Confessions of a human nurse
“ ‘Look, it’s just once I saw you with the police, I realized they could do a better job taking care of you than I ever will. ‘” (“Shazam,” Rachel, Shazam’s mother) My throat closed up and my eyesight blurred. It was supposed to be a moment to empathize with the hero of the story, but all I had was a terrible feeling of hearing my own vague feelings being put into words. This mother was a minor character who’s role consisted mostly in her absence and then in her ability to push herself out of her son’s life for good and leave him to the family waiting for him. I cried that night for the umpteenth time since having my own kid months before. Only this time there were words to go with the crushing feeling of failure: maybe someone else should raise my son. It physically hurt to consider the idea, but it seemed like the only logical response to my apparent inability to be the parent I always thought I would or should be. Don’t get me wrong, I cared for my son. I tried. A lot. I tried breastfeeding. After 18 weeks of struggling, sleeplessness and physical/emotional discomfort with rare moments of bonding, my body gave out and I switched my son fully to formula. I tried. I failed. At barely 4 weeks, I medicated my own son to help him cope with the gas problems that had him writhing and screaming in pain. Then added vitamins because breastfeeding alone was judged inadequate. I tried. I failed. At roughly 10 weeks, I went back to work. I was home as much as possible and there for him every night. Still, there was a nagging at the back of my mind that it wasn’t enough. But I tried. I failed. From his birth to 8 months old, my child resisted sleep. He was up multiple times a night. His napping skills during the day deteriorated with age. Even on maternity leave, I could not run my life on such a schedule, so I tried putting him on the start of a schedule by 2 months. I implemented a full schedule by the time I had a consistent work schedule, desperate for sleep and sanity. I tried. I failed. In all those months, the two of us found moments of fun and smiles. I found things he enjoyed and we had some fun times together. But even when it seemed like a win, the feeling of failure haunted me. And looming darkest of all was the lack of feelings toward my son. I cared for him. I loved him. I was afraid to lose him. But there was none of the wonder and joy that seemed to characterize most young parents. It was like the volume had been turned down on all my positive emotions (joy, love, compassion, etc) and up on fear and anger and frustration. I couldn’t even pretend on social media posts. The guilt of having to pretend I was thrilled at being a parent, instead of struggling to feel anything besides epic inadequacy, was too much. Pretending was just another reminder I wasn’t good enough on my own. I was also afraid to tell anyone for fear of sounding or, worse, proving myself to be messed up somehow and unfit to be a parent. So, what was the answer? What’s the happy ending to this depressing view of parenting a newborn? At nine months, the fog I did not realize was there started to lift. Simultaneously, my child began to sleep consistently and I started to pick up an old hobby of reading, including the biographies of believers. Finally, as mysteriously as they had disappeared, the feelings that had been dormant or muted since pregnancy, came back to life. I didn’t become a bubbly, enthusiastic new parent, but I got a second chance at life with a kid. I tried. And I get to keep trying again.
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To my son: One thing I should make clear from the start is, you are an experiment and the thoughts on this page in no way negate that. Whatever I may have learned so far is a drop in the ocean of what I have left to learn. But it’s a start. Calling you an experiment is not exactly the classic, loving, parental response, but it is the truth. I have never been a parent before and everything with you is new. Your dad and I survived being experiments so there’s hope for you as well. No doubt, in about thirteen years you will clarify my mistakes at length, but till then, I will do my best to figure out each step as we go. You are further an experiment because while there is so much I can show and teach you, it will be in a world miles away from the one I knew as a kid. Due to security issues and time, that place is no longer the one I knew either and not one I can safely show you. I don’t regret that, but that does mean you and I are going to be creating your childhood together from scratch. For better or worse, there are many things from mine that simply cannot be duplicated for you. I can’t send you down the road with your dad to eat at a food stand or hole-in-the-wall restaurant that would make an inspector faint. I can’t send you outside to explore a compound on your own for hours. I can’t show you a dust cloud so thick it feels like winter and you can write your name on your dresser every morning. I can’t show you an open air market place and spend an hour hunting for the right flip flops. Flip flops don’t even mean the same thing here, in style or necessity. So many memories that cannot be relived with you. So many things that we must figure out in a new context. You are an experiment that I prayed for and then prepared never to see happen (it’s a knack adults acquire. Not recommended). Honestly, you as a reality is only just starting to register (no need to kick harder. You have made your opinion on the issue perfectly clear). It is simply a wonder I actually get the honor of raising you. And flooring to consider my own audacity in ever thinking I could. You are not the typical miracle child, not a surprise, no long wait, but that is the only term I have for you (yes, even when you dig your heel into my liver). In the face of all this, it would seem I should be a nervous wreck, between my own ignorance and the challenges of getting you here and raising you. For good or ill, that is not the case. Where I was raised, after you arrived, I would have strapped you to my back and done whatever needed to be done for the rest of life. Life never stops and you arriving is part of it (sorry to burst your bubble. You are special, but life will not stop even for you). Life right now is a special kind of crazy, but you are still here and coming. You are already part of my life (seriously, you do not need to kick any harder to convince me). You are our miracle experiment and you are along for the ride with us, come what may for however long God gives us together. So, I’ll strap you on (try to leave my liver alone from the outside. I actually need that) and on we will go. Because that, my son, is life as God has given it and we are not going to pretend otherwise. So, my dear little experiment, let’s do this. I'll be the last one standing Two hands in the air, I'm a champion You'll be looking up at me when it's over I live for the battle, I'm a soldier ("Champion" Carrie Underwood) Soldiers don't train for peace. They train to make peace. They train to keep the peace. But soldiers aren't trained for peace. Soldiers follow orders. They don't give them. Where there is a fight, there the soldiers will be also. No one asks them if they want to fight. No one asks how they feel about their orders. That's not what soldiers do. Someone gives the order. Soldiers follow orders. Soldiers train and soldiers obey. Where there is a fight… soldier, that is where you go. Where there is a wrong… soldier, that is where you go. Where there is fear… Where there is pain… Where there is ridicule… Where there is no public recognition… Where there is no thanks… Where there is risk of losing it all on this earth… soldier, that is where you go. Because soldiers are not trained for peace. Soldiers exist because there is war. And so, the soldiers train. Some fight with bullets. Some with laws. Some with words. Some with tools of a trade. And some by showing up every day and facing the fight because they are soldiers. And no soldier trains for peace. Soldiers make the peace. "His master replied, 'Well done, good and faithful servant.'" (Matt 25:23) I'm coming home Tell the world I'm coming home Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday I know my kingdom awaits and they'd forgiven my mistakes ("Coming Home" Skylar Grey) In the chair across from me… sits a woman who works hard every day. Loves her kids. Wants the best for them. Can't seem to win for losing no matter how hard she tries, but keeps trying for the kids' sake. She just can't take this last straw…. That could be me. In the chair across from me… sits a woman whose mind and body won't do what she wants. She struggles every day, disoriented and fighting to make sense of the world that looks down on her for not being able to "keep up" or "get over it." She's tried, but this is too much… That could be me. In the chair across from me…a girl is doubled over with sobs. She's the good kid. The one who doesn't make mistakes, who was going to get through college and start a career. She's smart, always did the right thing. Golden child. Teacher's pet. Nerd. She's going places, just not this one… That could be me. In the chair across from me… sits a couple. She's can barely get the words out between tears, but keeps trying to apologize that it ever happened. That they are here at all. They tried not to, she did everything recommended because they'd agreed this was a bad time for another kid… That could be me. In the chair across from me… sits a young couple, just beginning to see a life together. She's messed up, wild eyed at the news, scared, angry, desperate to escape. He reaches out, helpless, trying to help, trying to find her a way out that doesn't cost him his child even as he cries for the loss he knows is certain. She shoves him away… That could be me. In the chair across from me… sits a woman who can't look me in the eye. Ashamed to even be here, ashamed to be "one of those woman." The ones who couldn't stay out of trouble, even when she tried. The one now struggling to come to grips with this new reality before the judgement of her society comes to bear. If only she could just make it all go away… That could be me. Little blue eyes So open, unsuspecting Little fingers reaching Little toes stretching Little face turned my way Little heart trying to keep beating Where are you going, little blue eyes? You used to show off for the camera Used to play each chance you got Now your mind is somewhere else Your little eyes staring wide-eyed at something far away Little eyes, blue, brown and black What I wouldn't do to have you back Healthy, strong and smiling With bodies able to keep you here Little eyes, blue, brown or black What made you leave so soon? I still see you sometimes. The look in someone's eyes when I break the news. The way she turned, reacted. His posture. Her demeanor. The body language of a stranger. The passing remark of a friend. An article someone shared. You are suddenly back. And I just wanted to say… I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I wasn't fast enough. I'm sorry I couldn't find the problem much less the cure. I'm sorry there were no answers to the questions you never got to finish asking. I'm sorry I couldn't make the past un-happen. I'm sorry I couldn't change what he did to you. I'm sorry I couldn't give you a reason to stop hurting yourself. I'm sorry I couldn't stop you from hurting. I'm sorry I couldn't help you see past now and hold on a little longer. I'm sorry I couldn't give you a reason to stay here on earth. I'm sorry I couldn't stop you making the greatest mistakes of your life. I'm sorry I couldn't stop you making the choices you did. I'm sorry I can't make you un-do and un-feel the consequences. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough. I'm sorry I wasn't fast enough. I'm sorry I can't make it all go away. I'm sorry it wasn't enough. There are some who come back again. Always the same line, "You probably don't remember me… " Yes, yes, I do. I remember all of you. The look in your eyes, the panic, the fear, the pleading, the tears, blank determination, painful ignorance. I remember your voices: angry, hurting, bitter, trapped, bargaining, threatening, confused. I remember your backs as some of you walked away. Oh, yes, I remember you. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't enough. Sincerely, Just a Human Nurse In medicine it is known as third spacing. Third spacing is, basically, the movement and collecting of fluids into areas in which it does not belong. For example, internal bleeding. Blood in blood vessels: good. Blood pooling anywhere else in body: bad. There is a similar phenomenon among those who have lived as cultural nomads, growing up overseas/moving frequently. After years of moving between countries and cultures, cities and subcultures, such persons no longer easily fit into any one place and create a temporary new home wherever they happen land: third spacing. The symptoms vary in type and frequency. For myself, they have included: -Feelings of being homesick with a varying idea of what home I miss exactly -A sense of being lost with no proper memory of why -Restlessness and difficulty settling completely in any one location or group for longer than 2 years -Keeping the door open on all relationships for the moment when one or both us moves (out of state, out of the country, etc. Not to be confused with the theoretical concept of an open relationship) -Identifying myself by last known long term location rather than by the country issuing my passport -Being honestly tired of change while at the same time proactively seeking it before it happens (better to act than be acted upon) There is another symptom peculiar at least to my personal journey with Third Spacing: self-pity. It's easy enough to do especially when running away/moving is no longer an option and the condition has to faced. You can't run forever. And not everyone has to move away from you. At some point, you have to take a stand and face the fear and bewilderment or run forever in denial. In the midst of a great pity party on how hard Third Spacing was making my life, a single comment flipped my view of my "disease." "I never want to take you for granted." My first thought was, I wish I could promise something like that…. followed by shock as I realized that is EXACTLY what Third Spacing does for me! Every few months, every year or two, my own brain refuses to let me take my life and those in it for granted. Instead of living like an invalid, I can live like Dory in "Finding Nemo," taking joy in rediscovering my world over and over again. Instead of rehashing all I have "lost," I can relive the awe of what God has chosen to give me. Instead of being lost, I can enjoy the fact that I have been found and there is aways a place for me here and in eternity. Is this how I would wish for such a lesson? No. Is it worth it? Absolutely. We're in a mighty conflict here/the army of the Lord/we must join forces standing tall/and lean upon his word/The enemy is now in view/and bravely circles round/then comes a cry from the battlefield/another soldier down ("Another Soldier Down," The Isaacs) Dear God, I quit. Have you heard what they're saying??? It's pointless. Why do I even try? They don't listen. They get what they came for and leave without actually hearing what I said. I created them, even died for them. Same response (John 1:11, Is 29:13). I know we're supposed to love and all that, but I'm not you. This is too hard. Impossible actually. How do you love someone who spits in your face and is so petty and rude? Indeed. How? You can't. I do. And only I can. That's the point. This was never about what you could do for me, but what I can do through you (1 John 4:10, Rom 5:8-10, Col 1:29). I don't want to do this anymore, Lord. No matter what I do, it doesn't seem to make a difference. We can see more, do more, hear more and all I do is hurt more and sleep less and the problems don't end. What difference does it make, really? I gave my Son over to die, made solving the problem of sin so simple a child could figure it out, yet somehow people persist in looking anywhere else (1 Peter 3:18, Matt 18:2-4). If we're doing such good work, why do I feel so miserable? If this what you called me to, why does it feel so dark? Why does it seem like we're getting no where? My love, I promised you many things, including pain of which you have felt only a fraction. My Son died and all who follow must be prepared to give nothing less as I made clear from the beginning (John 16:33). You see, my Son did not just die for you, he also rose and lives again for you. So now you too are called to serve me by serving others in dying and living (Rom 4:25, 8:34) I don't love them, Lord. Honestly, I don't even want to. It hurts too much. I'm tired of hurting. Lord, they're unloveable! So are you. I CHOSE to love you, willingly and freely (Eph 1:3-8). I took pleasure in it, yes, but please remind me where I ever said it was or is easy (Zeph 3:17). One day I will right the wrongs and there will be an end of the sin and injustice that you see. My apparent silence is not agreement or passivity (Ps 50:21, 1 Pt 3:1-10). I see. I care. I will judge and it will be set right and no hurt will be truly pointless. Lord, do you know what happens to them? The ones who weren't saved? Do you know what happens to those tiny limbs, to the perfect beating hearts? I do. I see and am with them from the moment they were conceived and did not leave them when they passed from this world straight into my arms (Ps 139:13-16, Rom 8:3). They were not saved from death as you wanted, but rather through it (Dan 3:17). They are still mine. And so are you, my little solider. Keep going until I come for you. Stop fighting battles never meant for you, rely on me for the ones that are and trust me to win the war (Rev 21). After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages standing before the throne and before the Lamb, dressed in white robes… (Rev 7:9) He who testifies to these things says, 'Surely I am coming soon.' Amen. Come, Lord Jesus! (Rev 22:20) Case #1 (3 Weeks)- Hey, Mommy! My heart started to beat today! I can move my heart! What should I wear today? Can't be late to work again. Rent is due tomorrow. Can't be late again. Case #2 (4 Weeks)- Hey, Mommy! I'm getting so big! My heart can beat so fast! I've got eyes and ears and a mouth too! So awesome! Why is he such a jerk? Seriously, I don't have time for this. I told him I wasn't feeling good, but he doesn't get it. Work is hard, this stomach bug is the worst. Why can't he just understand? Case #3 (5 Weeks)- Hey, Mommy! I've got arms! And legs! Not sure what they're for yet, but can't wait to show you! This cannot be happening. Not now. The test has to be wrong. I'll try another one. What will I do? Case #4 (7 Weeks)-Hey, Mommy! I've got toes! Look, look! TOES!!! Can this get any better?! How did this happen? I was so careful. Did everything the doctors said. Took my meds, birth control, did everything right. Now they say I'll never survive a pregnancy. I can't die now. My kids have no one else. Case #5 (8 Weeks) -Hey, Mommy! I can move! Aaaah! I'm so excited! I just want to move all day long! Until I need to nap. Like now. This was not a part of the plan. Everything was just starting to get back on track. I just caught up on the bills and debt payments. The end was in sight. I got the promotion at work. I've got to be there more than ever. No way I can I handle a kid! This can't happen. Case #6 (10 Weeks)- Hey, Mommy! I can move my fingers! Oh, wait. I have fingers! Aaaah, new toys! Can you see me waving them? I have to do this. I can't let myself get attached. There's no way I can afford a kid. Mom and Dad would be so mad and disappointed. I'm not even out of high school! Case #7 (11 Weeks) - Hey, Mommy! P.S. I'm a girl. Can't show you yet, but totally a girl. Not again. We just had one. Five was a stretch, but six might break us and the youngest is only 5 months old! I can't do this again. It's too much too soon. Case #8 (11 Weeks)- Hey, Mommy! I can pee! I totally peed today! We just got married! There were plans to make, places to go and we have nothing. Now we never will. It's not a good time. At all. Maybe in a couple more years. We're not mature enough for this! Case #9 (12 Weeks)- Hey, Mommy! Look, I can do a somersault. I tried to suck my fingers, but it's harder than it seems. So close, but fingers are tricky things. He's the one who wanted the kid. Now he won't answer the phone. He won't pay child support either. There's no way I can do this alone. The sooner it's over the better. Case #10 (16 Weeks)- Hey, Mommy! I love to move and dance and twist and turn! There's not much room, but I'm getting stronger every day! I kick a lot now. Can you feel me? Why? Why me? I didn't ask to get raped. I just wanted to forget it all and now this. I can't keep something that is a part of him. It wasn't my fault, why do I keep paying for it? Case #11 (17 Weeks)- Hey, Mommy. What's going on? There are loud voices. I don't know why, but they scare me. Are you okay, Mommy? I can hear your heartbeat going really fast. What's wrong, Mommy? What am I going to do? I'll never get out now. He beat me again last night. My sister said she'd take me, but with a kid he'll just keep coming back. I need to cut him off and everything to do with him. Case #12 (19 Weeks)- Hey, Mommy! Getting a little snug in here, but I'm okay. I've got everything I need to meet you. Just need to get a little bigger. You'll see! I have no choice. This is what I have to do. Just get it over with. Hey, Mommy. What's happening? Something's wrong. I'm scared. Mommy? Mommy!!!!!! God forgive me. It is finished- John 19:30 To the Children I Never Got to Meet: We were never officially introduced, so it may sound strange when I tell you I took your first and last pictures. You were in your own little world at the time, some of you weren't much more than a flicker of a heartbeat. Some of you were trying to suck your fingers with varying degrees of success. Some of you were sleeping. Others were doing somersaults and wiggling non-stop, stretching and pushing on the new restraints of your surroundings. Some of you waved for the camera while others turned your backs or covered your faces with your hands. It may seem strange that I can tell you all this and yet have to admit I never met you in person. I don't know that you have any memory of your time on earth. I hope you don't. The ending of your story here wasn't pretty. Whether it was six weeks or five months, you were here, you existed. You made your mom and dad parents, for the first time or the fifth. Each tiny hand, each tiny face, each kick you tried, each bubble you blew happened and was not erased when you left. Thank you for showing me the wonder of your Creator by doing what you were created to do for those few weeks or months. I wish we could have met in person and someday I believe we still will. Just not here. For now, you have an eternity of glory and worship before your Creator and I have a life of worship through service on this earth to complete. Maybe I'll get to meet some of you here in person. I want to so much, though I know you who are gone already wouldn't come back even if you could. So stay there. Someday, I will join you and the thousands upon ten thousands who have gone before and are still to come. And may God be able to say "Well done, good and faithful servant." Until then, forgive me. For thinking of myself and for holding back only to cry when it's too late. For not being able to stop what happened to you after the pictures. Remind me that the God you now see face to face is able to save no matter what and is worthy of more than I think I have to give. Remind me that you have and always will be His children. Sincerely, The Nurse Who Saw You on Ultrasound |
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August 2018
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