Tag: life after trauma

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“And”

It often seems that “or” is the preferred conjunction. It is “A” or “B”? Are you happy -or- sad? Do you want this -or- that? But, “or” draws a line. It divides. It claims sides. It is black and white.

But what this life has taught me, what fostering, mothering, nursing and living, has taught me, is that straight lines rarely occur in nature. In between two clearly defined groups, there is often a fuzzy divide. And shades of gray most commonly compose reality, instead of absolutes.

I believe we’ve far overused “or” and perhaps should instead consider another, more powerful conjunction- “and”.

This past fall and winter, my family entered the transition of closing our foster license and entering a relationship of permanence with our foster children (now just our children). And as we walked (and continue to walk) that journey, I was struck by the level of grief and loss that I felt. The inability of my children to reunify with their biological parents felt like a failure- not our failure, not even a failure of the system… but a failure nonetheless. That grief, coupled with the grief of closing our foster license, when I wasn’t yet ready to be done, when there were still more children I wanted to help… weighed heavy on me.

And yet with that loss, there was simultaneously relief- relief that I no longer had to comply with the foster requirements- of home inspections, health and finance records, required education, court approved travel requests and paperwork, relief that we could simply raise these children on our own without the bureaucracy of the agency, relief that we wouldn’t have to say good-bye this time, relief that safety and security could be provided at our hands and that these children’s futures seemed more certain than ever.

As I toiled with this inner conflict, I held the tear-stained faces of children who too felt “and”. They wanted to stay -and- they wanted to go back. They wanted this new family- an older brother and sister, zoo of animals and new adventures -and- their small, quiet family of origin. They love that they came to us -and- they hate that they had to. They wanted to fix what wasn’t able to be fixed -and- they wanted stability. They wanted “out” of foster care, and “in”- because they wanted to hold onto hope and possibility.

Together, we are both happy -and- sad, washed with relief -and- burdened with longing.

But this clarity of “and” didn’t begin with this most recent chapter. Instead, my reflections have allowed me to see that it was there all along.

On their day of arrival, their timid smiles relayed happiness -and- uncertainty, sadness -and- hope.

In times of leisure and recollection, when we gently and casually recall their early days and the new things they had to learn- like what “Pjs” were and meal and bed times, they laugh, confused by how it was once new and delighted by how far they’ve come… and other times they feel embarrassed… but it’s usually a little bit of both.

Holidays and vacations are often triggers. Behavior is often its worst during the times we give the most. And acknowledging that behavior lead me to affirm to the conflicted child that I held in my arms- “You can love what we’re doing here -and- be sad that it wasn’t like this at home. You can celebrate this moment -and- wish that things were different.”

My therapist, who was appointed to me from the agency to hep me dissect the tremendous load that came with my children’s story, and heard me grapple with understanding their parents through two different viewpoints, shared these words – “Parents can love their children very much, going to great lengths to show their affection and offer protection… AND do tremendous harm.” Parents can love -and- hurt, want to provide -and- be unable.

To my children, as they unpack the complexity of it all- You can love someone and acknowledge all the many things they did well -and- hate some of the choices, conditions or circumstances.

As I mother 4 very different children-3 teens and 1 preteen, each with unique personalities and character, I can affirm that all of my children are wonderful people who carry great strengths AND they are learning. They fumble, misstep, and all have their challenges. The straight A student has as many areas of concern as the one who struggles just to pass, they’re just in different areas. The child who’s been labeled a “trouble-maker” is one of the most compassionate I know. The one who’s a gem in school, often gives me the most fits. The natural born leader is taking an untraditional path. The academic genius is learning basic executive functioning.

And the “and”s continue…

When people discover what I do for a living they often say “Oh, labor and delivery, you work in the happy place!” And yet I hold a dual role of both a staff/charge nurse and a bereavement nurse. I watch life both begin and end and absorb the wails of heartache and cheers of celebration. I’ve aided families who have held birthday parties, complete with cake, guests and decorations, for a baby that was yet to be born, because they knew they wouldn’t survive long post-delivery- a joyful -and- heartbreaking event. I’ve received a baby from the sorrowful yet relinquished arms of a mother who couldn’t provide and placed it into the ecstatic arms of the adoptive parents whose dreams were finally coming true. And it’s always an AND.

What I’d like to see less of in the world is less boxes, less labels, less assumptions, less “or”s and … more willingness to see and accept the complexities and intricacies in all of us… the “and”s.

I can be a great parent/nurse/partner -and- feel defeated, overwhelmed and fall short sometimes.

I can adore the life I’ve built -and- need a break.

One can feel discouraged by life’s circumstances -and- proud of things done well.

In each of us, resides both light and darkness, beauty and pain. We don’t have to, nor should we ever, ignore one over the other. They coexist, one alongside the other. I can see one’s powerful light, without ignoring their darkness. I can tend to one’s pain without losing sight of the power and beauty they still possess.

A gain can simultaneously be a loss.

Tears can be shed for both sadness and joy and the two emotions can oscillate so quickly it’s like a vibration and you no longer know which one is causing the let down.

As my children learn to navigate their new lives and the telling of their very personal stories, I hope that the people who are so privileged to know them in that way, hold space for their trauma and loss and the byproducts brought on from it- the anxiety, the insecurity, the compulsions and unusual coping skills… AND I hope they see them for all the wonder that they are and behold, their resiliency, their character, their humor, their intellect, their humanity.

And I hope each of us too, see and are seen, both for what we do well -and- where we struggle- for that is how we are both nurtured and aim for improvement. When together we see light alongside the dark, our focus can shift from a good vs evil, black vs white mentality to a focus on complete personhood, humility and humanity. When we stop comparing and dividing and feeling as though we have to prove ourselves, we promote a society that both allows fault and fragility -and- encourages its members to learn from one another and grow.

When we don’t have to pick whether we’re the creature that crawls on its belly or the magnificent one that flies… the caterpillar or the butterfly…. but instead acknowledge that in all of us, we are both, the sooner we can become.

When we can sit in the open and restful place of “and”, we can more quickly and more clearly see ourselves, in all of our beautiful complexity… and take in the very same from the world around us.

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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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Today… again

Yesterday I was tired. Yesterday I had had enough… though the enough happened quite a while ago… I guess it just caught up with me… again.

Yesterday I was overwhelmed and consumed. I let simple words intended as good advice, to penetrate my skin and anger and frustration boiled from my core. I wanted to scream,

“Fuck you! Fuck your healthy diets and your exercise regimens. Fuck your 8hrs of sleep and your parenting books. Fuck meditation and any version of faith. Fuck every morsel of advise and tid bit of knowledge. Fuck good intentions and monumental efforts. All of it is for naught and bad shit happens anyway… no matter how many pews you kneel at or how many vitamins you take. So eat the cake, drink the cocktails and stop pretending that you have control. It’s all a lie anyway!”

Though I didn’t believe those words, I thought them. They bubbled up inside me from disappointment and defeat. That ‘one more piece of advice’ felt like one more empty promise from the universe waiting to happen, one more thing that I hadn’t done right, one more “You’re pretty good… but not good enough.” It wasn’t them, it was me. And in that moment I couldn’t see all that was right. I could only see inadequacy.

I didn’t scream those things that I thought. Instead, I held it in like I so often do. Sometimes I wonder with all the holding in I do, what will give first, my heart, my cells or my sanity.

Only this time I couldn’t hold it all in, and my self defeat came oozing out of my tear ducts- first one drop and then two… and then a stream, pouring down my face. I hate crying. It takes me to a place of vulnerability that is uncomfortable. Though I do it more when I’m alone than anyone knows.

I suppose the good thing about crying in front of others is that it always seems to shift the energy and it brings a glimpse of authenticity to the moment. Sometimes it also affords me words of affirmation from others- words that I cling to. And even though I hate how much I need them… I will re-read and replay them in my head a hundred times, bathing in them like a tub of glue, mending my broken pieces, until I feel whole, again.

Today the glue is still a little tacky… but the tears have dried and the boil within me has calmed again. Today is a new day. And I am reminded that all is not lost and blessings remain a bounty. The journey to ones best self is never easy or simple and it’s never a straight line. It’s a lot of ‘get back up and try again’s.

Though tired I still am…

Today I stood extra long in the steaming shower… again. Today, I turned on the sound machine… and in my mind, began building my meditative imaginary land of tranquility, again. Today I chose veggies over chips and water over wine. And I cooked and journaled and napped … again.

Perhaps tomorrow awaits tremendous joy and blessings and this shift will help me better receive that. Or perhaps tomorrow lurches another blow and today’s self care will give me the energy I need to handle it.

If worry is useless rumination of the past and anxiety is pointless fear of the future… then I have wasted far too much time in the wrong places. So, here’s to today… again.

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Solstice

“Winter solstice, also called hibernal solstice… when the path of the Sun in the sky is farthest south…. At the winter solstice the sun travels the shortest path through the sky, and that day therefore has the least daylight and the longest night.” In the Northern Hemisphere, this falls on December 21 or 22.- Encyclopaedia Britannica

If ever there was a year that the light felt far away and the darkness seemed to linger too long… this might be the year.

It’s not my most painful year by far… but the longevity and the constant stream of challenges has been remarkable. Instead of a sudden, gut-punching blow, this has been more of a slow bleed… and I am weakening from the anemia. I am tired, sore and sad.

Pain and sadness have always drawn me inside myself- be it emotional pain and grief or physical pain. While at first onset, I am unsettled… after a period, it draws me inward; and there, in my own shadows, I am afforded the opportunity to allow the pain to transform me- to become bitter-or- to reflect and learn, and become better. The choice is mine.

I reflect on my many moments of pain-my brother’s death, childbirth, accidents and illnesses, holding my first stillborn, saying good-bye to foster children, burying a beloved pet, losing a patient… the moments are many… and every time, I went inward.

I was both a nurse and a mother of two when my grandmother died slowly from cancer, cancer she elected not to treat as it was end stage when it was discovered. I remember that she would keep busy with small projects and pray when the pain was at its worst- a distraction and a novena of sorts for a devoutly religious woman. While I processed the loss, I reflected on the myriad of feelings that came to surface. I tried to apply my hospital training to at-home hospice, all the while guiding my children through their first experience of death. Secretly, I hated her martyrdom. Pain should be avoided not coddled, I believed.

But pain, I’ve come to learn, is inevitable.

While some know this old foe better than others, no one is afforded a life without it. And the timing of our meetings are rarely anticipated- leaving us unguarded and taken aback by its arrival.

Acceptance is never immediate. At first the pain is an intruder and your reaction is rejection, discontent and a drive to fight the force that is ailing you.

But with time, your energy eases and your senses soften as your stance melts and you bend to sit. It’s not martyrdom or loss but surrender. Surrender to the transformation at hand.

And then, the very darkness you at first, jumped to slay, changes form… the shadows shift and you no longer see a foe… but an old friend… and you ease further and commune, settling in as you settle into an old chair.

And it is in that place, where the light meets the dark that you will find your greatest revelations, if you allow them. Your eyes need time to adjust and to filter the light from the dark. And so long as you don’t stray too far from the light… if you allow yourself to sit in the shadows for a time… allow the process, if you allow the surrender… the darkness becomes your teacher.

For a week I wondered, why? Why the week before an already challenging Christmas am I in pain again… but pain is never well-timed… or is it?

Tonight, with the Winter Solstice approaching… I realize it is not an assault but my old teacher returning.

For many cultures, the solstice is a deeply spiritual time, full of sacred ritual and reflection. The long night affords more time for such inward thoughts and revelations.

This year has been hard and every part of my self feels it. My heart, my mind and my body are exhausted. I am a caregiver by both nature and profession and this global pandemic, along with life, has depleted me. Perhaps this pain was my calling to rest.

Busy with work, busy with packing/unpacking, busy with homeschooling, buying and chores… for a time I allowed myself to be consumed by tasks, when what my soul really needed was rest and time- time with the people I love, well spent, not rushed.

And yet, I am kept away from so many of the people I love. Never have I missed family and friends more than I do now. And I vow to remember this…

Life and love are the greatest of blessings- never should they be taken for granted.

To simply awaken every day is a gift- a gift denied to so many this year. Furthermore, to be afforded people that love you and that in turn, accept your love, are what makes life so rich. Relish in that love while you have it. Be present. Listen. Take it all in. Feel. Invest in the people and moments that matter. Loneliness is the void of every day joys we ache for when they are taken from us.

Yet not every person is worth the energy it takes to create such moments and sustain such bonds. Pain helps to sort out worthy relationships-the people that understand, the people who offer support, the people who remember, the people who stand by and hold your hand until you are whole again. Pain builds a shell that only the worthy take the time to chip away. It is a blessing to know who your allies are. Don’t let the fair-weather friend distract you from your loyal companion. Those who walk through the valleys with you… should never be forgotten or taken for granted.

Nor should your abilities. The ability to walk, talk, see, think… to use our bodies to explore, create, learn and produce goodness… that is a tremendous gift. Many people have learned just what it was to take taste and smell for granted. Over and over, I’ve read accounts of people crying when their senses began to return after a covid infection. And yet these experiences are not a new phenomenon- The vet who lost his legs. The elder whose sight has clouded away. The accident that robbed one of their ability to hear… How easy it is to jump out of the bed and run to the phone… until you’ve lost the ability to walk…and talk… To see someone’s face… until you go blind… To hear the laughter and music of the season until your ears no longer process sound. Today I am choosing to marvel in my abilities.

And I am choosing to marvel in my blessings-my family, my home, a full refrigerator and warmth- just a few enormous blessings denied to so many right now.

Joy and connectedness are not lost- with the tremendous technology available to us. Technology that allows us to watch our holiday favorites on the screen, listen to the tunes of the season, have gifts and goods delivered to our doorsteps, and video calls to see our loved ones faces and share in each other’s moments in an alternative way.

While the darkness affords us the time to reflect, the solstice is also a celebration of the re-birth of the sun, the survival of the longest night and the gain of light to come. I am so incredibly grateful for my bounty and yet, oh, how I yearn for better days to come…

As I sit in this ecliptic state, my blessings are illuminated by the light. They are what I am choosing to set my gaze upon. And yet to see them, I had to sit in the dark for a time. As I continue on my journey, I aim to hold steadfast, my focus on such blessings, but I will not deny the darkness. I am entitled to my grief-from wherever it comes, or however big or small it seems to others. I will honor both the struggle and the reward, the blessings and pain; because one cannot exist without the other.

The solstice is “a time to set goals and intentions for the coming year, to examine and let go of our past, and to make changes within ourselves”… It is “a personal awakening.”-Jessica Booth, Bustle.

This is not the way I would have chosen to spend my holiday season- in pain, away from family and friends, removed from so many meaningful traditions. And yet it’s a year I’ve been afforded so many blessings. And it’s an opportunity to reflect and better myself-to awaken. Perhaps in this time of great unrest, this solstice may be the most meaningful yet… straddling both the light and the dark and embracing them both… A restful hibernation, all the while welcoming a rebirth… as pain and struggle always offer a transformation… and the world circles the star… yet again.

solstice | Definition & Facts | Britannica

What Does The Winter Solstice Mean Spiritually? It’s Celebrated In Tons Of Religions And Cultures (bustle.com)

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Each time she is alone…

tear-drop pic black and white

She’s wipes a tear

and she makes her bed.

 

She wipes a tear

and she brushes her teeth.

 

She wipes a tear

and calls her children awake.

 

She wipes a tear

and makes her coffee, their breakfast and gives them a second, gentle shake.

 

She organizes and reminds again, of homework, projects and the schedule to come, she prepares and chauffeurs, loves and nurtures, cooks and cleans.

 

On her only break, she finds herself on her knees…

on the kitchen floor, to clean.

 

She wipes a tear

and it turns to a wail

 when no one is around.

Fists clenched, her tears cover the floor and her screams fill the empty house.

 

She wipes her tears

and climbs to her feet.

 

Stumbling to bed, 

she wipes a tear,

sets the alarm, pillow damp, succumbs to sleep.

 

She wipes a tear and grabs the groceries, pulls into the pick up line, helps with homework, sets dinner on the table, heads off to work…and checks the rear view mirror for signs of her self-duress.

 

She wipes a tear

and parks the car.

 

She wipes a tear,

takes a deep breath, clears her mind, sets her intention and prays for relief.

 

And as the sun hits her face, as it does at the store

and in the pick up line,

she slaps on her confidence and joy, her facade that all is fine.

 

They see a smile at first glance,

but no one ever takes the chance,

to look deeper…

or longer…

when she sets that mask aside.

 

Each time she is alone…

she wipes a tear.

 

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Angels and Porcelain Dolls

Life is a series of ups and downs, hard days and easier ones, and not a one of us are spared pain and tragedy. Some tragedies however, are life altering. When they hit, they take away not only our breath, but our sense of self. It is with those moments that we are given the opportunity to rebuild and redefine or to withdraw and lay victim. Neither way is an easy way out, as the human mind and heart are fragile. But in rebuilding, we create a journey of giving back that is simply magnificent.

Here’s to those who at one time, found themselves broken.

 

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You were whole…

Despite the scars, despite the hard days’ work, despite an imperfectly perfect life…you felt safe. You felt whole. A hardened shell, cushioned by a life going right, at the day’s end, your body sank into the bed and the quiet calm of the night soothed you. Comfortable and relaxed, you pulled the covers under your chin and breathing out, you sank further into the softness that surrounded you. Life was predictably unpredictable… and you, an imperfect porcelain doll, scuffed and tattered, but intact and beautiful in your well-loved way.

All was well. All was still.

And then, from out the darkness, with no sound, no preemptive warning, an unspeakable, crushing blow leapt from out the shadows, striking you… and you felt yourself break into a million pieces.

Disoriented at first…and confused. One plastic eye hanging loose from its socket, staring at the floor in disbelief. There is shit everywhere and you’re standing in the middle of it.

Braving a glance in the mirror, you look just in time to see another piece fall out of place. What you once were, is now a pile of debris scattered on the floor. And you no longer know your name.

A faceless, nameless tragedy….time and space stand still. You are numb.

Simultaneously, pain and reality soak in. Like a laboring woman, reflexively, you rock. The pain in your soul is too much to bear and you feel yourself crumbling further, from the inside out. Surely, it is your heart disintegrating under the pressure.

And then finally, in the whirlwind that is your life, the racing circles of rational thought, feeling and physics unite and your tears are accompanied by heaving sobs. Your chest aches and you starve for air as much as you starve for reprieve. You beg the universe for a different truth. Bargaining, you’d give anything to have been spared this blow. The pillow that once brought you peaceful slumber, now stifles your wails.

Bouncing between horror and emptiness, in one moment your heart races with panic and dread…and in the next, there is an absence of thought and emotion. You awaken to find yourself staring into space… gone from reality… gone from your body. Unable to speak, unable to move, your only task is to fill and then empty your lungs.

Everything that was before, it seems, has been destroyed. Trust, faith, safety and security, like life-long comrades, lie lifeless amongst the list of causalities. Robbed of your former happiness and ease, you are broken. And the life you once knew, is gone.

Two bare legs, thin and pale, dangle off the bed where you sit- speechless and motionless. As the sobs slow and your breathing again regains some sort of rhythm, you gather your energy and your courage. Easing yourself off the edge of the bed, you crouch to the floor. Slowly and intentionally, you begin to pick up the pieces. Gathering them in your bleeding hands, you are sure you will never be whole again.

Alone in your space, depleted simply by standing and holding what your life once was close to your heart… hands trembling, in a weak and cracking voice, you use the slightest wisp of energy to call out for “Help.”

Expecting your voice to merely echo into the darkness, you are surprised when the doorway fills with light.

Silently and floatingly from the other side, angels move in. One by one, carefully selecting piece-by-piece out of your hands, tenderly, they fill each broken space. With their words and their hearts, gluing each piece back. “Tell me I will be whole again” you cry, as silently, they work. As they mend and you surrender, you begin to see your form take shape again. Knowing that you could not rebuild alone, you revel in their aid. Still you resolve, you will never again be the same.

Time passes and still you gasp for words. Exhausted and aching from every joint, you glance once again into the mirror. Relieved to see the pieces of your life put back into place, you can’t ignore your blessings… but neither can you ignore the fracture lines that remain. Whole again, and yet, still so shattered… your voice quivers when you try to speak, so broken you hardly believe where it’s coming from.

Night falls and anxiety erupts, sabotaging the safety you once felt. Your bed is no longer a safety nest and your room, no longer a sanctuary. You breathe and you imagine and you pray, begging to feel the wholeness the rest of the world sees in you, the wholeness you once felt.

Angel voices whisper in your ears and silently, you respond to the figure in your reflection. “You are strong.” “You are brave.” “You are resilient.” And from the light of the angels, a sliver of hope pierces your heart, “goodness can come from tragedy.” Believing those words, you long for the day that you will regain your voice and your strength. You know you are a survivor and your story will one day be told.

Today you will rest, tomorrow you will crawl… and one day, with grit and knowledge and the pain-staking work of healing, you will fly.

For the broken doll, will one day become the angel- called upon in another’s darkest hour, to minister and mend another broken soul. Your light will fill her doorway when she gains the courage to call for help. And when you reach to pick up her broken pieces, she will see on your hands, the fracture lines…and in your eyes and soul, your strength and undying love.

 

Saviors often wear the deepest scars. Scars are always tougher than uninjured tissue. It takes grace and hard work, not to yield to bitterness and anger. Compassion, wisdom and empathy can be the byproducts of trauma, if instead of shutting the world out, you call for help and accept it… if you work to heal, instead of pushing the pain away.

To every doll standing in the mirror, seeing their missing pieces… broken as you may feel today… if you take the time and do the work, you will one day heal and grow wings.

And to all of the angels, who have at one time or another, answered one’s frail call for help, may you forever know that your pain created a strength that carried them. And the glue that is your love, is ever-lasting.

Perhaps, life is just a series of breaks and mends… some days we are the doll… and if we do it right… some days, we get to be the angel.