Tag: inspiration

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Quiet

Perhaps one of the most impactful stories of my youth was told by a person close to me, whom I love very much, about a time they stood up and challenged a college professor. Standing up, alone, in the auditorium in a respectful but direct and forward manner, they challenged the words and teachings of the educator. The teacher didn’t back down easily. But the key part of the story resided not in that interaction, but in the aftermath. They were struck by how many people came up to them after class, on campus, thanking and affirming them for their words and actions. But the impression they were left with was less than gratitude.

The life long impression they were left with was…. “Then why didn’t you speak up?! Why did you let me stand there alone, taking that verbal beating, knowing full well you agreed with what I said?”

There was a poster that used to hang in my Catholic, middle school classroom that read “What’s popular isn’t always right… and what’s right isn’t always popular.” Those words still echo in my head.

Speaking up is hard. Speaking up is uncomfortable. Speaking up is risky. Speaking up loses you friends. And sometimes, it makes you a target.

It is easier, safer, simpler, nicer… just to stay quiet. You’ll be much more palatable to the masses.

But I’m afraid I wasn’t built that way. I’m short on the sugar and heavy on the spice.

If you know me personally, then you know that this is true in every outlet of my life. And I’m not always everyone’s favorite spice. I’m not always gentle or smooth in my delivery. I’m a straight shooter, often painfully honest. I’m a work in progress- so far from perfect that learning to love myself is a top priority- because doing that, allows me to love others better. I want to love better.

But I am fair. I’m kind- not always nice… but kind. And I am deeply compassionate. That compassion and empathy is so loud, so heavy in my body that sometimes I don’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse. Cuz I can’t look away… I can’t turn it off and not feel…. even when the ones hurting fight a plight I’ve never lived. Their pain becomes mine.

Perhaps my problem is that I give too many fucks.

It’s what led me to nursing. It’s what led me to grief work. It’s what led me to foster care. It oozes out into my daily interactions and writing. And it has shaped my life and relationships as a whole. It is reflected in the diversity of my family and echos in the efforts of my every day. My circle is small- it’s a motley bunch, but it has integrity. I will never be everyone’s favorite and fun friend, because to do that would mean selling off a part of my soul.

If I had a dollar for every time someone heard about our foster care journey and said “I think what you do is amazing/inspirational…. but I could never do it.” I’d probably have enough money to make up for the subsidy that I’m about to lose in government cuts. And though I am fully aware of the sacrifices and challenges it takes to be a foster parent and I agree whole heartedly that it isn’t for everyone, that pushing someone who isn’t equipped into that role would only cause traumatized kids more trauma… I still struggle to understand- how? How can you turn it off? How can you look away?

We can’t fight every cause. No one of us has enough energy, enough money, enough time to take them all on. Myself included. There are so many worthy causes that I have to relinquish to others to self-preserve. If I mentally or physically try to take them all on, I will collapse. My energy is best used when intentionally focused.

But we have to be wary that self-preservation doesn’t become selfishness. That boundaries don’t become inaction. That peace efforts don’t become silence.

We are given one shot on this earth. Each and every one of us are 1:400,000,000,000,000. That’s right, the odds of being born are 1 in 400 trillion. You hit the biggest fucking lottery in/of existence. What are you doing with that gift?

Complacency? Following the crowd? Minding your own business? Self-serving?

I’m not asking everyone to be the next Mother Theresa or Ghandi- although that would be lovely. I’m asking you to find a worthy cause and serve it. I’m asking you serve one population less fortunate than you are. I’m asking you to stretch, to learn, to listen, to speak up when you see something that’s not right. I’m asking you to side with integrity and justice- and not just when it serves you or it’s your guy on the stand, but every time.

One of the hardest things I’ve had to do in my life is to confront the people I love and admire when their words or actions don’t align with my core human values. It’s harder than any physical work for sure. It’s uncomfortable, scary and lonely. But the times that I didn’t do that- are seared in my soul as regret.

Though noisy and at times “annoying”, confrontation, doesn’t take away my love or loyalty for the person or party I am challenging. Having integrity doesn’t make me a lesser companion. Loyalty doesn’t have to be blind. It should be honest. Calling out your friend for their racist remark, challenging the viewpoints of your admirers, questioning old stances and beliefs, admitting your missteps- isn’t selling out- it’s growth and good character. How easy it is to be one amongst the crowd, to ride the wave…. But how brave it is to stop, listen, question… to stand up and say “Wait a minute… hold on… stop guys… this isn’t right… we’ve gone too far… maybe they have a point.”

In this world of greed and selfishness. Amongst all the finger pointing and blame, we have to be willing to stop and listen… to hear the stories and lived experiences of others and not just nod with blank patience while in your mind, building your rebuttal…. but to absorb, feel and see through the eyes and hands of others- people not just like us…. but people unlike ourselves. And with that gained insight, we have to find a way to share, to speak to one another. We have to work together. And we have to be willing to both listen and speak up.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”- E.Burke

I don’t know what’s next for us, for our country, for our world. But whatever that next chapter looks like, I aim to be amongst those who took a stand for what was right and not just popular. Who stood amongst the oppressed instead of the oppressors. Who stepped aside what they told me I was “supposed” to be and stepped into authenticity, courageousness, and honesty. And in doing that, I won’t always be quiet. I hope you’ll join me.

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Foreigner

The first time I got the taste of being a foreigner was when I left my country for the first time at the age of 30. I flew with my husband and sister-in-law to their home country of Chile to visit family for 3 weeks. It was the first time I’d left my children (then 5 and 8). It’s a long 16 hours of fly time. Our connecting flight was in San Paulo, Brazil. Our travel journey took 24 hours from Washington D.C. to Santiago, Chile.

Despite the angst of leaving my children for 3 weeks, I didn’t have many concerns, as I was traveling with two native Chileans. And though the primary language of Brazil is Portuguese, we weren’t leaving the airport, had a long layover, and figured English and Spanish fluency would be sufficient. I never anticipated any troubles. However, upon attempting to navigate the San Paulo airport to find our next gate, we found tremendous difficulty. Unable to find anyone who could speak Spanish or English to give us direction, I was surprised and frustrated and if I’m honest, a little bit scared. While I had confidence we wouldn’t miss our next flight due to the long layover, I had never in my 30 years of life experienced being a foreigner. I had never experienced having a need and not being able to communicate effectively to gain help or instruction. I had never experienced being surrounded by people who looked and sounded different than me- where the ambient noise of small conversation and passing words “Hello”, “Excuse me” weren’t in my native tongue.

Eventually we found our gate of course. And in the 3 weeks that followed, though my husband’s family was kind and loving and accommodating and I was never more than a shouting distance away from my English speaking husband or sister-in-law, I experienced being an outlier. I experienced being in a room full of people excitedly conversing in a language that wasn’t my own. And though I could speak and understand Spanish to a child’s level, after studying it for 5 years and occasionally practicing it at home and at work… for the first time I understood the exhaustion that came with trying to understand, translate and communicate in a new language. It was fast and loud and riddled with slang. It was so much more complicated than the basic phrases and vocabulary I’d come to know. And every country, I learned, has its own colloquialisms, regardless of shared language. In the US, Spanish was greater influenced by our neighbor, Mexico. For instance, back home “car” was “carro”; but in Chile, it was “auto”. “Strawberries” was “frutilla” instead of “fresas”.

After some time in a crowded room, my brain couldn’t keep up anymore and I would simply zone-out, losing track of the conversation entirely… and despite our friendly and loving company and their many, many efforts of accommodation… I’d feel alone. It only took one person saying “She doesn’t understand anything” to hurt my feelings. And one night, I retreated to my room to cry- missing my kids, feeling overwhelmed and a little left out.

But that experience changed me. It gave me a perspective I’d never had before. It showed me the privilege I’d been living and the tremendous bravery and sacrifice it takes to start a life in a new land. It was such a tiny amount of time. I was protected by natives who never left my side and I spoke the language to a degree. Some Chileans were honored and in awe to meet an American and others were respectful and kind at minimum. I felt like an honored guest there- though I did nothing to deserve that. And still it was challenging and lonely to be away from home. It got me reflecting on the lived experiences of immigrants and minorities in my own country.

I realized how different many of the interactions I witnessed in the US, were from my experiences in Chile. I thought about the amount of times I’d heard an abrupt “I can’t understand you”, when a non-native was speaking English with a heavy accent- knowing how hard it is to learn the language. I thought about the amount of times people rolled their eyes or made disparaging comments, or how often their presence was ignored. I remembered how intimidating it was to use my Spanish when I was surrounded by natives, afraid of saying the wrong thing… and I wondered how many times silence is assumed as ignorance instead of fear. I remembered people calling hispanics “cockroaches” because so many people lived in one home and then finding that cultural character trait admirable and welcoming when my husband’s family opened their homes and offered up their beds to us. I recalled countless times people called my husband a “Mexican” and assumed his cultural preferences to be the same, simply because he spoke Spanish… and how he handled their ignorance and misconceptions with grace. Behind closed doors, to me he’d quietly say “We’re not even from the same continent….”. I remembered him returning from work defeated and angry because he was refused access to a job site- “We don’t work with your kind here.”

And that’s just what I could recall off the cuff. How much more were people experiencing in my own country that I was unaware of or unable/unwilling to relate to? What were the lived experiences of people who dwelled in my same land but looked and sounded different than me?

We were 10 years into our now 22 (almost 23) year relationship when we took that trip. Prior to that, I had heard my husband‘s stories of being a new immigrant in this country many times. With starry eyes, he talked about how he always dreamed of coming to the United States. And how escaping during the dictatorship of Pinochet was a miracle for him and his family. And yet coming to this land of opportunity also meant leaving his entire life of 25 years- family, language, culture, food, music, familiarity. Though a dream come true… it was crushingly difficult. He talked about the loneliness and the isolation. How every day tasks, like going to the grocery store or visiting a doctor… became taxing chores as an accomplished adult. “Paper or plastic?” was a paralyzing question. Though surrounded by wealth and opportunity here, what came easily in his home country, was hard now. And the obvious difficulties were made harder still by the stares, disparaging comments and discrimination that he was met with.

Despite having a very compassionate spirit, I admittedly minimized his struggle. I’d make comments to him like “Well you’re here now.” And “You made it! Look at all that you’ve accomplished.” Comments that did nothing to honor the pain that came with immigration.

Maybe I had a hard time honoring that struggle because I had never felt those things before. It’s one thing to hear about them, but another to live them. Maybe, because I’d never thought or acted in an overtly racist manner, the reality of the existence of racism and discrimination fell deaf on my white American ears. Maybe I couldn’t imagine the reality… or maybe I didn’t try hard enough.

Now don’t get me wrong… this isn’t a bash the U.S. post. My husband will be the first to tell you, that he believes the United States is the greatest country in the world. He is honored and blessed to be here and never wants to live anywhere else. We have no desire to raise our family in any other country. It is beautiful and rich and has afforded us so much opportunity and comfort. His now 36 years in the U.S. have proven to be fruitful and fulfilling. And our life here has become a most fantastical dream come true. But it doesn’t erase the tears and the struggle it took to get here.

Protecting and celebrating our privileged lives here, doesn’t have to mean shutting out and silencing the cries of those less fortunate. We can honor the hardships, hear the stories of others and work to improve, to be even greater still. How true is our reality when we look through a narrow lens? What greater perception can we gain by broadening our viewpoint?

Like many Americans, I used to refer to my country as “America”. Patriotic hymns I’d come to love, like “God bless America” seemed to reinforce this. Until someone questioned me… “Isn’t ‘America’ a reference to two continents- North and South?” Why claim that title when so many other countries share those land masses? I realized the egotism it reflected. Since then, I started calling it “The United States”, out of respect for our neighbors. That is our name, after all. Though its doesn’t seem we’ve coined a term to replace “Americans”….. “United Statians” ? LOL

Things are a bit different now of course since my husband first immigrated here. With increased numbers of hispanics, there are more resources than ever before and more community. When my husband came, there were only two hispanic families in the city- his and a family from Mexico. They remain great friends to this day- now able to laugh about their early days navigating this country. One of my favorites is when the maternal family heads went to the grocery store looking for eggs. Their comedic reenactment of a laying hen takes the whole room down in stitches. Though the kids in Chile, like most around the world, studied English in school- their reality of language was similar to mine when I traveled. My husband arrived here equipped with “Hello. How are you?” “Good Morning.” “Good afternoon” Good evening.” Only to be met with a head nod and “Hey, what’s up?!” Little of what is taught in the classroom applies to everyday interactions on the street. Such experiences prompted my husband to take more English classes at night… after his two day- jobs of course.

Since that life-changing trip to Chile, we’ve continued to expand our international travels, always booking small and aiming for authenticity instead of large commercial resorts. And though the experience of being a foreigner still holds some feelings of uncertainty… it’s easier now. I’ve developed more confidence, life skills and resiliency. It’s called me to listen more closely to my intuition- when the language is different, reading energy and body language becomes essential. It’s widened my knowledge base of various ways of living- transportation systems, currency conversions, manners, cultural norms and expectations. And dare I say, it’s made me a more flexible, well-rounded and humble human being. The “American” way isn’t the only way to do things. In fact, I don’t think it’s even the better way to do things sometimes.

I found Canadians to be kinder, cleaner and more eco-conscious than most Americans. And I admire the standards Canada’s food industry maintains in keeping dangerous additives and chemicals out of their food. Belizeans awed me with their expansive knowledge and use of natural remedies- plants and herbs for everyday ailments instead of commercial pharmacy. Puerto Ricans (though also Americans by territory), have some of the most resilient and joyful spirits I’ve ever met-rebuilding over and over again and pausing to dance in the streets. Cubans are by far the most inventive, resourceful and creative people I’ve had the pleasure to commune with- maintaining vintage cars from the 50s and even installing makeshift air-conditioning units in them. They find a way to keep going despite a collapsing infrastructure, tremendous scarcity and almost total isolation from other countries. Mexicans have an outstanding loyalty to family. Chile has one of the most stunning and diverse landscapes in the world. They highly regard the work of public servants like teachers- and have an education system and economy that reflects it. But they aren’t flashy about it. None of these things negate or outshine all that the US is… but they are admirable and valuable in their own right. And I think we could learn from them.

A quick google search yielded that 27% of Americans report having never left the country. 23% have never visited a country where English wasn’t the primary language. I imagine a good number of the roughly 75% who have visited non-english speaking countries, stay in large resorts, travel by cruise ships or with tour groups that might minimize interactions with the local population. When polled, only one third of Americans could pass the US citizenship test despite a full and free education here. Despite our wealth, our education system and our health pale in comparison to some other, less wealthy countries. And in the National Geographic-Roper poll, Americans scored second to last in Geography when tested against Canada, Germany, France, Great Britain, Italy, Japan, Sweden and Mexico- with our average score being 23/56 correct answers.

Maybe that has something to do with some of the unrest and prejudices we see today. Maybe if more people experienced first-hand being a foreigner… maybe if more people took the time to get to know those who come from other lands or live by other customs, maybe if they sat at more tables unlike their own…. maybe we’d have more understanding and compassion… maybe. But to do that takes willingness, vulnerability, and discomfort.

Powerful and mighty as we are, I wonder how many of us would fare living in another land. I wonder how far we ourselves would go to escape violence and persecution… to protect our children. I wonder how often native citizens have thought about the difficulties and complexities of starting over in a foreign land… and simultaneously navigating the complex process and financial burden of saving up the thousands of dollars it costs to become a naturalized citizen. I’m not suggesting that we hand out free papers or open our borders to all. But having walked this journey with my immigrant family, I just wonder if people know. Do they even know? And for those that do, I wonder if safety and compassion can work together.

Can we love and nurture our home and still love and admire our neighbors? We can we maintain our national treasures and be willing to hear the plights of those less fortunate and lend them a helping hand? Can we work together for a greater good? I know we all have a lot to offer.

This beautiful, rich, diverse, melting pot of a country… If we could talk to our own immigrant ancestors- mine from Poland, Germany, England, Ireland, Italy and more…. what do you think they would share about their early days here? What would their stories be? Do we still possess the resiliency they carried… or has that turned to privilege? Would their stories hit different if they looked like us or would we find the common threads and shared humanity amongst all who are brave enough to seek more? I wonder.

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Pinkie

It seemed like a story you’d read in a Beverly Cleary novel or The Reader’s Digest… and yet it was such a Meneses thing to happen.

On our way back home from dropping off one of my kid’s friends, coming through a residential neighborhood, I was just doing my due diligence when I stopped for a lost dog. A slender yellow lab/retriever mix, I knew she was lost when I watched her wander from yard to yard looking for food scraps around the trash cans. Yet a red collar and black shock collar side by side told me she surely had a home. She was thin but not too too thin and had a nice coat, she couldn’t have been out for too long.

She let me come right up to her to check for tags. I expected this encounter to end like all the other times I stopped for dogs- check the tags, call the owner, stand on the street holding lost dog til owner comes to retrieve. A simple courtesy from one dog owner to the next, the same courtesy that had been done for me when my beagle hound mix “Emma” took off to adventure. But this pup didn’t have any tags. No sharpie phone number on the collar either.

As I stood there trying to determine my next move, she jumped into the open door of my mini van. “Well okay then.” My then 9 and 12 year olds were of course all the wiggles with excitement- “Are we gonna keep her?”

“No, no, no…” I assured them… “She clearly belongs to someone… we just need to find her owner.”

“What are we going to tell Daddy?”

“You guys let me handle that… In fact, when we get home, why don’t you guys just hang in the car for a minute with the dog?… I’ll go inside and talk to Daddy first.”

And so the conversation started with “Hey babe, how was work?” And ended with, “It will only be a few hours… 3 days tops. She’ll be gone by Wednesday. This dog has an owner… I just need to find it.” And though I vowed to keep her outside, not knowing what ailments she might carry and not wanting to expose her to our healthy dog, cat and rabbit inside… within an hour, that street dog had scratched the back door enough to work her way in the house… and on my bed.

For a solid month we contacted every dog rescue site, posted on every social media outlet, took her to local vets to get scanned and hopefully ID’d, even walked the neighborhood we found her in to ask the locals if they knew who she belonged to, telling the young dog “Take me home baby…” all to no avail. In that process, we learned that the neighborhood we found her in was a popular spot to dump dogs- right on the county/city line. And the dog that appeared to be so well taken care of, perhaps wasn’t quite so. Besides being a bit underweight, she wasn’t spayed, had a build up of scar tissue in her ears from chronic ear infections as a puppy, and a bb embedded in her shoulder from being shot. One of her breasts had a mass in it- about the size of a ping pong ball and the vet surmised that it “didn’t look good.” Perhaps it was that tumor that was the reason for her being dumped?

Nonetheless, it would be a costly procedure to remove the mass and the pathology may reveal a poor prognosis for the dog we’d only just begun to know. A procedure, no shelter would likely invest in. With local shelters already over capacity, we knew this adult dog, found on the streets of Baltimore, wouldn’t stand a chance in the shelters. And despite the fact that we never planned to have a second dog and my begrudged husband was still quoting me… “No more than 3 days… you said”, neither of us were willing to send her to a probable death. Under the guidance of our vet, we decided to get to know this dog a little better before we made any big decisions.

During the first few weeks we had her, we noticed she had an unusual trait- a pink nose, instead of black. One day while I was home alone, I thought to myself, “‘Pinkie’ would be a good name for her, if she stayed.” That same afternoon, my husband came home and casually said ” You know I was thinking… ‘Pinkie’ would be a good name for her…. not that we’re keeping her though. We’re not keeping her!” And then he asked if I’d gotten any responses to my posts, had any luck finding her a home. And he shook his head and walked away. I knew then, that the universe had spoken. Now just to win over my husband.

City law stated that after 30 days of a lost dog being in your possession, you assumed ownership of that dog. That February, “Pinkie” became ours.

But her story had only just begun.

It seemed our first 30 days was a bit of a honeymoon. While she got along beautifully with the cat and rabbit, a welcome change from our prey-driven hound who took great efforts to teach not to eat the small family pets, Pinkie asserted herself elsewhere and declared herself alpha over our 7 year old dog Emma. And it was hard to watch and tolerate. Emma, who had always slept on the floor next to my side of the bed, was suddenly being cast out of the bedroom- tail between her legs and head down, with a single glance from Pinkie. Pinkie ate first. Pinkie was calling the shots. And though we tried initially to intervene and to empower our OG Emma…. we soon realized this process was not ours to control. Emma had submitted.

And with this power gain, Pinkie started to assert her dominance over us people folk too. While on the ground- she behaved well. But she had become quite comfortable on our beds ( a privilege Emma had always been denied) and in that position she would declare herself the dictator. If any one of us humans, approached the bed she was lying on, she would snarl and snap. She did it to me when I approached my daughter’s bed, while she and Pinkie snuggled. And she did it to my husband when he approached our bed and Pinkie lie with me post night shift. That moment was a memorable one in our marriage. My docile husband shot me eyes that could kill, pointed at the dog and said “Fix your dog!” I thought for sure I was about to be sleeping in a tent in the back yard. We still joke, all these years later, that that dog almost ended our marriage.

It wasn’t just in our house that she tried to take control, either. On walks, she tried to bite the head off of every dog she encountered. It was like she was trying to prove something, like her loss of control turned into a desperate attempt to regain control in a quite unsavory way. Perhaps she had been fighting for longer than we first realized.

I turned to my beloved vet for guidance. “If you don’t fix this”, she said, “she’s gonna get put down. No shelter, no home, will tolerate this type of behavior. You got to regain dominance.” “No more beds”, she said. She explained that the elevated position, brings them closer to our eye level, and for some dogs, gives them an unhealthy sense of power. “Make her work for everything”- “Don’t pet her, don’t feed her, until she works for it. Give her commands, then reward her when she follows them.”

To make matters worse, when we took her to the local city clinic to be spayed- she had a horrific hormonal reaction (either a fantom pregnancy or a real one that was ended when they spayed her). The night after her surgery, her breasts filled with milk and dripped all over the floors. She began collecting the cat’s toys under our bed- treating it as her den and them as her babies, becoming aggressive if we reached under the bed. The clinic that we used was a public service- perfect for us as we weren’t financially prepared to take on a second dog. Fifty bucks to spay/neuter, micro chip and vaccinate. But their service ends when they hand you your sleepy dog and a bottle of pain medicine. If you have any problems, call your vet.

So I did… again. Warm compresses to her aching and leaking breasts. And “take away the cat toys”, we were instructed, to end her delusion. It broke all of our hearts when she whined and searched the closets and pulled the cushions off the couches, looking for her “babies”. It was a long couple of days.

Day by day. One challenge to the next, I worked with my dog. Her hormones settled. She settled. She and Emma found their groove and could be found lying side by side. She fell in line with us humans beautifully… so beautifully in fact, people who came to know her just a few months later, couldn’t believe the stories we told. She was calm, obedient, snuggly and followed me everywhere I went. I tell it now that – She just needed to work the streets out of her. Once she realized that she didn’t need to fight anymore to survive, that she was safe… that we were there to love and protect and care for her, she submitted.

She even won over my husband. One Father’s Day we gave him a coffee mug with pictures of the two of them on it and words that read- “There’s no love like the love of a Dad and the dog he didn’t want.” It was true.

Once we had a well adjusted dog, we moved forward with her doggie mastectomy.

I was never more grateful for my nursing skills when she came home with a drain and stitches and had to be sedated for 2 weeks to recover. It was another full time job caring for this ever-involved pup. And quite the work and expense, not knowing if it was all going to end in a devastating diagnosis after all.

Though her tissue “didn’t look good” when they opened her up, her pathology studies came back good- clean margins and no metastatic cancer! The hard work and chance paid off!

One man’s trash became another man’s treasure. From then on, she was the best damn dog!

She never went after the cat, rabbit, chickens or any of the other small pets. In fact, marching us out to the chicken coup twice a day was her favorite “chore.” She never got into the trash or chewed; though she’d take any scrap you offered her- never the picky eater. She only ever barked if someone approached the front door… and then she’d start wagging her tail.

She was fiercely loyal. I couldn’t get up and move from one couch to the next, without her getting up to follow me- even when her hips could hardly stand. When Emma would seize the opportunity to dart though the open gate, Pinkie always stayed behind. We used to joke that their dialogue would include Emma trying to convince Pinkie to come along- “Come on! We’ll come back at 2am. I promise you… I do it all the time! I go off, have a great adventure and come back in the middle of the night, scratch at the door and they let me back in.” Surely, we imagined Pinkie would respond “Uh uh… nope… I’ve been out there. I know what it’s like. These people are good to me… I ain’t taking no chances. You go ahead. I’m staying right here.” And sure enough, Emma would take off and Pinkie would stand on the porch watching her run.

She was sweet and snuggly. The kids forever had their limbs wrapped around her. Her soft coat was a welcome change from our hound’s stinky, wiry one. But boy did she shed!

She was a people dog. And she was particularly in-tune to those who needed love and security. Though Pinkie’s days on OUR beds ended with her obedience regimen and she found her new spot alongside Emma on the floor beside my bed. Each time we got a new foster child, even our first “unofficial” foster, she left my side and climbed into their bed with them on their first night. It was as though she knew what it felt like to be lost and scared and she could sense that in them.

Pinkie came to us when Emma first began to show signs of illness. I thought she would be our salve when Emma passed. And I guess she still was. But I thought we’d have more time with her. It’s hard to age an adult dog you find on the streets. Though they had a bit of a rough start, Pinkie bonded tremedously to Emma and her loyalty to her was evident until the end. Pinkie tended to Emma and checked up on her when she began to fail. When Emma was slow and could no longer lift her paw to scratch the door, Pinkie would wait for her and scratch for her. Pinkie declined rapidly after Emma died, just a year and a half ago.

A few days shy of 7 years, we relieved Pinkie of her suffering. A few licks of strawberry ice cream and she eased into my lap to close her eyes for the last time- our beloved vet and the whole family gathered in our living room. “Wednesday never came”, we said.

When I recall the story of how we met- the street dog that became my loyal companion, it occurred to me that the fractured fairytale fits our model so perfectly- hard work, resilience, patience and persistence, second chances, and above all else, love. Love truly conquers all.

I loved that dog more than any animal I have ever owned… but like all dogs seem to do, she loved us better. So much better.

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Today

Today I paid off my student loans. For a few moments, I stared at the screen and my eyes filled… 18 years it took me. 18 years and I can’t quite believe that it’s done.

I remember staring at my payment schedule when I graduated. All of my education was financed with federal loans. And the four jobs I worked in college paid for living expenses and books. The payoff seemed so far away. I was 23. So much had transpired during those years of study.

When I first began, my plan was to pursue travel nursing. I’d graduate, gain my first two years of nursing experience at my community hospital and then I’d go travel the country as a nurse.

Being a mother was still a top goal of mine… by 29 I said… back when 29 was “old”. After three years of pre-nursing, having applied and been accepted to an esteemed state university for Nursing school, that summer just before I began my two year nursing program, I discovered I was very unexpectedly, pregnant. In that moment, everything changed.

I moved four times with my baby, that year that I graduated. My future felt so uncertain. But I had a degree, a career opportunity and I was determined to make it.

I stayed local, never leaving that community hospital where my journey first began. Her Dad and I found a way to build and then re-build a relationship and marriage to last. And from his previous marriage, our relationship, and a journey in foster care, we now parent six children legally and have nine that we love as our own. I am an 18 year experienced nurse, charge nurse, educator and perinatal bereavement coordinator. Three years ago we moved into our dream home on nearly two-acres in the country. It’s modest compared to many, but it’s quiet and open and everything that we asked for.

Today, that 19 year old that I held in my arms at graduation, is on her own journey of self-discovery. I miss her when she’s not at home. But I quiet that ache with memories of myself at her age. She is her mother’s child. My younger three are off in North Carolina with my sister, their aunt, and uncle and cousins for the week- “cousins camp” they call it. My sister was just beginning her college journey there, when I was wrapping up mine. After she graduated, she put down her roots there. And now part of my heart belongs to NC.

Today, I sit on the front porch of what I hope to be my forever home, my sanctuary. And in the quiet that I so rarely get, I am listening to the birds- so many songs across my green acres. I’m watching my chickens hunt worms in the misty rain that soaks the plants I’ve planted here- once small, now growing full and robust. My husband calls, “Think about where you want to eat tonight…” It’s a date- sans kids- when he gets home. And when the kids return next week, my house will be full again, bonus babies included- my full fridge will be empty and shiny floors, dull and littered with shoes. And after that, a 3 week road trip around the country.

I capture this rare opportunity of solace to reflect and write.

It’s not often that I allow myself to go back and think about my life in my early 20s. It was complicated in so many ways… and hard. I made mistakes. I suffered setbacks and heartache. I worked really hard and I was often very lonely. But this milestone that I reached today and the quiet of my home, took me back to that place- Back to the sparse apartment, to the piles of books and mostly empty fridge. Back to the swollen belly, exhaustion and tears, the daily drives and walks through the city campus and clinical sites, the forever low account balance, the white uniform and the push to succeed and provide for my tiny baby.

I wish I could go back and tell that lonely, scared and very tired girl, that it was all going to work out. That there’d be more blows… bigger blows in fact than she’d ever felt, blows that would leave scars… but her tenacity and grit would pull her through again and again. And a beautiful life would emerge nonetheless. That her loneliness would transform to a circus of children, a zoo of animals and the non-stop antics of her husband. That her fears would build into confidence and wisdom. That while she may never achieve high financial wealth, her life would be rich in love and fulfillment. That she would one day travel and adventure. That along her messy and unconventional path, with time and intentional hard work, she’d become the nurse, wife and mother that she wanted to be. That she would one day know the love that she then craved.

But if I did go back, I don’t know that she would believed me. That girl of 23 had known so much pain and loss, that this life, as it stands, would’ve been unbelievable.

Sometimes, when we are in darkness or at a crossroads, the future is hard to see. Sometimes it looks bleak and lonely, uncertain and very, very different than what we once planned. Sometimes the ache of lost hopes and dreams is heavy and deep. But what my own life, losses and grief have taught me, is that life is forever evolving. Wherever life finds you today- It won’t always be like this. You won’t always feel like this. Those two very simple truths, have helped me weather my greatest pains and soak in my greatest joys.

18 years ago, I never would have predicted that my life would look the way that it does today. I am living a fucking fantasy. It is so beautiful that in my tender moments, I marvel at all that I have… and then I fear losing it all, because I know that nothing lasts forever. And yet, it’s still filled with challenges. And that fear of impending loss, I’ve learned, is likely a trauma-response. I have been hit so many times with unpredictable and astoundingly painful blows, that I sometimes wince without a strike. I prepare to lose simply because I’ve lost before. I brace myself because I tell myself that it hurts less that way and nothing good will stay.

But it isn’t true. Preparing for an imaginary loss does nothing to ease the pain, it only robs us of our current joy. And dwelling on the past, holds us hostage from the marvels of the present moment.

Today I took a quiet stroll into my past, like a visit to my old neighborhood. I looked around. I remembered. I felt. And with a respectful nod, I left. While that place helped to build me, it also helped to break me. Who I become now, helps to build tomorrow. Looking into the horizon, I can’t help but wonder what lies ahead… the gains or losses, the celebrations or hardships… and I once again avert my gaze. That’s not for today…

Today is for chickens to feast on rainy day worms. To feel the soft purr of my cat at my feet and the quiet snore of my pup next to my tall, soft bed. To soak in both the quiet and the song. To marvel at new flower buds, racing hummingbirds and rambunctious young squirrels. For a much anticipated date with a man who makes me feel cherished and loved. To enjoy a clean house and a mid-day glass of wine. To draw a smiley face next to “Paid in full”.

For it is these moments that make yesterday’s storms worth weathering… and fill my tank for whatever energy tomorrow might require.

I’m learning to sit with today.

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Time

If I had more time…

I’d write more, dance more, love more… I’d have more friends… I’d make more and take more adventures… I’d sleep more, self-soothe more, pause more. With more time for me, there’d be more of me to share with others.

If only there were just a few more hours in each day… I’d be better, do better… life would be better… with more time.

But in the quiet, I remember… life is nothing but time… it’s how we choose to spend that time that shapes and defines our lives. And I remember the lives that I’m molding, shaping, saving. Despite my feelings of inadequacy, I suppose there’s no greater thing to do with that time…

That time that I’ve been given… the ticker that started 40 years ago and has a battery life that is unknown to all but the highest power. In a blend of quiet reflection and panic, I wonder, I plead, for a lot more time.

Here I am, gifted with this vessel of- time to invest in the present moment, time to make every difference, time to build and create. Sitting on a pile of forty albeit hard, still blessed years, like coins of gold, I determine how they are spent… and yet here I am, unsatisfied and selfishly asking, pleading, for more.

Perhaps it’s not “more” that I need. After all, there is no bank to withdraw more of this precious currency of life. But instead, perhaps I need an advisor… an analysis of how it is that I am choosing to spend my minutes, hours. How does each investment serve me? Serve others? What is the overall yield? In this culture of endless “more”s , how much time is frivolously spent on mindless screens and scrolling? What if I could deduct time spent in traffic? On pointless worry? On stewing? On regret?

“Time is the apparent progression of events from past to future… the evolution of time appears to be continuous and irreversible.” *

There is no going back and no speeding forward. There is only ever, right now.

From my quiet place, that place that feeds my soul and allows for slow and beautiful growth… I pause and stand. Putting my best foot forward, I reset my goals to speak only truth and kindness- and to correct my missteps without dwelling on them. To notice life and beauty, everywhere. To make a difference, in ways both big and small- a smile at a stranger, time to talk to the lonely, efforts to grow and watch grow, pause to soak in the sunshine, the songs of the birds, the laughter of my children and the playful eye of my lover. To wipe my tears and tend to my fragility, to courageously feed my strength.

My hourglass hides in the clouds and I know not how many grains remain in the glass enclosure, but I reset… not to ask for more… but to treasure each one that hangs in the balance and then falls. For in that grain, holds a million opportunities for greatness. And they each belong to me.

*Quote by Paul Sutter, an astrophysicist article on Livescience.com

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No room in the inn

Around this time of year, for many years in my youth, my church and school would begin preparing for our annual Christmas pageant. Wiggly little kids, we’d anxiously await the assignment of our roles. Was I going to be an angel this year or a shepherd or maybe a narrator? Gabrielle would be cool! Or even an inn keeper. They always gave the Wise Men and Joseph to the boys. I was never lucky enough to get selected as Mary. Every little girl wanted to play Mary. It was a ritual of sorts, to reenact the birth story of the Savior and one that just about any church-attending Christian could largely recite by heart…

“In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered… Joseph went… to a town called Bethlehem… to be registered with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child… and while they were there, the time came for her to give birth… There were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord appeared to them… suddenly a multitude of the heavenly hosts appeared.” There were wise men that fell to their knees bearing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh… and a baby, wrapped in swaddling clothing, lying in a manger… because there was no room for them in the inn…. no room in the inn.

And every Christmas all over the world, the story is told over and over again… and each time, I imagine that millions of people have an unsettling, ill feeling, like I did, when Joseph and a very pregnant Mary knock on door after door and are turned away. Only finally catching a break when one, kind inn keeper lets them stay in a stable with the animals, where she gives birth. And we all marvel at the irony of a” King” entering the world under such humble circumstances.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I gained more insight into the story… Despite the white- washed picture books and pageants of my youth, I came to realize that Jesus was a middle- eastern man. It was a brown baby that was born that night, and an immigrant- not a citizen of the Roman Empire but living under Roman authority, born to a young mother… with no place to stay. And despite our inflated sense of ego, those inn keepers who shut their doors, were much more usual than the one who gave them shelter.

We were never suppose to get our current foster placement. It was an “out of the blue” phone call, like they all are, when I was asked if we could take a 12 year old boy. I said “Of course”. But unlike the calls of the past, this was a rare heads up… they’d call back tomorrow with more details. Normally, we’re given a hour or two before the child arrives. So I took the time to grab some extra groceries, make the bed up in “boyish” bedding, to dust the shelves and set out a toothbrush and toiletries, fresh socks, underwear and some clothing options- because the kids rarely come with anything at all. But when tomorrow came… one child became two and we were asked if we could take a sibling group… “These two can’t be separated.”, the agency said. We got an emergency override to make our single bedroom work for this brother and sister until we could make more room. And I readied the other bed with “girlie” sheets and another toothbrush, more socks, underwear and clothes.

It’s been four years since we first began our foster journey and the comments I’ve gotten in regards to it are as varied as, “You guys are angels!” to “Wow, aren’t those kids really messed up and isn’t that a big risk you’re exposing your family to???” And I’m always amazed how many of the people with comments like the later, call themselves Christians.

Especially when I recall the words Jesus later spoke as an adult when he taught his people… “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.” … “Hungry and you gave me something to eat… Thirsty and you gave me something to drink… a stranger and you invited me in… I needed clothes and you clothed me…”

Unlike the passage above from the book of Matthew-in the Christian bible, fostering for us, has nothing to do with gaining passage to heaven, pleasing a god, or even faith for that matter. I lost my faith a long time ago. I have doubts about even the presence of an after-life. We expect nothing in return for our work. We do it because we saw a need and we felt compelled to help. Still, the Christmas story of my youth pervades my soul.

The truth is, yes, it is a risk. A well-calculated one that my family went though extensive training and education to prepare for and one that we discuss often in family meetings each time we reassess if this is a journey we want to continue. But a risk nonetheless.

Why is it that we can watch a play with children on a stage and feel the sadness and even, dare I say, judgement, towards the inn keepers that turned Mary and Joseph away… insisting to ourselves that WE would have been the kind inn keeper that opened our doors… and yet… living in a world of extravagance and privilege, all around us are thousands of people in need- many of them young mothers and children… and we lock our doors and tighten our purse strings, reasoning that helping them is somehow too much, too risky, or just not our job.

The truth is, we’ve all been the unaccommodating inn keepers… and we have to do better. We have to be willing to stretch a little more, bend a little more, give a little more.

I’m not here to say that everyone should be a foster parent. Some people can’t. Some people won’t pass the background checks or meet the criteria. And some people just don’t have it- the money, the time, the patience or skills. And it isn’t easy- I’ll never say that it is. But a lot more people could, if they allowed themselves to move past the fear or the excuses.

And foster care isn’t the only way to help. There are so many other ways to show your love and charity for our fellow human beings- tasks as simple as handing out lunches and smiles to the homeless, volunteering at soup kitchens or food banks, donating to charities, helping a friend or a neighbor in need- with a visit, getting them groceries or giving them a ride. Do you take the time to notice those around you or do you keep your head down and hurry on? Do you stop and hold the door, lend a helping hand, check in on the elderly, or are you just “too busy”? Have you offered a single mom or an over-worked couple a night of babysitting… or invited the unusual and lonely kid at school out for a play date… or are those kids just too needy? Have you made dinner for a family in need or better yet, welcomed them to your table… or are groceries just too expensive? It’s amazing how we can often find time and money for the things that serve us, but not for serving others.

I don’t write this post pretending to be something that I’m not. I’m not better than anyone. I’m not even a Christian anymore. And I’m no angel or savior. I’m just a person who answered the door when someone knocked. And I’ve discovered the magic that happened when I answered. What initially felt impossible and overwhelming, proved plausible and rewarding. And I’ve also felt sinking regret when I knew I could’ve done better. I see the tremendous need around me and my heart aches. I know we can all do more.

This winter season, let us all find room. Or better yet, make room, if not in our homes, within the confides of our hearts for someone else. Life is too short to turn out the light and ignore the knocking.

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Be Kind… perspective from a grief worker.

A few months back, I was pulling out of a gas station/convenience store. A large truck was pulled up alongside the store to unload its goods, blocking the view of the exit. As I cautiously pulled around the truck, I found myself nose-to-nose with another vehicle. While it took me by a bit of surprise to suddenly be face-to-face with another driver, I was thankful for he and I’s quick reflexes and attention. But as we pulled around one another to maneuver the tight space, and our driver’s side windows were in close proximity, my positive outlook faded, as he rolled down his window and angrily screamed “Pay Attention!!!”.

Now if you know me, I’ve got a pretty tough skin and it’s not like me to shirk away from confrontation or even to be embarrassed easily. But this one caught me off guard and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hang with me a bit… not in an all-consuming, pre-occupied way and not in an “I’m gonna cry” way… but it bugged me. Mostly, I think, because it was so uncalled for. I WAS paying attention. If I hadn’t been, our careful navigation would have instead, resulted in a collision. We were simply in each other’s blind spots. And instead of being gracious or understanding, you screamed at me loud enough for the whole gas station to hear… for what?

And that little, insignificant interaction is just what came to my mind when I rode home and wound down after one of my bereavement shifts.

As a perinatal bereavement coordinator, it is my job to assist and support families who have lost a child either in pregnancy or in the first year of life. I work at the bedside as well as conduct telephone/e-mail follow-ups, moderate monthly support groups and organize annual events. Of equal importance, I support and educate staff and the community on caring for these families and themselves, in this most heartbreaking work. With my close interactions and ongoing communication with the many families, staff- doctors, nurses, techs, and various members of our community, I hear and see a lot…and I gain a lot of perspective.

And as the faces of the parents I held that day, replayed in my mind… all I could think about was… in a few days… they are going to bury their child. Somehow in the deepest depths of their sorrows, they are going to crawl off the floor and carry out the impossible task of making funeral arrangements for a child they have been dreaming of for a lifetime. And at some point, in the midst of that horror,… they’re gonna need to put gas in their car, groceries in their cupboards, and pick up sanitary napkins or pumping supplies because they’re probably still bleeding and their breasts are bursting for a baby they can no longer feed. And when they do…

I hope people will be kind.

When I got home and crawled into my bed, I both lamented and mindlessly scrolled social media, my page seemed to be flooded with angry people- people calling other people “Sheeple” and “Idiots”, people angrily protesting masks- swearing that it will damage their children, fighting about a vaccine that was designed to save lives and has somehow become a political war, calling desperate women “murderers”, people on both sides lashing out instead of listening… and it all felt so petty and selfish and narrow-minded, when the parents I saw today, would give up the world just to hold their child alive again.

And all I could think about was… I wish people would be kind.

A few months down the road and these families will once again try to integrate back into society. They’ll sit down to write emails to their employers about when and how they will return to work and they’ll talk to their children’s guidance counselor about a plan for the grieving sibling. Each and every one of them will have to navigate the awkward return when people don’t know what to say and avert their eyes… on top of the ignorant comments and inappropriate questions- “What happened?” “Was it someone’s fault?” “Well at least it happened early”…. “You can have another one.” Because somehow, the idea of replacing an adult is preposterous but replacing a baby is still an idea people like to throw out there. They’ll construct an exit plan for work/school in case they break down. They’ll be tasked with the heart-wrenching decision of what to do with the nursery. And if they try to return anything to the store, an unknowing counter clerk is likely to ask “Why are you returning these?” and they will have to concoct a reply.

And all I can think about is… I hope people will be kind.

I know just how many families at one county hospital are faced with these tasks every week… and that’s just the babies. Then you add in the children, the teens, the young single adults, the parents and grandparents. And it’s not just death… there’s kidnappings and runaways, devastating diagnoses and life altering injuries, there’s trauma and abuse and it spans every population. There are people who are affected first hand and there are people who do hard things for work, in discovering and managing these crises, and everyone suffers. Every one of these things happen far more than anyone realizes… far more than what makes the news. They affect far more people then anyone knows. And not everyone’s support system and resources are equal. Some people don’t even have paid leave… or their household provider is the one being lowered into the ground. And walking down the street, you would have no idea who those people were.

I can still remember the first time I went to the grocery store after my brother’s suicide. I remember thinking “How can the world go on right now… all of these people are just going about their day as if nothing is wrong… but my brother is dead. I’m here, amongst all these people and no one knows what has happened to us.” It felt like my gut had been split open and I was hemorrhaging all over the floor, and no one noticed.

From the hospital room, it’s my job to provide support and resources and ensure that they have a safe ride home. I’ll call or email periodically to check in and intervene if I need to. But by and large, they are out there in the world, at everyone’s mercy…

And all I can think about is… I hope that people are kind.

We are all humans and we must be willing to give both ourselves and others grace. We all make mistakes. We all have bad days. I was known in my youth to flip quite a few people the bird if they pissed me off while I was driving. Patience has not always come to me easily and directness is a communication skill that is both a blessing and a curse of mine. But with every tear that I wipe, every parent that I hold from hitting the floor, every wail that echoes in my mind… I gain more and more perspective.

This work isn’t for everyone… in fact, it’s for very few…. but take this perspective from me….

When you go out again, when you feel a little road rage bubbling up for a fellow driver, when the person standing in front of you forgot their wallet or an item in the store and holds up the line, when you feel the need to communicate your feelings or feel slighted because something isn’t going your way… Remember, that things can be much, much worse… and remember… that the scars people carry are often hidden. It is unlikely that any mother will turn to you in the check out line and tell you that her child just died, but she might be so distracted that she forgets her wallet, pulls out in front of someone, misses her turn and slams on the brakes, is late for an appointment.

And the cops, firefighters, paramedics, doctors, nurses, and all frontline workers who see and manage horrors as part of their line of work, too feel these tragedies and do their best not to take it home… but we’re humans, not robots. And perhaps if we’re grumpy, quiet or stand-offish, it’s not that we have a chip on our shoulder, but are instead shouldering that trauma, so that others don’t have to.

Perhaps, if we all tempered our responses with grace and understanding. If we gave people the benefit of the doubt and considered that some people might be having a reeeaally bad day/week/month/year… it’s possible that we may give a few undeserving people a break… but it’s even more possible that you saved a shattered person from even more pain and difficulty.

I know what it feels like to hurt so badly that you don’t feel like you can breathe. I know what it feels like to be so broken that you don’t know who you are anymore… much less what day/time it is. I know what it feels like to lose friends because you don’t have the energy for anything more than basic life tasks. And I know what it feels like to return to work and school and pretend to be strong and pretend to function when your mind is both empty and maddeningly busy all at once. And still, some people have it so much worse… and I just don’t know how they do it.

And when I think of them, and I remember my own hardest days, and the stupid angry driver , and the faces of those parents that are now seared into my brain…

All I think about… is I hope… I pray… people can just be kind.

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A letter to my child when they turn 30

Hello my love,

I hope this letter finds you well… finds you happy. In fact, I hope you’re reading it snuggled up and cozy, with a family that you love quietly preparing for bed, after you’ve just returned home from laughs and drinks with your old Mom. And I hope as you drove home from our date and reflected on how our relationship has changed over the years, that I’m a Mom that you’re proud of.

I hope that I am and always was enough.

You know, the day I discovered I was pregnant with you, I was both terrified and instantly inspired. I wanted to be the best Mom in the world. I cut out coffee and alcohol and ate all the healthiest foods. I was afraid to ever make a mistake with you and I  wanted to give you the world. And then you were here and you were mine… and I made mistakes and told you “no” more times than I can count.

But every mistake was felt almost instantly and painfully. And every decision trial, was harder than you could ever imagine.

Remember how tough it was to have a nurse for a Mom, a night-shifter at that. Every time I came home grumpy from sleep exhaustion or a difficult shift and I yelled for you to “get your shoes on and get out the door”… I regretted, the moment you climbed out of the car in the drop-off line. And after those encounters, when I nodded off to sleep while you started your day at school, I vowed to be better tomorrow… and some days, I wasn’t. Every time I sent you to school with a stomach ache or a sore throat because you weren’t throwing up or had a fever, I stalked my phone all day just in the case the nurse called and you needed to come home.

Remember that teacher that was shitty to you and didn’t understand your feelings or your needs… and I tried to point out the positives to you and give her the benefit of the doubt. I fucking hated her. And I wrote more scathing e-mails demanding change, than you’ll ever know. Her words were never more important than your feelings.

On the hard days when you cried and with a solid expression on my face, I rubbed your back and told you to keep trying, told you not to quit, told you some days are hard like this… my stern exterior broke when I was alone, and baby, I cried right along with you. I cried when you didn’t get picked for safety patrol, when I knew how bad you wanted it. I cried when your drama audition and your visitation day went badly. I cried when you broke up with your first boyfriend-watching your heart break, in turn, broke mine. Every disappointment, every pain, every sense of failure wore on my soul like a ball and chain… even if on the outside, I didn’t show it.

And discipline was no different. The love a parent has when they chose to make hard calls to instill good values and character… is a love that is both exhausting and painful… like debriding and cleaning out an infected wound to save a limb- though essential, your pain didn’t go unfelt within my soul. And so often I wished lessons didn’t have to be learned hard and that indulgence didn’t have to be spared.

As you became a teenager, the struggles got harder and your push for independence was a constant tug-o-war with my undying instinct to protect you. It was around this time in your life that you began to see little slivers of me as a person (not just me as your mom)- a curse word here, a little too much wine there… If I disappointed you then, I hope that by now, you see me as a human that you are proud of. It’s hard to wear the super mom cape forever… though I tried.

You were always a human that I was proud of… even when I didn’t say it. And I know I wasn’t always good about saying it… that was a hard skill for me to learn. Every step you took brought me tremendous pride and unbearable angst. The statistics and stories of tragic death from drugs, motor vehicle accidents, suicide, accidental death, human trafficking… kept me up at night… and the thing I feared the most, was losing you.

From the moment I knew you existed, you were and always will be, my most precious possession… only you’re not my possession. If you were, I’d keep you locked up in the valuables box. But no, you my dear were meant to be out in the world, to shine and to share your gifts. You are a wonder to behold… even though sharing you, means sharing my own heart… cutting open my own chest and exposing the blood-pumping vital organ that sustains me, to the crowded and selfish world around me… silently begging them not to poke.

I wasn’t always able to save you from pain… but my god… I sure as hell did try! And the soul-twisting, gut-wrenching pain that I felt when I couldn’t… seared like a hot poker on my heart… tissue dead, permanently scarred, leaving the muscle to twitch before it learned to pump again, resilient but blackened by the pain you suffered.

I would have given my life to save you from that pain. But in doing so, I would have missed your wonderous recovery… your resilient spirit and tremendous strength. I live every day tormented by your suffering, yet in awe of your wonder.

Despite the hardships, I hope your childhood memories are more sweet than bitter. I hope the games, vacations, parties and quality family time unweigh the time-outs, harsh words, disappointments and tears. I hope I taught you how to both survive and love fiercely, to think critically and trust your gut, to work hard but know when to ask for help. I hope you remember the tree house, ice cream and s’mores, road trips, day hikes and family hide-n-go-seek.

By now, you know that adulthood and even parenthood, isn’t some magical veil that you pass through and instantly gain wisdom and patience and all that is good. By now you know that the super hero cape I wore was one that you merely envisioned. And as you grew and it dissolved, I hope you found grace for my misgivings and recognize my humanity. But I hope you see that I never ever stopped fighting for everything that was good for us and that my love for you is endless.

I hope that you are proud of me, as I am of you.

And just as I listened to your childish pleas and I satisfied them when I was able, I hope you hear this old mother’s plea…

Don’t ever stop coming by to visit. Don’t ever stop asking for advise or a helping hand. Or calling just to say “Hi!”. And don’t you ever… for a single second question that I am not forever proud and in awe of the person you were and have grown to be.

I hope you don’t knock. Come for dinner or a drink, for an afternoon nap or an evening chat. I hope you open the fridge and my front door like you’re home… because you are… in my house and in my heart… darling, you are always home. You are mine and I am yours, forever.

Love,

Mom

 

 

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Fractured Fairytales

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When I was a young girl, there was a line of books called “Fractured Fairytales”. They were essentially, a silly, every-day spin on the old classics. Cinderella wasn’t into glass slippers, but was more of a loafers girl. Prince Charming wasn’t a perfect suiter but had hang-ups. And in the end, Cinderella was better suited to one of his relatives instead…It was that sorta thing.

I haven’t seen the books in years, but the term came to mind the other day as I was finishing up another 12 hour day of providing bereavement services, after a 36 hour weekend of working in covid world and simultaneously mothering, wifeing and adulting. Reflecting on my job and my life as a whole, everything kind of melted together and “Fractured Fairytale” came to mind… Not in the silly sense that the books were written and not in the overwhelmingly tragic sense of a fairytale never coming to fruition or hopelessness… but in a life-like sense… where both goodness and tragedy reside, side by side.

My life in so many ways, is a fairytale. I am madly in love with my husband. We have two absolutely beautiful children together and several more through my husband’s first marriage and foster care, who’s love sustain us. Our house, whilst small, is ours and has blossomed lovingly from the work we put into it. I am well respected in my profession. We take fabulous travel adventures and play games almost nightly as a family. I’ve delivered babies and saved lives, which has provided me tremendous life/work satisfaction. And the kind words people offer me through my writing and my work, has me walking on clouds many days. For these things, I am the luckiest woman in the world.

And yet despite all the wonderful blessings, there are so many fractures…

While I am very open about things like my brother’s suicide, my parent’s divorce, foster care and the tragically beautiful work I do for a living, there are many aspects of my life that I do not share publicly, out of respect for the people I love, and in keeping my private and public life balanced. Some of those things have brought me life-shattering pain; pain, that I don’t believe I will ever recover from. For these things, I wonder why life has been so unbelievably cruel.

It is as if I am caught in this day-to-day see-saw… of celebrating my blessings and grieving my losses, bathing in gratitude and wallowing in my sorrows…

And I know that I am not alone. I know there are many people who carry tremendous burdens, burdens heavier than even my own, that few people know anything of.

I suppose every life is that way, to some degree. We all have private struggles and ups and downs… To love is to have great comfort and risk great pain; and very little success comes without some degree of failure…that is to live. No one is spared all loss and tragedy.

And yet my experience, both in my own life and in my work as a foster parent and nurse, has shown me that those highs and lows often seem disproportionately assigned in the world. Some people’s pendulum of successes and losses seems to swing much harder than others’ do. While some people seem to be able to skate through life with relative ease, others are dealt a hand that slams them with assault after assault, leaving them in a constant state of gasping for reprieve. While we all have challenges and hardships that create cracks in our lives, some people’s fracture lines are many and they run deep.

It’s become my life’s work to walk alongside those people. Because we never do know, what people are silently dealing with. And everyone needs a friend.

The next time you look at someone and label them as “having it all”, being “Mr./Mrs. Perfect”, “living a fairytale”… or better yet, the next time you judge someone for their “low” place in life, remind yourself that every fairytale has fracture lines and some are much harder to patch.

Still, it’s what we learn to take away from our hardships that make our fairytales that much richer.

One thing I have learned, is that life is part hard-work and part sheer-luck, part what we can control and part what we can’t. Working our hardest, we can improve what/where we can. But, we must also be willing to relinquish control over what we can’t.

When I reflect on my greatest highs, I see that I had a big hand in them- my career, my marriage, my family. That reflection reminds me that my hard-work was worth it! But when I reflect on my lowest lows, I realize, that very little was within my control- genetics, the choices and behaviors of others, accidents. And it gives me a small sense of relief. Not all of our misfortunes are ours to own and yet they impact us deeply. Whether they spontaneously befell me or I missed a signal, I was unable to prevent them from happening. Therefore, my only remaining energy must be dedicated to learning from them, improving from them, and working to heal from them.

That, gives me some control back and it carves out a sliver of goodness from the pain.

But it also gives me a lot of hard work to do. Learning, Improving and Healing… Changing… are hard! They require much more intentional energy and effort than silently mulling in regret.

They say that “regret, is wasting energy on the past, and worry, is wasting energy on the future”. These days, I don’t have any energy to spare. So, I am consciously working on remaining in the present. Sometimes, it’s an hour-by-hour struggle to do so.

It is easy to get lost in thought over the origin of my fracture lines- whenst they came and how, by god, I could have prevented them. It’s even easier still to wallow in self-pity over why I’ve been dealt the shitty hands that I have. And lord knows, it is just as easy to worry for the future- there is so much uncertainty, so much to be concerned about.

But those are the moments that I am learning to take a deep breath and center myself, bringing myself back to the present moment- where blessings and power lie in bounty.

Today I have the power to change what I am able- to seek help, to embark on the journey of healing, to work towards being my best self. Today, I am afforded the opportunity to acknowledge my fracture lines… and with great focus on my afforded blessings, pick up the mortar and begin to fill them in. The patchwork will always shadow under the surface paint, but perhaps the structure of my spirit will end up stronger in the end. And if nothing else, it certainly adds complexity and character, even if that complexity is one I’d rather do without.

When we are children, we dream nothing but fairytales… and no one ever tells us that amongst our innocent views, fracture lines are already running through them…

Some of my fracture lines are so deep, so pervading, that I would literally have given my life to prevent them. But that is the mindset of regret and useless bargaining. And what the implications of those lines will be on the future, is exhausting worry. So today, my fairytale is knowledge, empowerment, resources, opportunity, endless love and the beauty of another day.

Because despite the breaks and pain… life is worth living… and if you give it your very best, underneath the ashes… lies the gold of your very own fairytale, chipped and patched, but wonderous all the same.

Re-discover your fairytale today… your life is more beautiful than it sometimes feels!

 

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The Night Shift

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I started working the night shift many moons ago… a new grad rite of passage. I had to get through one year- and then a day shift position would open up, they said. So for a year, I worked the zombie shift. With a one year old at home and limited childcare, I was always sick and sleep deprivation took on a whole new meaning. It became a lifestyle. I couldn’t wait for my year to be up and to be able to work “normal hours”.

While I waited that transition period out, I went about achieving my goal – “To be the Best OB nurse that I could be”. I stared at the experienced nurses with starry eyes… “One day I want to be like them”. I longed for their wisdom and efficiency. I wanted to run an OR like a boss. I wanted to propose a new plan of care to a provider and have them take it because it was a good one. I wanted to perform exams with accuracy and not feel the need for someone to check behind me all the time. I wanted to do a delivery without tearing up. I wanted to feel relaxed in an emergency and resuscitate a baby without feeling like I was gonna to shit my pants. On my downtime, I practiced the things I struggled with, studied strips, asked providers for the reasons and thought processes behind the decisions they made and grilled the veterans for their pearls of wisdom. If I was lucky, someone would break out a diagram or draw me a map… and if I wasn’t, I was chastised.

By the time my year was up and a day-shift position was posted, I had fallen in love with the staff who taught me how to nurse. I had come to rely on them, knowing that the second I pulled the emergency bell, they would magically be by my side to guide me. So I stuck it out a little longer. My physical ailments of working nights had begun to work themselves out and I decided I wanted to gain more experience and a higher level of comfort before I moved to a different group of staff.

As I gained more experience I came to discover the treasures buried in this shift.

Labor knows no bedtime and babies come when they want to. Providers go to sleep and go home at night, often times because they hold office hours in the morning. So, you are forced to think and act. In the quiet of the night, you become autonomous. Without a provider immediately ordering you what to do, you begin to develop plans of care on your own and suggest them for the doctor/midwife’s approval when you call. Assessments and exams fall to the nurses and with all the practice, you become very comfortable with the tasks that would normally fall to residents at other hospitals. You catch babies when patients arrive late in their labor. Surgery is never scheduled and the chaos of taking a patient to the OR at 3am becomes a learned dance. You are the eyes and ears of the doctors when they aren’t there. Your senses become highly tuned to the early signs of a problem because a baby and a mom’s life depend on you.

Administration are in their beds. Resources outside the unit are scarce and by default, your coworkers become your right hand. Providers aren’t hanging around watching your monitors. You can’t call for back-up staff at 3am or ask your manager to leave a meeting for a unit emergency. You learn how to “figure it out” when it’s busy and how to stay awake when it’s slow.

So here I am, 12 years a night shift OB nurse and I wouldn’t have it any other way. The aspects of the shift that at first terrified me… in the end… have gifted me with experience and skill, confidence and character. I have learned when to not “bother” doctors and when to “demand” them, so as to advocate for my patients. I’ve had the joy of delivering a patient’s baby and doing it well, and the privilege of holding their hand and wiping their tears when the outcome wasn’t good but a provider wasn’t there yet to break the bad news. I have prepped and pushed a patient into the OR before the surgeon was on the floor. I’ve accompanied a high risk patient in transport via ambulance to another hospital because OB nurse transporters weren’t available at night. I’ve run for 12 hours straight without a bathroom or a meal break because there was no help to be had. And I have proudly performed a variety of dance and music numbers for my coworkers when things were slow… it works much better than caffeine! (Ethics discussions and random polling are also engaging for the sleepy mind). But mostly, I’ve gained the respect of providers and nurses alike and achieved the goal I set as a new nurse.

In the blink of an eye, I am the veteran…pushing my baby birds out of the nest to fly as new L&D nurses. And they all ask…

“How do you stay awake? How do you stay so calm all the time? And when will my insides stop going crazy every time I have to resuscitate a newborn or manage a delivering patient with no provider in the room?”

Inside I smile.

“Keep wanting to get better. Keep practicing and it will come. And hang with us zombies on night shift and we’ll be there to have your back and keep you awake.”

If they watch carefully, they too will blossom into wonderful, autonomous nurses with a little attitude and a lot of character… and if they watch extra careful, they might just notice that I still need a back-up or a second opinion sometimes and once in a while, they might just catch me tearing up in a delivery.

This post was first written by me for and published by an online nursing magazine and a hospital newspaper. I am now re-posting it here.