Spencer's Mom

Except a kernel of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.

The Good Dirt

The “garden”

Behind the house, within the backyard, is another yard enclosed in a chain link fence. When I first saw it, I thought the other yard was an odd cutout of the neighbors yard. Why else would you run a chain link fence through a nice looking yard? But the fence had been there for some time. Now I figure the previous owners, the only other owners of our house, had put it up to protect their garden, probably when deer roamed through.

That garden had vanished when we moved in. Old Mr. and Mrs. Drew had also. He built the house in 1951, just in time to start a family, grow some more kids, bump out the attic for room sake and tack on a sunroom and a shed in the back. He could walk to work, to the Steamship Authority, where he ran the parking lot like it was his own front yard. Then he retired. The wife taught swimming I heard and raised the best tomatoes around. They grew old together, following each other closely into nursing homes and then the grave. In the linen closet upstairs I left the peeling masking tape that the woman’s diligent hands had taped to the pine shelves. “Twin sheets,” “washcloths.” I like to think of her hanging out diapers between the two thick posts in the back, then checking the tomatoes.

“One plants, one waters but God gives the increase.” 1 Corinthians 3:6

I try to remember this when I do anything for Jesus: when I sit in a little classroom at the county jail with 12 poker face women, when I play “Amazing Grace” for the hundredth time, when I ask a dying man if he knows where he’s going. Chances are, others have gone before me and I’m not sure if I’m carrying a spade or a watering can. Or maybe I’m dropping a tiny seed into the darkness. It doesn’t matter though. Only God makes it grow, makes a tomato turn red, makes anything break through the sandy crust of my herb garden

Last week I caught my husband leaning over the chain link fence, staring into the garden. We dug it up three years ago, the ground still rich and dark from the Drews. Living on a sand bar, you appreciate real dirt and we laughed and hollered like we had struck gold. But C.B. knew it could be even better, so we trucked in dirt from a lost farm outside of Bridgewater State Hospital, an ancient manure pile that only insiders knew of, and the dirt, when my husband had finished screening it, looked like Italian espresso. I knew he was looking at the dirt.

When I look at the garden, I see tomatoes, little gold ones and fat red ones, and cucumbers twisting off vines, and I see some squash and jalapeños. So he lets me plant after he prepares. Right beside the garden is a small patch of rocky sand that I call my herb garden. The Dirt Man doesn’t notice it, on purpose, and it becomes a wild tangle of basil with a thyme bush that grows ever larger each year, choking out the oregano and wrestling with the mint. It’s a study in adversity for me because I have no patience for preparing or weeding or even moving rocks. No sissy herbs in my garden.So then neither he who plants is anything, nor he who waters , but God who gives the increase. Now he who plants and he who waters are one, and each one will receive his own reward according to his own labor. 1 Corinthians 3:7 NKJV

 The Dirt Man gets ready, and I dream a lot. God made us for each other I think because you need both just to hope. And sometimes you can hope and pray with all your might and you’re still left with just dirt.

“And each one will receive his own reward according to his labor.”

Not how big your tomatoes are or how many peppers you pick, but how hard you work – digging, sweating and praying for rain. This gives me peace when I have a hard night at the jail. Sometimes they just stare at me like I just climbed down a ladder from my spaceship.

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” I asked last week, just so I could stop talking.

They laughed, but it was a sweet laugh, like they were grateful to me just for that.

“Good crazy,” one of them said. And that was enough.

Way in the back, behind the old shed, where the dark forest is overtaking the outer edge of the Drew’s boundary markers, stands a tree. I keep meaning to look it up, but it’s a pretty tree and I know he planted it there, years ago when there was no forest and it was just a sapling. Now no one ever sees that tree, not even the neighbors and even I forget it’s there until I happen upon it when I’m dumping leaves in the compost heap or moving one of the fourteen garbage cans around that my husband thinks we will need someday.

Right now, that tree will take your breath away, like you walked into another world. It’s covered in soft white blossoms, each with a whisper of pink around the center – majestic and lovely like it’s Queen of the forest. No one sees it except for squirrels and angels but it’s no less pretty for them than me.

I think that’s how God’s kingdom works. We plant, then water, then wait. We might wait a long time. Maybe I will follow the Dirt Man into a nursing home and a young woman with a bushel of babies will run her fingers over the old masking tape in the linen closet and smile. Maybe her husband likes dirt. Seasons change.

These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised. Hebrews 11:39

Sometimes when I am having a sad day, when I just want to go home, my husband will smile and say, “One day closer to glory!” The reward.

But until then, he will get the dirt ready and I will dream and God will send the rain. There is joy in the going, there is rest in the labors of all who have gone before us and there is a God who loves to plant hidden treasure along the way, a taste of glory here on earth, to be discovered when you play Amazing Grace 101 times or maybe right in your very own back yard.

The Club With No Title (and Five Things You Can Do To Help)

        We don’t have a title!
I wasn’t quite sure I understood my friend, sitting across her living room from me.
         What?
         We don’t have a title. You know, like woman who have lost their husbands are called “widows.” But mothers who have lost a child have no title. She looked at me as if I’d have a logical explanation. Honestly, in the 20 years that I’ve belonged to this peculiar group, this thought has never occurred to me. But I also understood that this precious woman, who has not even buried her son yet, was not thinking in a linear way. It’s just part of the crazy package, trying to get a foothold somewhere, feeling for something familiar or safe. But you can’t. Instinctively you know you can’t because it’s all changed – everything. People like to call this Shock. I guess it’s as good a word as any, although it seems to denote something fleeting, that when it subsides, you will be “back to normal.” But there’s the Big Lie.

         Recently I was contacted by a stranger. She said she read my book and loved it. Then she said she gave it to her psychiatrist friend who was visiting from San Francisco because she had a client who lost a son two years ago and “was stuck.” I paused at this. Stuck? According to who? To an algorithm learned in med school? To an impatient counselor who is frustrated by a mother’s inability to “move on?” This could be conjecture, but in the 20 years that I have sat across a table sharing coffee with women who are trying to comprehend a world without their child, I still can’t come up with a Normal. In fact, I tell them, “Be as crazy as you want and take your time. There is no wrong way.” This drives people nuts who don’t belong to this club. You don’t get it, you never will, unless you lose a child. And we hope you don’t.

        My mother lost a son when she was 36 and I was eight. After that, every time she heard of a child dying, she’d look away, her eyes suddenly turning dark, and say, “Someone’s life is about to never be the same.” Deep calls to deep. She knew somewhere there was a mom falling to her knees, a mom becoming one of us – the very exclusive group with no title.

        I’m often called when this happens locally. I don’t think it’s because people think I have an answer or some kind of formula. You can’t stop a tsunami. More and more I believe it’s because people are afraid. It’s not only unfamiliar, but it touches a deep nerve within every parent.

Maybe I’m not really in control.

        But the thought is quickly vanquished, like a bad dream. Instead, we try to figure it all out, just like Job’s friends in a story ancient as time, but still so profound today. Or we run.

“An odd by-product of my loss is that I’m aware of being an embarrassment to everyone I meet. At work, at the club, in the street, I see people, as they approach me, trying to make up their minds whether they’ll ‘say something about it’ or not. I hate it if they do, and if they don’t…Perhaps the bereaved ought to be isolated in special settlements like lepers.”― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

         And then I get calls like this: “What can I do for …?” or “I don’t know what to say!” That’s a good place to start. So here’s my five things. I know there’s a lot more, but this is just a punch list to get you started.
1. Be a listener. That means forever, because a mother always wants to talk about her kids. Yes, even when they’re dead. You can’t make us feel worse, or remind us of our loss. We don’t forget, ever. We just get good at acting like we have so you can be more comfortable. I still love it when people tell me Spencer stories, or just say, “I miss him!”
2. Please don’t say, “Call me if you need anything.” I know you mean it, but we won’t. We have a hard time getting fully dressed every morning. We don’t know what we want or need, other than our child back. So be creative. Surprise us!
3. You can’t fix it. We don’t really notice what you do, it’s just that you care. Conversely, we also notice what you don’t do, or if you’re not there.
4. We learn to smile, to become two people. A public person, and a private person with a pain deep and inexpressible. It’s a long exhausting road. Remember that. We need a lot of grace. Be gentle.
5. This is not a matter of who is strong. No mom is strong enough to bury their child. Dumb cliches like “God never gives us more than we can bear!” or cheap platitudes like, “At least you have two other kids!” or “I could never go through that!” offer no comfort, and maybe just add to our pain and isolation. Try being quiet, giving hugs and just being there.

        Right after I lost my son, one of his dearest friends, Emily, came and stayed with me for a couple of months. I’m sure she did a lot I never noticed, but her sweet presence, her smile and sometimes her tears mixed with mine gave me great comfort. She was just there, accepting my craziness, no answer to offer, just love. Did I mention love?

        I’d like to come up with a snappy title, but the truth is, we know who we are. We greet each other with a sense of relief and familiarity. “You know,” we will say. I do.

        Almost twenty years down this never-ending road, I am grateful for so many who chose to come close. In a fumbling, awkward dance of love, you reached into my brokenness and stayed. Thank you for that. But I could never be where I am today if it weren’t for the one who was always there, never left and still stays – Jesus, “a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.” He was the anchor that kept me, the Healer whose hand stayed pressed against my shattered heart. And He is the only one who can Redeem – beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning. Find Him now, before the waters begin to rise. It’s the very best thing of all the Things You Can Do.

Therefore let all the faithful pray to you
    while you may be found;
surely the rising of the mighty waters
    will not reach them.
 You are my hiding place;
    you will protect me from trouble
    and surround me with songs of deliverance.

Psalm 32:6,7

Miss you Spence!

 

The Day After Thanksgiving (or Get Back to Work)

I prefer to eat in the break room.

***After writing several Thanksgiving blogs, here is a repost honoring the day after. And giving thanks for Work!

 

“The test of the life of a saint is not success, but faithfulness in human life as it actually is. We will set up success in Christian work as the aim; the aim is to manifest the glory of God in human life, to live the life hid with Christ in God in human conditions. Our human relationships are the actual conditions in which the ideal life of God is to be exhibited.” Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest

My husband and I will often read Oswald Chambers to each other in the morning, as we are making our lunches, pulling on work clothes and adjusting to a new day. “Ozzie,” as we affectionately call him, has a way of jump-starting, or butt-kicking you into reality. After a wonderful Sunday spent in worship, fellowship and rest, Mondays mean coming down off the mountaintop, into my scrubs and punching into work or “human life as it actually is.”

It’s still dark this time of year as I head out, but the payoff is watching the sun rise over the cranberry bog where I park and pray. Over time I’ve watched deer, coyotes, fox and rabbits wake up too, along with an array of birds, and I feel like God is right there with us, with all the possibilities of a brand new day.

I read recently that the problem with America is we are not a woven fabric anymore, each life an intricate thread in the tapestry of life. Instead we are a bunch of small worlds, separated by our imagined or reinvented selves on Facebook/You Tube/Instagram islands. Social media has de-socialized us, breeding all of the psychosocial sicknesses that accompany loneliness and isolation. The deadliest new variants are depression, fear, addiction and suicide.

I like my job because when you are so sick that you are in a hospital bed with one of those ridiculous hospital johnnies on, you don’t care how you look. You have been derailed into a place of uncertainty. Suddenly, the playing field is level, and there is nothing to separate us from each other. Most people are scared and exhausted; sometimes mad or just sad. And I try to find a place beside them. 

Much of what I do is not glamorous at all. Some of it is indescribably gross, and sometimes it is boring, like watching screens and numbers and responding to no less than a dozen different alarms going off all day. But sometimes there is a patient to remember.

Margaret was my patient a few weeks ago, 95 years old and as I got report, I was amazed this little lady had survived an incredible ordeal, including being resuscitated, shocked four times then internal bleeding – all with a really lousy heart. Her outlook was poor. When I entered the room, I found a very exhausted and frail elderly woman. She eyed me shrewdly, then asked where her nurse from the day before was.
“We really clicked,” she said, then looked away. A little deflated, I explained that she was off. Then after an awkward silence I added, “I hope we can click.”
“Of course we can,” she said dismissively. “I wouldn’t have said that otherwise.” Her voice had an edge.
 After listening to her lungs and assessing her poor bruised body, I took a safe path and asked about the grandkids, kids and learned about a great-grandchild on the way.
Then she propped herself up in bed and said, “I was a career woman you know.”

I watched her face transform as she talked about her work with handicapped people, helping them transition from institutions to homes, and how she had been a part of a historic movement in the seventies. Her whole being shifted, as if new life had been infused within her and I could see a big part of who Margaret was. Then I dismissed myself from her room as she thanked me for listening.
“Well, it’s nice to talk about things that have nothing to do with being here” I said cheerfully. And as I turned towards the door I heard her reply, “Oh but it does!”
I looked back at her and she had shut her eyes, but I waited.
“It’s what gives you the will to live,” she added softly.

Eklesia – Greek for “the church” means “called out ones.” I think “calling” is one of those overworked Christian terms. We waste time fretting over some grand design and God is simply waiting for us, each morning in fact, to get up and go out. Yes, He is calling us out, whether it is in a hospital, a construction site, Wall Street or Sesame Street. Jesus worked and even got yelled at for working on Sunday. David was a shepherd, Paul made tents. The Proverbs woman got up earlier than I do. Work is hard, but if it is offered to God not as something to be worshipped, but as part of our worship to Him, it can bring joy. And a paycheck helps too.

Ancient Greeks venerated leisure time, equating it with wealth and prestige, and that culture has leaked into ours over time, pulling millions into lottery sales, and breaking the back of a welfare system that pays able bodied men and women to stay home. Unemployment is linked with depression, addiction and obesity. God created us to create. I love vacations, but if it never ended I would get bored, and I would really get on my kid’s nerves. I’m made to work.

One of my favorite careers was oystering. Wading out into the rising river, my rake and basket on a little homemade float while my two oldest boys played on the beach, brought me the purest sense of connected-ness to the earth that God intended for us to work. Then bringing the fruit of that labor, bushels of oysters, to market illustrated the simple cycle of God’s creation. But we don’t have to farm to see this. A stay-at-home-mom sees the fruit of her labors in her growing children, a teacher in his students, a builder, an artist, a plumber, a cop – we release our creative drive, the gifts that God put in us, and we give back to the world we are a part of. As we serve others, we honor God.

Work has meaning when we see it this way. It becomes an idol when the work dictates who we are, or we demand our value through it. Our value is hid in Christ.
Zechariah 9:16 says,
On that day the LORD their God will save them, as the flock of his people; for like the jewels of a crown they shall shine on his land. ESV

There is our value, here is His land. The test is “faithfulness in human life as it really is.”

Wherever God has you, enjoy the blessing of family and friends this Thanksgiving, but don’t hate the alarm clock the next day. God is there, with all of the possibilities of a new day.

 

Thanksgiving Song by Mary Chapin Carpenter

PS I will be working Thanksgiving. I hope I don’t see you!

 

Spencersmom.com Turns 10!

 I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus. Philippians 3:14

Blog: (noun) a website containing a writer’s or group of writers’ own experiences, observations, opinions, etc.

Blogged, blogging (verb)

 August 2011, ten years ago, I wrote my first blog. I blogged. I looked it up first, and when I saw I could just throw my opinion out there on the World Wide Web, like casting a trawl net into the ocean, I was intrigued. And so it began. Blogging. You can read my first blog here.

It was inspired by a refrigerator magnet that I still have. It says:

Everyone is entitled to my opinion.

 I still think that is hysterical, partly because I believe it’s true. My mother’s nickname for me as a mouthy little girl was “last word Lucy.” My words have gotten me into a world of trouble. Taming my tongue has been hard, even discouraging. But God in His long-suffering mercy is teaching me Grace and Silence too. He has also shown me the power of words that are used for His glory, like an arrow pulled back and steadying its aim.

Spencersmom.com began with those in mind, who like myself, were traveling the hidden path, the hard climb with no map in hand. The loss of a child is unquestionably the worst devastation a life can endure. But I have discovered there are many life experiences that derail a soul. Other losses, betrayals, rejection and loneliness. The craving for hope is as universal as the need for air. So, I’ve taken my words and aimed upward. Through all circumstances, and I’ve blogged through many that would seem “unspiritual,” including the Marathon Bomber, Post Concussive Syndrome and Grumpy Old Men, I can point to a lodestar, a safe harbor – a place of healing and redemption. Same answer always – Jesus Christ. You will find no other on this blog. But you will find an opinion that has been tried. As Job declared:

But he knows the way that I take; when he has tried me, I shall come out as gold. Job 23:10

 We live in a world that’s smothered by opinion. I do recognize that mine is not essential. But it seems to me, (in my opinion) that opinions begin and end in the frontal lobe, conceived through intellect and reasoning. Thought out, but never tried in the adversity of lived life. The bigger the brains, the better the opinion. Eventually, you don’t even need your own perspective or belief set – you can just borrow them from others who seem smarter. The danger of “parroting” opinion is that it bears no weight or value. It’s a two-dimensional hand-me-down. Your “view” is a cheap knock-off of the original, and even the original, for all of its glitz and bling, may be faux gold.

Perhaps the best way to discover what you really believe is to suffer, and suffer hard. The refining furnace of pain has a way of whittling away the endless dross of opinion, peripheral doctrine and beliefs. When I buried my son, I was humbled by the house of cards I had built. The neat stack of principles and policies I had constructed for God imploded immediately. In the smoldering heap of ruin, God in His patience and mercy, helped me rebuild. But this time, there would be no house of cards, no neat set of equations and balancing scales. I found that most of my opinions don’t matter. Weightless fluff.

There is a clarity and discernment that is pure and unblemished, a fearlessness of life or death when you finally come through the furnace. It was just Jesus within the fire and there, waiting, when I emerged – more majestic and mysterious than ever. “Follow me,” was my only direction. All obstacles had been stripped away, and the path was clear, His word a lamp for my feet. I find it is most difficult to follow Jesus on a good day – when the sun is bright and the way seems smooth. C.S. Lewis writes, in Screwtape Letters,

“Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one–the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.”

Soon we begin to gather those things we at one time surrendered. Our plans, position, our bitterness and self-pity. Sometimes it’s the “blessings” of God that most incumber us. If we’re not careful, we begin to resent God Himself, and His messengers. We are, on this side of heaven, in the flesh and inclined to pitch our tent towards all that dazzles ­and draws our hearts away from the rough climb upward. My son Spencer wrote:

“This life is nothing more than a pilgrimage to heaven. This journey is a journey of the heart.”

 Ah yes! It is more than just a set of footprints. It is a journey of the heart, and that’s why Jesus knew He was handing us enough with just one simple command: Love one another. Ten years goes by in a flash. And in all of my stumbling and fumbling, have I gotten any better at this? I guess others would have to answer that for me. As my words lift into the clamor of opinion, whether spoken, blogged, podcasted or spray-painted, the question is; Do they matter? And most importantly to me– do they glorify God? Have I “walked in love” (Ephesians 5:2)? Have I hit the mark?

 Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer each person. Colossians 4:6

“Always?” Not me, not yet, but this I still strive for, “pressing towards the mark.”

Thank you, dear friend and reader, for 10 years of following along, or maybe just stopping by once, and sifting my words. Thank you for GRACE. May you find pure gold and words that edify and equip you for this journey – the call upward in Christ Jesus, a “journey of the heart.” And that’s much more than just my opinion. It’s the Way, the Truth and Life. It is the answer.

Ten years later, still on the fridge!

 

The 2021 Spencer Macleod Memorial Three Point Shoot Out

 

The crowd

Bap, bap, bap...the sound of a basketball hitting pavement still gives me a strange sense of comfort. I am transported back to gymnasiums, the squeak of sneakers on the floor, the shriek of a ref’s whistle. Though my eyes never left my child, eventually I learned the 10 rules, and caught on to many of the endless sub-rules, say for dribbling.  No traveling, double-dribbling and watch the clock – you have 5 seconds to pass.

All three of my sons played to some degree. Spencer, the oldest, quit high school and sports with it, but was instrumental in mentoring and encouraging his younger brother Miles through his high school career. Miles played into college. Jake, ten years younger and several inches taller, played into high school but stepped down so he could focus on God’s direction for his life. Many times, I could hear one of them approaching home as daylight faded. Bap…bap…bap. It’s a simple relationship between a boy and his ball.

So it made sense when the Yarmouth police chief introduced the idea of a memorial for Spencer at the Old Town House basketball courts. It was 2004, two years past his murder and all of the court proceedings had finally wrapped up. The Yarmouth police recognized Spencer as a hero, someone who gave his life for another, so plans were made.

I remember it was blustery cold, but the two courts were crowded that day. Police and firemen stood in uniform. Detectives, ex-thugs, my pastor, friends and family, church folks, the assistant DA and Sue O’Leary from the Victim Witness office all mingled together on a chilly fall day. We served cookies and hot cider and a group from church rapped a song Spencer wrote.

“This is a message to my heavenly Father

Who picked me up when I was helpless, broken – I needed shelter.”

As the leaves skittered across the courts and the trees tossed in the wind, God was there, moving among the people, finding just the right place in each heart to press upon. He was there to hold a broken mother, to point up and say “Look!” It was no ordinary celebration. When Jesus is in on it, all heaven will rejoice.

Bap…bap…bap. It’s July 1 2021. I’m sitting on one of the two stone benches that flank the stone memorial for Spencer. Miles and Jake are shooting around on the court, their wives and children are close by. Miles has announced that it is the 2021 Spencer Macleod Memorial Three Point Shoot Out. If you didn’t know, there were 13 of them, each year growing larger and expanding from a few guys passing the hat for the winner, to racks and refs and grand prizes, not to mention free raffle give-a-ways. Last year was a Covid casualty. This year was a combination of a tired director (my husband) and it landing on the edge of everything suddenly opening. Anyway, it wasn’t happening. Until now.

  Flyer from 2018

It’s one of those quirky things in a mom who’s lost a child. Like the shoebox my mom carried for fifty years with my brother’s soldier, Christmas stocking and First Place ribbon he won at a field day right before he died at age nine. I get it now. I carry my own “box,” real (yes, there is a box in the attic now almost 20 years later of Spencer’s things I can’t toss out) and imagined. I imagine he will be always remembered, always a hero, always the gentle young man who loved others the way Jesus does. Grace upon grace.  But people grow up, move, change…even forget. Time has no mercy, but allows us memories, like souvenirs.

I don’t know whether my sons consciously realize it, this sometimes painful processing that I do, although less often now. The quirkiness. They are grown and changed too. Men that still love the game, even though they laugh at their waning endurance on the court. Men that still love their brother.

 

The ball hits the backboard and bounces into the hoop.

“You still have a great shot, Jake,” Miles says. And I know that still means a lot to his not so little brother.

“Okay,” Miles announces as he stands at the three-point line, “for the 2021 Spencer Macleod Three Point Shoot Out, whoever gets the next three-pointer wins.” As he is still speaking, he shoots, and the ball swishes through the basket. I’m pretty sure he did not expect it and we shout and cheer. The grandkids are climbing on the memorial stone and laughter fills the air. Time slows down long enough for me to pull this all in and hold the moment. Did you know that God was right there again? You may even wonder if Jesus likes basketball and I think it could be true. All I know is 2021 may go down as one of the best three-point shootouts ever. But what does a mom know? Except that her kids are the best.

Cousins

 

On The Other Side of the Bed : Six Take-a-Ways From a Nurse Who Became a Patient

My tail is showing!

I held the remote loosely in my hand, respectful of the power within. How many times had I reviewed the colored buttons? The yellow light bulb, green TV in big letters flanked by volume and channel buttons, then the large red button at the top, which for many years had a nurse icon of a woman wearing a hat. “That’s me in the hat.” I’d say. Some laughed, some didn’t.

My thumb moved up to the red button and I drew a breath and pressed. It lit up and I could hear what sounded like a soft “ding…ding…ding” echoing up the hall. Interesting, I thought. It doesn’t sound that quiet at the nurses’ station, where it merges with at least four other alarms at any given time. Once I counted eight.

I had intentionally waited past change-of-shift- report, and in my mind I saw a nurse on the phone or in another patient’s room, a CNA or tech as they were called at this hospital, trying to make her rounds glancing at my light on, and the mental bulletin board that now has one more thing tacked to it. And I also knew that if I tried to get up to the bathroom on my own,  an alarm that must’ve been created by a prison warden would sound, and then a small crowd of harried personnel would descend upon me, part angry, part relieved that I am not splayed across the floor. So I waited.

I thought about my over 30 years of taking care of people like me, wearing oversized johnnies, helpless, grumpy – how sometimes I would see them as broken objects that required multiple tasks and interventions just to keep them alive (ER nursing), or as almost inanimate beings that had been culled apart into varying systems that somehow would become a whole (ICU). I remember my disappointment on my first day as a critical care nurse when I realized that for the most part, none of my patients could respond. They were intubated, surrounded by chirping pumps, flashing numbers and squawking ventilators. For this reason, I have always been drawn back to bedside nursing. Holding the hand of dying man or dancing in the bathroom with an Alzheimer’s patient, finding a place of trust and truth with the addict, or just making someone laugh; I know it’s a gift God gave me.

“Thank you for your care,” an elderly man told me a few weeks ago. “You have a way of taking away my anxiety.” We can’t always fix everyone, but we can make the day a little less daunting. I think I would’ve loved working with Florence Nightingale – the Grand Dame of the bedside. She was tough but compassionate, a zealous advocate for her patients. Maybe I could carry her lamp.

They say nurses make the worst patients. Define “worst.” I’ve cared for sick people for decades  in a huge variety of settings. Nurses don’t normally like the tables turned. Really, we can take care of ourselves. Yet I was humbled during my recent three night stay which was supposed to be just one. Oh, those irritating little complications which just seemed to pop up like a Whack-a-mole game in an arcade. My vison for my surgery was an easy one – hopping away with accolades from the healthcare team. I would overhear someone say, “Isn’t she remarkable, how quickly she was up and running!” Well, no – it didn’t go that way at all, starting in recovery when my blood pressure read 70 then a pesky bleed that required three units of blood, then a night of muscle spasms so intense I begged the nurse to empty the full arsenal of available pain killers into my mouth and veins. My last words to this kind soul were, “Do you think I might stop breathing?” Honestly, I didn’t care. Maybe she didn’t either. I woke up six hours later knowing right away I was not in heaven, but pain free. If you know me well at all, words like Stubborn, Obstinate, Willful might be in your descriptive cache, but I can argue (obstinately) that those are sometimes good traits. Yet as I lay in bed, unable to do anything on my own other than work the remote with the big red button at the top, I was humbled. And grateful.

I did not like being called a hero during the Covid pandemic. Yes, I cared for Covid patients. I became a nurse during the AIDS epidemic, when all anyone knew about it was that it killed. We didn’t know how, we just knew if we got it, we would die. So we wore what looked like Hazmat suits into their rooms, not knowing any better. Eventually we learned the truth, and we could sit next to them and hug them if they needed it. They often did. That’s a hero, looking beyond the disease and loving someone. The nurses on our Covid floor and ICU who went beyond the call of duty to make sure no one had to die alone – that’s a hero. But so is the nurse’s aide who bathes the withdrawing alcoholic from head to toe, shaves him and combs his hair so that some sort of dignity is retained. We are humans with a gift to love the un-loveables and bring mercy and light to those gripped by the sudden unknowns of sickness and injury. Sometimes we heal; sometimes we just hold hands. Or dance.

       Oh yeah! Now for six take-aways in no particular order.

  1. For my peers – every nurse, tech, aide, call bell-answerer – don’t take every patient personally. We are not mad at you! We just found out we’re not in control, and maybe a bit scared. Or grumpy, even sad. No reflection on YOU – just be kind. Smile. Be your beautiful self.
  2. Don’t be a nurse if you don’t care. Or doctor, or PA or NP. The patient can tell and is not wowed by your MENSA IQ, your flip dismissal of their true needs or seeing your name on the bleeping whiteboard.
  3. Patients – past, present and future. Just because your nurse is sitting down doesn’t mean she is shopping on Amazon. He or she could be saving your life by checking your labs, vital signs, meds and orders. If it sounds quiet, it could be because everyone is in another room saving a life, or cleaning up a colossal mess. Short answer; you don’t know.
  4. Your nurse or aide is not your Personal Care Assistant. We are REALLY busy with other patients and families, trying to help the sickest first. Be glad you are NOT the sickest! This is 2021 – resources are scarce, including our time. We are stretched to the outermost. Add this to the “new Normal.”
  5. I pray in the parking lot every morning before work. I ask Jesus to make me more like Him, to be a slice of God’s light in an often dark place. Sometimes, when the light starts to dim, I have to pray again in the bathroom. God doesn’t care. Same for when I was a patient, although my prayer was more like this: Help!!! He likes that one too. So if you don’t know Jesus, you really should. He hears us.
  6. Don’t bring make-up or even a hairbrush to the hospital. Something about those hospital johnnies liberates you from caring one iota about how you look.

I am home and hobbled for a while, but I think about my coworkers more than I thought I would. I work with an amazing team of nurses, CNA’s, NPs, docs and housekeepers. And an amazing manager. Pandemic or not, they are my heroes. And this is coming from a nurse who just crossed over into the bed. And was humbled.

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” — Psalm 73:26

 

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