Choose Love and Waterproof Mascara

I’ve never seen anyone with Stevens Johnson before. It’s horrible. Any RN who’s ever had a patient with it knows what I’m saying. It’s the saddest, scariest, most traumatic thing I’ve ever encountered outside a burn unit. It made me feel like a horrible nurse. (non-medical peeps, don’t google that. Seriously. you don’t want to)

Damn, I was tired when I got home last night. It was Valentines Day and I worked. The heaviness of the prior days settled over me like a mantle of sadness, and I once again wondered why I had chosen such a hard profession.  I could have gone back to school to be anything. Anything at all... and I chose THIS? On PURPOSE? 

Then I pictured myself doing anything else, and I could not. In every imaginable reality I can conjure, I wear waterproof mascara and a stethoscope, and I work with people who cannot talk for themselves.

I wonder ~ do I work for them, or with them?, I thought as I popped the cork off a bottle of red.

I filled my glass past the point of convention, and then added a bit more. My first gulp was too big. It was not satisfying and it burned all the way down to my stomach. The warmth does nothing to quench my thirst, nor does it satisfy my need for mindlessness. It would take far more than a few glasses of wine to erase the pain of this weekend.

Not that I want to forget. Exactly. But the pain part of this weekend was that harsh raw pain that leaves a scar.

This weekend was a celebration of love and pain. And that shit wore me the fuck out. Not in the way I prefer.

I recently came to the conclusion that falling in love is something that happens to us. Being in love is something we choose.

So love is a choice. Choosing to look at the person beside you every day for 365 days, or 19,710 days in a row, and say to yourself, “I choose this person” is what it takes to BE in love. From my point of view, love is about acceptance, understanding, and grace.

And if Love looks like a choice, well Grace probably looks like something different to every person who wields it. It is a shield to protect your love, a sword to defend it, a pen to write it a letter, an offering in sacrifice, a song to celebrate it, a poem to express it, or maybe, just maybe, it’s much simpler than that.

Maybe, sometimes, grace looks like a three word question. This weekend I watched a dying man ask his wife, “are you OK?”

She turned around, surprised that he’d said anything. He’d been quiet for days. He had no strength for words, no air for them.

She said “yeah. Yeah, Matt. I’m OK.”

She was across the room, and I was at the bedside. He turned to me slightly and I asked if he was in pain, and he whispered yes.  The strength of his speech was fading. I offered him morphine, and he mouthed yes.

If you’ve ever seen a patient suffering from this illness, then you know that asking if he was in pain was the most redundant question in the world. No one could be in anything less than excruciating pain when in this condition. (again, non medical peeps, don’t google it)

And I knew. So I said, “later – if you can’t talk – can you show me if you have pain and want more morphine?”

And he reached up, searching for something, with his left hand. I took his palm in mine. His fingers were cool, puffy, and tight. My little fingers were dwarfed by the size of his. I felt a squeeze, and I looked in his pain-laden eyes and nodded. We had a plan. If he wanted morphine, and was in his right mind, he would find my hand and squeeze it.

Nothing I did could really help though. It was a gruesome sight. I did anything I could to offer comfort, but nothing I did could possibly help. And that haunted me.

The day went slow.

It dragged on.

Click. Click. Click. Went the minutes on the clock.

And suddenly it sped up. We were running out of time. Hurry, Hurry! Places everyone!

She was laying across his body sobbing and he knew he had to go. He couldn’t stay with her any longer. I felt a little helpless for her and a little hopeful for him that it would be quick. Please, I prayed to my God, please let it be quick for his man who suffers so much.

Please, I prayed, Let her forgive us all for telling her it’s OK to let him go.

And then, her ragged breathing was the only sound in the room. The muffled whir of the oxygen bubbling faded away and we realized he wasn’t straining for air anymore. He was quiet and at peace, with his love stretched over his body.

There would be no more searching gestures, no more hand squeezes and no more three word questions for his wife.

“He left me”, she turned on me with a broken angry voice.

“He waited until you said you were ok”, I replied in my most confident tone. “It was his choice. Don’t take that from him. He chose when. He chose and he waited for you to be 'ok'.”

Silence came over the room. I felt the gaze of all the family settle on me, though I did not break from looking at her. 

I watched her face crumble as understanding dawned...

Hers.

Theirs.

Mine.

Love is a choice. You get to choose to keep it, or let it go, and it is a choice you make for you. No one can choose for another.

Love is a choice.

And after it was over and the tears, the accusations, and the anger began to fade from the room, the great love this couple shared began to fill it. It filled it so full that I could see there wasn’t room for anyone else to squeeze in, and at the same time, I wanted to press myself inside the walls and soak in it a little. Forgiveness was offered, hugs were exchanged, and compliments were made.

“You were a godsend, I’m so glad you were our Nurse. You showed us such compassion, even when we were angry.”

And to that I said, and meant, “I think you all were put here in my path to show me something, too.”

Today I am less raw. I drank. I slept. I cried. 

I look at this couple, this family, and I wonder if they could ever possibly know how their love and pain brought understanding to this nurse on Valentine’s Day.

Trust Fall

When I was in high school, about 20 years ago, I was in Drama Club.  For those who know me, this is not a shock.  I’m loud.  Wicked loud. I’m loud enough to overcome my lack of dramatic talent.

Regardless, talent or no, we used to do this team building activity called a trust fall.  This is where you would just fall backwards and trust the people behind you to catch you.

Now, in most situations, this is not a dangerous event.  Of course, this was high school, so in theory I was asking a bunch of teenagers to catch me.  Sketchy.

I never could perform those trust falls.  Not one.

Trust. I guess one would argue that perhaps I just did not trust enough.  They might say I have trust issues.  But I argue no, that was not the issue at all.

I trusted myself not to fall.

I still do to this day.

It's the end of March, and that means it’s the most celebrated time of year in Richmond.

It is the season of Spring Running.   At least some portion of my friends are out knocking back miles for Boston, while the rest of them are out training for the little 10K that takes over the city every year.

The 10K will be talked about at Water coolers, Break rooms, Nurses Stations, Starbucks and two hundred other places.  The question, “Are you running?” will be asked of me personally at least 50 times in the next thirty six hours.

I am. But, I hesitated to run it this year.

See, a few years ago I had my “The Best Day Ever” at this 10K, and I always wonder if I will possibly beat that time again.  It would be disappointing to try and fail.

But then again...

My advice to the runner getting prepared to race any distance is to trust yourself.  Trust your training, trust your decision to go ahead with the insanity of running a specific distance as fast as you can, trust your race plan.  Trust your race plan, and STICK TO IT, even when if for some reason it feels easy in mile 1.

Most of all trust the inner voice of reason.  This is not to be confused with the inner voice of doubt.

The voice of doubt tells you that your goals are unachievable..  It may even go as far as to say that you should give up running all together, and take up a new hobby.  Suggestions may include shuffleboard or curling.

The voice of reason tells you to read books written by Olympians,  marathoners, Moms who run, and Guys who run 500 miles a month.   The sensible voice says, “listen to the stories your friends tell you with a critical ear, question the sources of advice on the Internet, edit, listen, and do not follow blindly”.

The voice of reason says if you run your training runs at X pace, there is no reason to question your race pace.

That’s also the voice of reason that says if you run your training runs at X pace, there is no reason to believe you’re suddenly going to be minutes per mile faster on race day.

The voice of reason reminds you, this is not a 5K.  Unless it’s a 5K.

The voice of reason tells us to run the race we trained to run.

And most of all, the voice of reason says to heed the bell.

Heed the bell.  

In high school there are bells for everything.  Alarms to wake you, bells to tell you when to enter the halls, when you have five minutes until class starts, when class is over, when you better be in class again.  Bells. For. Everything.

Some of the best advice I ever got was from a teacher in 9th grade who advised us to heed the bell.  She said, "if you’re ever on a date, and things get to the point when you start to over think a ‘thing’, that’s the bell in your mind saying to put on the brakes".

“Heed the bell” she harped in her rich southern drawl.

I took that advice to heart, and apply it to many things in my life.  From dating in high school 20odd years ago, to riding the Metro to Anacostia.  I know it is wise to listen to the bell.  A few times I have over ridden it have had disastrous consequences.  See above note about Anacostia Metro Stations.

So when I say Heed The Bell, this is not me advising you to quit on race day.  This is me advising you race smart.

The bell might tell you to walk a water stop at mile 3 because there are cups everywhere and it’s a bit dodgy.  Go ahead and drink while you’re at it.

The bell might tell you to sip from your bottle, even though you’re not thirsty.

A bell might tell you to TAKE THE GUMMI BEARS from the volunteer.

The bell might tell you UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES DO YOU TAKE THE GUMMI BEARS from the volunteer.

A bell might tell you to fall in beside someone who seems to be running the right pace, even if it feels slow.

Your bell might tell you to push yourself to hang with someone through a mentally challenging part of the course.

Regardless of what happens on race day, listen to the most important runner on the course.  That’s you, incase you wondered. Listen and believe in that person. They knew what they were doing when y’all signed up for the race. That runner was there for every step of training. No one else but YOU really knows what you feel like.

And that’s what I will have to do on Saturday when I get up and go for a run with my 30,000 BRFs.  I have to listen.

I have to Trust myself not to fall.

~ savor the run ~

waterproof mascara

I never heard anyone warn me about what it would be like as a nurse. I think they talked a bit, but I didn’t hear what they were saying.

Maybe if I’d read more, or studied harder in school, I would have known...?

Or

Maybe if I’d asked more nurses what I was getting into...?

Or more carefully picked my job...?

I never remember hearing anyone say that some days you will walk on air and own the universe.  Or that some days you will be part of the care team and other days you will feel like the only member of the care team.

I remember seasoned nurses talk about that deeply satisfying moment of being part of the team, or the bone crushing frustration of looking at a completely detached physician as he treats the patient like a pile of symptoms. But I didn’t hear them.

No one ever managed to communicate that sometimes the unit would be so full of total care patients that the Patient Care Techs would be running ragged and no nurses would be able to help each other. And certainly no one ever said that those are always the days where one of your patients will start circling the drain at 5 pm. Or that when you have 4 patients and one of them has a Lumbar Drain that needs draining Q1hr and it’s like watching GRASS GROW as it drips into the bag BUT YOU HAVE TO PAY EXTREMELY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THAT GRASS or YOU WILL KILL THE PATIENT that it would be excruciatingly frustrating to watch all your other patient’s meds get behind. But there are days like that.

In my entire time in nursing school, no one ever verbalized what it would feel like to be a nurse. That the emotions would sometimes be more draining than the 12 miles of walking and 2 tons of lifting that sometimes happens on a day at the Office. The emotional weight drags you into a black hole.

My professors were remiss. They never said that FROM NOW ON you must wear waterproof mascara, because you NEVER KNOW what will happen on your shift. There’s no telling which days will be regular days, and which days will be days where you hold the hand of your favorite patient while the MD tells her that the weakness in her body is cancer.  That there will be a moment in that conversation when she realizes what he is saying. She is leaving her husband. She doesn’t have much time. That they don’t know. That she needs to plan for what will happen after she is dead. That she is sick. They can’t. They can’t tell you what it will feel like when that patient grabs yours arms desperately and wraps them around her body while he continues to talk, or what her bones will feel like through her skin.

There is no way to warn you that her tears will make your uniform salty or that she will shake and shake with shame and fear after he leaves. That the words will stick in your throat when she gasps out the question, "But GBA...What does this mean?"

No one ever told me that there would be days when I would leave a patients room with mascara dripping down my cheeks.

They never warned me.  And while I wish I could tell the new nurses entering this field that the shared pain and suffering will be OK and WORTH IT and that the good days will outnumber the hard, and that IT IS OK TO CRY.... I can’t.

I can’t tell you, and even if I could, you wouldn’t hear me.

Just as I never could hear them.

Until now.

I think I'll go for a run.

~ respect the distance ~

Right Turns

It happened again.

I was praying for the end of my run by mile 2. At 2.68 I had checked my watch at least twice. I started wondering if there was something wrong with me. I showed up to run rogue, and instead I wanted to run away.

Why was running so hard today?

My legs were dead and my heart felt as though it was going to erupt from my chest. At some point I was struggling just to put one foot in front of the other, and all I could say to myself was, “Just try to hang on to Dead Ass Last and you can turn back with the group that is running 5 miles instead of 6+.”

So, I made a new goal.

I would hold on until the turn, and run the shorter distance. In fact, I got a little cocky with the new plan and I ran side by side with Harry Potter for a few strides. He mocked me gently, I pushed back, and then he dropped my sorry a** like I was standing on the street waiting for the bus. I pushed myself to try to catch him again, even though I know I can’t do that. I pushed myself because I knew I would be running the short route.

The pack bifurcated at an intersection.

All I needed to do was turn left and I would be Dead Ass Last behind the shorter distance pack. A right turn ensured an extra mile of torture.

I stood on the dark corner and watched everyone run away from me.

Head lamps and blinkies were the only thing I could see, though I could hear snipits of conversations. “...said so... Shamrock will be... was fine... elbow now... retirement plan...” FYI~ runners are weird

I had about 3 seconds to choose or I was going to find it excruciating to catch either group. Left for 5, Right for 6.2ish.

3

“Run Short!” my mind screamed.

2

I stepped left...

1

...and turned right.

My spirit sighed in relief even as my legs complained. I dug deep and caught the two women who represented the Dead Ass Last crew.

Why (the f*ck) did I turn RIGHT?

Chasing the group for an extra mile sounded like a terrible idea almost as soon as I did it. It became even more terrible sounding as we started the first in a series of climbs. Yet, I was elated by the terrible decision.  As further validation, one of my companions pointed out that being Dead Ass Last at Rogue is still faster than the average runner, by far.

In other words, we don't suck.  

The last climb was horrible, I might add. I almost quit. I dry heaved about a block from the end, and stumbled to a walk. One of the People I Don’t Know grabbed my arm – “NO! You DID NOT RUN THAT HARD TO QUIT NOW.”

I ran side by side with her to the end. And I appreciated every bit of energy she shared with me for those last steps. She was amazing, and positive, and all the things we need to be for each other on days like today.

Some days are harder than others. And in that way, Running once again proves that it is just like Life.

Today I further clarified my personal distinction between the pain of an injury, the pain of general fatigue, and the deeply satisfying pain of a hard run.

Running is hard. If it was easy they would have named it something else.

Like, “napping”.

~ savor the run ~

For Good Measure

I have swagger.

I do. I have for a while now. 

Recently, as I was looking at an ancient photo of 8 year old me, I saw myself in her eyes and thought, “I’ve finally grown into the woman that girl was meant to be.” She was brimming with swagger.

I don’t want to get into the details about where my swagger went, but for most of my adult life my swagger has been muted. It was there though, stuck to me, like a piece of lint on a wool coat.

Too small to use, too insignificant to get rid of, it sat there unnoticed until I took up running.

That’s when I started feeding it.

And little by little it grew into something worthwhile. I nurtured my swagger, I listened to it as it started talking back to the negative inner voice that haunts so many of us. Eventually my swagger started forming opinions on many things; it weighed in on my life choices.

It kicked the negative inner voice in the face a couple of times for good measure.

This week I realized that my swagger was my vulnerability.
This week I realized that my swagger is my vulnerability.

I embraced it, accepted it, and nurtured it, and because of that, I was able to achieve more. My swagger is the sword I used to beat back shame.

It is shame that told me I was a failure; it is shame that told me I should be afraid. 

Every day that I go out to run with Those People I Don't Know, I fail. I fail to keep up.  I fail to run as fast as they run. In short, I am a failure.

If keeping up is the measure of success, then I am a failure.

But what if LIFE is the measure of success?

In failing, I am living. In my failure I find laughter, I find strength, and I find the courage to go out and fail again.

I would rather epically fail trying to improve myself, than to sit on the sidelines waving a flag of mediocrity and watch as life passes. Certainly if I quit running with Those People I Don't Know, I won't fail anymore, but at least as a failure, I am in the mix.

My swagger's opinion is that the only way to succeed is to fail at something, and still show up tomorrow to run again.

~ savor the run ~