth before us. We recognize one another by the vacancy of our eyes. We hurt for one another on a level understood only by us. And we wish with our whole being that our numbers would never grow. But inevitably, they do...one more thing for which we have no control. We are powerless to spare another mother of this horror. So, we learn to live with our pain and lean on one another as we try to remember reasons for breathing.
And so I say to the newest members, the ones stumbling around in the dark of this place, certain that they are alone...we're here. We're here and we're hurting too. We're broken and in pain and at some point during your flailing about, you'll reach out and bump into one of us. We'll offer love and support, but never a fix. We know this can't be undone. The pain can't be removed. In fact, your pain will reignite in us, that same horrifying agony that we see in your eyes. But despite the pitch black that you see before you now, I can offer this...there will eventually be the smallest glimmer of light down here. There is a ladder that will take you out when you need to see the sun for a moment. Don't worry, you won't get there too quickly and you'll even stumble back down a few times on your way up. But there are hands to hold as you climb both ways, because if you'll notice, during your flailing, you ran into us. It's because we still need to be here sometimes. We need the feeling of solitude and the odd comfort of our new friend, grief.
Although it seems impossible to you now, you will find the ladder someday. Reach for those who have gone before you. They know the way. But for right now, scream. Hit things. Hurt. Be angry. Be LIVID. I am so sorry for your pain, dear sister. It's one I wish I would never have to share. I will see you in the dark, even if you can't see me.
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