Self-Care

I sit outside on this fall day. The sun is shining on my face, warming me. A gentle cool breeze blowing. Pups wresting and rooting around. The smell of my remaining flowers fills the air. Mums beg to be pruned.

Today is the first day that I have felt somewhat “normal”.

The last few nights my mind has awaken me with thoughts, details running through. I do not usually wake from thinking. I sleep in order to stop thinking, but these last few days I have stopped sleeping so as to think.

I spoke with my counselor the other day and it was more helpful than I anticipated. She explained the various signs of trauma that I could be experiencing, for which most of them I am or have.

I have felt confused.

I realized, though, that while I have seen a lot of trauma, I have not experienced a lot of trauma and ultimately that is the difference.

There are so many details and truths and facts that are locked away as no one should know them or even see them in their mind.

I am sad.

The last few days have been focused on self-care. Self-care looks different for different people.

 I am a nine on the enneagram, otherwise known as a peacemaker. This means I live in constant tension between the desire to be unbothered by life and a desire to right all the wrongs that I encounter; which inevitably requires action and inconveniencing myself .

Whenever I look at the defined self-care prescription for enneagram nines I cannot help but laugh, but only because I know they are true. They include: sleep, naps, siestas, routines, doing a whole lot of nothing, a fortress of solitude, massages, time to process and to be, mindful breathing, fresh air, and cozy Saturday mornings.

So the last few days I have done just that slept and napped and focused on routine and doing a whole lot of nothing and staying alone in the quiet and taking time to process and to be and to mindfully breath and sit out in the fresh air and sleep in the last few days as if they were cozy Saturday mornings.

I am ok.

 When I got to work this morning, my pen wasn’t working. I went in search for a new one and had a fun ridiculous conversation with the unit secretary about the value and use of 0.7, 0.5, and 0.38 pens. She laughed. We drank our coffee.

I rounded and saw all of my patients. Said hello to everyone who was working. I ate a banana.

I ended up in a patients room later and over the course of the morning she had gotten sicker and was requiring more invasive medications. She went on to become more unstable requiring cardioversion with an appropriate conversion response.

These events resulted in numerous people being gathered around. People I know, people I work with all the time. We went about our jobs enjoying each other’s company. Laughing, joking, going about our work and doing our jobs. As we worked we heard the loud speaker pop on.

Working in Critical Care we are more attune to the loud speaker as there are often announcements of various types of Codes that require the response of various Critical Care teams to respond to other areas of the hospital.

This announcement though was one we had never heard before and one in which we weren’t sure was even real.

Code Active Shooter.

We have talked so much in meetings the past few months about raising our awareness to threats and about various policies to implement, but as of yet we had done nothing of significance.

Code Active Shooter.

Working in a level one trauma center it is not uncommon for us to have assault victims, assaulters, gunshot victims, and other patients who arrive after experiencing some precarious event. We often have police in our ICU. I arrived this morning, in fact, to one such police officer sitting camped out near my desk and asking for coffee, for which I directed her.

Code Active Shooter. Labor and Delivery.

Pagers  and phone calls erupted the unit. This was no joke. There was in fact an active shooter on the premises. We were in a state of lock down. No one was to come or go. We were to stand down and stand by.

As we stood waiting another page echoed our halls.

Code MERT. Labor and Delivery.

A Code MERT is when someone who is not admitted to the hospital needs emergent medical attention. Knowing there was an active shooter we deduced that a Code MERT could only mean that someone had been shot. Later we would find this to be true, but it was two someones, not one.

As we continued to stand down and wait, another page echoed our halls.

Rapid Response. Labor and Delivery.

A Rapid Response or RRT is when someone who is admitted to the hospital needs emergent medical attention.

I often accompany the Rapid Response Team. We looked at each other and geared up to go. We were told to wait until it was all clear. And once it was we went.

As I stepped onto the Labor and Delivery unit, the active shooter, who was no longer active, but was now himself shot, was being rushed to the Emergency Room.

I surveyed the area and there was blood everywhere. Drops trailing down hall ways with pools residing in various places.

Nurses were leaning into walls, sure to fall without the support of them against their shaking bodies.

A handful of new mothers stood in the halls with their newborns cradled in their arms.

Police flooded the halls.

The Rapid Response patient was taken to the emergency room and treated.

I stayed for a time more. Desiring to help but no help was warranted. I headed back to the ICU when I encountered hospital administration who asked me to come back. We debriefed in Labor and Delivery. We continued to evaluate the patient census and the health care workers well being. Statements were made, facts discussed, and needs identified.

After some time I walked back to the ICU. I wondered if I wasn’t tracking blood all the way back with me as I felt covered in it from all I saw. Though, honestly I don’t think there was really any on me.

Once back in the ICU, I called the unit to the front and relayed the information that I knew to them. I tried to say the right things. I wonder though if there are right things.

I went down to the ER to see if they needed anything and to show support of our staff. They were now covered in blood from the trauma we had all experienced. They worked tirelessly despite him.

Again I stood with nothing to offer, nothing to do.

After the dust settled I stood at the front of the ICU. The unit secretary sat there and we did not discuss the trivial value of pen sizes. She asked if I was okay really. She came over and gave me a deep hug.

“You’ve seen a lot of trauma in your young life” she said.

She has seen me on many traumatic days. She has watched me over the years on day shifts and night shifts. She has often given me deep hugs.

Since the events there has been an overwhelming outpouring of concern, love, support, and comfort. I am tremendously thankful and encouraged.

I am okay. Truly.

I have, as my friend said, seen a lot of trauma in my young life. But today what I feel is mostly confused. I feel numb. I feel so very tired.

I’ve come home to my pups and some chips and queso and will retreat in a few hours to my bed for glorious sleep and true rest.

I stopped asking why a long time ago, long before COVID.

Honestly, the why doesn’t really matter. It does not change what happened. It does not change what is.

And so, I will forever find rest and solace in these words and be thankful:

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,

His mercies never come to an end;

They are new every morning;

great is thy faithfulness.

“The Lord is my portion,” says my soul,

“therefore I will hope in him.”

What I Always Wanted to Be.

When I was a senior in high school we had a career day where we had to go out into the community and shadow a professional.

It was such a struggle for me to find someone. I did not have a clue what I wanted to do with my life, where I wanted to go to school, what I should study. I took numerous aptitude tests and none of them helped guide me into a complimentary field.

I went on to college and earned an undergraduate degree that I have never used. Upon graduation I went to graduate school and earned a master’s degree in something I only used for a short time. Then, years later, I returned to graduate school and earned a second master’s degree in a completely different field.

So, I spent ten years in college, have three different degrees in three different areas, and have student loans that I will never pay off.

It took me a long time to figure out what I was supposed to do.

But deep down I have always known what I always wanted to be.

From the earliest days of my life, I have always always known that I wanted to be a mom.

As a child I had so many dolls. They all had names and stories. I cared for them and carried them and changed them and loved them. They were mine.

As I grew older I always helped with children at church. I cared for them and carried them and changed them and loved them. They were not mine.

For years, I babysat and nannied so much. I cared for them and carried them and changed them and loved them. They were not mine.

Then the babies came. With time I found myself with eleven beautiful nieces and one amazing nephew. I care for them and love them. As much as they are, they aren’t mine.  

All my life I have wanted to be a mom.

I have dreamed such vivid dreams, of holding my newborn baby in my arms and seeing his sweet little face.

I have had hopes and goals and fantasized and dreamed for and about.

I have named him and loved him and wanted him.

But he, but she, but they, are not mine.  

A few years ago I gave myself permission, and in doing so, I learned how silently unhealthy parts of me were and how too much time had passed. I may have given myself permission but it was too late.

Letting go of a dream is hard. Letting go of a life-long goal is hard. Letting go of an identity is hard.

Letting go is hard.

Two weeks from today, I will wake up on the day after.

The day after my total hysterectomy.

Part of me says, it doesn’t matter because I am too old anyway.

Part of me says, it doesn’t matter because I love sleep too much anyway.

Part of me says, it doesn’t matter because I have my dogs anyway.

Part of me says, it doesn’t matter because I am single and it would be too hard and impossible to figure it all out anyway.

Part of me says, it doesn’t matter because I am a good aunt and they’re partly mine anyway.

Part of me says, it does matter. And I am so sad. and disappointed.

I did not know that I could cause the greatest heartbreak of my life, but here I am.

A friend says that maybe I have other things to birth and give life to. And maybe I do. Maybe there are books to write and a house in the woods to build and more dogs to love.

But for these next few days, I will sit in the presence of now, grieve what wasn’t, count the blessings of what is and go to the one who provides rest.