a break

Last night was wonderful.

Last night was like a Friday in the middle of my week.

It was a night where I let myself off the hook.

It's been a hard few weeks. So I stopped. I did things for fun, I didn't worry about the papers to write or the fact that I had to wake up at 7 this morning.

I finally, finally, got back to the hospital.

Even though I was only being trained to volunteer, it invigorated me.

There's something about hospitals that brings me alive.

Even this unbelievably small hospital, that was "very full" with the same number of total patients that is an average day for the floor I volunteer on back home.

I can't wait to be back. In that environment, helping people, doing what I love.

Then I went and ate cookies and listened to Christmas music and made paper snowflakes.

Then I made some more paper snowflakes and talked and watched Doctor Who.

Then I wrote a letter to a friend. A long overdue letter. Telling her I love her. Because I do. I love them and miss them, all those people back home. Sometimes it's just easier and quicker to not think about that, to not stop and take a moment to actually think and feel.

Last night was wonderful. Just the break I needed, to be able to push through these last days of the semester.

Make It a Priority

I am a firm believer in choice.

(I'm not talking in the political way, I don't really want to get into that here.)

I mean in the way that we go through our life making choices.

Big ones, small ones, ones we don't notice, ones that consume us.

All these choices come together to form a whole.

Our choices cannot be denied or pushed off onto others, because they are wholly and completely ours.

Now to some this may seem a daunting concept.

The idea that we must take responsibility for every little thing we do throughout the day.

I agree.

That's terrifying.

It's also incredibly liberating.

It means that I have the choice to say no.

I have the choice, it is all mine, what I do when.

I got this very simple, but amazing idea, from a nurse at the hospital.

She was talking to a patient, who had come in for something small, but actually had much bigger, chronic medical problems going on.

These were problems he was choosing to ignore.

She took his hand and told him he needed to make his health a priority.

That "make it a priority" is what I love.

It is what reminds me that I choose what is important and what is not.

And that if something is truly important, I will find a way to make it happen. 

Because that is my choice. 

the hospital

I'm not sure how to put this into words.

I will try.

I was sick.

Sick sick sick.

Hardly left the house, except to see doctors.

Then I went to the hospital.

For the first time, I was not a patient, but a caregiver.

This in and of itself was huge.

I felt like I was doing something important. That I was contributing to a greater whole.

I became part of a team.

The people on that floor took me in and gave me a place where I belonged.

I can't really describe what it's like or why I love it so much.

Which is hard, but at the same time, it makes it feel like my special place. One that's just for me.

These people gave me an education about what it is to work in a hospital, to work and have a family, to take care of other people,

They taught me the more tangible things as well.

The medical jargon that I now speak relatively fluently.

The procedures and surgeries and hourly checks. The IVs and wheelchairs and shots and blood.

All I can tell you is that I love it and will miss it more than I can possibly imagine.

where do I start?

How am I supposed to sum up this experience in just three pages? Where do I even start?

I got lost, I learned, I saw. I found a place for me, I met people who reminded me a lot of me. I met people who I never would have met otherwise.

I stayed up late. I refused to miss those precious four hours. Just four hours each week.

How am I supposed to write three whole pages? I don't know where to start.

It has been such an intense, and in many ways, very personal experience, that I don't know how to put it into words.

Let alone words that are going to be read and graded.

I saw more than I ever anticipated.

I asked questions and got more complete, enthusiastic answers than ever before.

I never knew what to expect. I thrived on the atmosphere of taking care of people.

I will miss it. I will never forget it.

Melancholy

I am feeling slightly melancholy.

I have no real reason to, I know this. At least intellectually.

It's Spring Break. The house is quiet and mine for a few blissful hours. The sun is shining. I slept in as long as I wanted to. There is beautiful music coming from my computer.

Yet still.

My emotions don't always have to make sense. They don't exist to be justified. They just exist. They are. And while sometimes I think I do need to snap out of it and move on, I also think that feeling and really just sitting with your emotions is important. Not wallowing. Just learning to be.

Just like how I usually don't (can't) fall asleep without music, but last night, it was perfectly quiet. And that was exactly what I needed. I went straight to sleep.

Melancholy because last night was my last time being in the Emergency Department. After only seven weeks, I had found a place where I felt comfortable. A place where I felt I fit. Because of the people and the environment and the newness and the sameness and learning and talking and being bored and flying high on new experiences. All of it. I just fit. That's the only way I know how to say it.

And then, I had to say goodbye.

Knowing perfectly well that I will probably never see any of those people (patients and employees) again. The jokes and the pain. The experience and newbies.

Those memories will start to fade. Already, they're blurring. Despite my writing and recording in that little notebook.

I just hope that while the specifics will fade, the important things will stay. Most notably, the way I felt while there. In the midst of it all. Belonging.

Laughing

The woman’s laugh

reverberates in the small space.

The space is too small,

too small for her

loud fake laugh.

The laugh that never reaches her eyes.

The laugh that dampens the mood of her visitors.

They shrink smaller and smaller.

The plastic chairs do not offer cover,

No protection from this woman

and her laugh.

This woman they used to know.

The woman who laughs to hide the pain.

The woman who won’t tell them what they already know.

The woman who is killing herself

But hides it with a laugh.

at the hospital

I walk down the long, empty hallway, considering the night. I'm trying hard to convince myself otherwise, but it felt a little tame. A little bit of a let-down after the past two weeks. No traumas that actually needed anything. Certainly not like the guy who was shot in the head, or the other guy who was stabbed. Everyone was telling me I should have been there earlier; it was crazy!

But my night consisted of more waiting than I would have liked.

While waiting for my mom to arrive, I sit down and start writing in my notebook. During the traumas I was writing obsessively, but when I was watching blood being drawn, or the woman's heart being stopped, my notebook was sitting on the counter, forgotten.

I get into the car. I start off slowly, explaining how the person who had a knife in their butt hadn't needed surgery after all. Which is good, for the patient. But I was disappointed.

As I talk, I start remembering more about my evening. I realize that while nothing was crazy like a guy who had been shot in the head, I still got to see some pretty cool stuff.

The prize winner was definitely the three partially severed fingers. Seeing bones poking out of his flesh, the nails intact on one side, and then turning over his hand and seeing halfway through the flesh on the other.

And although the heart being stopped was cool, it was also anticlimactic. You wouldn't have been able to tell the woman had anything more than bad heartburn going on. But the print out of her heart rhythm? Seriously cool.

It may not have been filled with running and screaming and dying. (Which is good for the patients. I recognize it's slightly sick and twisted and morbid when I'm wishing for a guy to be shot in the head. Let's clear that up--I'm not wishing for anyone to be hurt. But I know they will be hurt, and so I would like that to happen while I am standing at the charge desk, wondering what to do.)

But that's part of the experience too. Every day is different, and you never know what you're going to get. And above all, it's a huge privilege to be allowed to even see the blood being drawn. To have this experience at all, and as a high school senior, I'm still trying to wrap my head around it all.

Two Worlds

On the outside, she is perfect.

Her scrubs fit perfectly, her hair is messy in a way that says she is confident and doesn't care what the world thinks. Her nose is petite, her skin clear.

Her shoes add just enough height to make people notice her, but not enough to be imposing.

She is young; younger than most with her job.

After setting down her purse and coat, she sits facing me.

I watch her eyes as she listens to the report. They are large and brown, rimmed by dark eyelashes.

The intensity with which she listens is unusual. Her job clearly means a lot to her. Her eyes never waver from the other women's as she takes notes.

After shift change, this woman settles into her chair. The hinges squeak as she adjusts the settings to her liking.

Her gaze settles on me, and we exchange the customary "Good mornings".

She makes small talk with the other nurses as they trickle in. They comment on the weather, whining kids, the new year, lack of sleep, and other standards.

Her intense gaze is now fixed on the computer screen. I continue answering calls.

Only after the third "Meghan?", does she turn to face me. Her eyes are no longer intense, but fixed on a point no one else can see.

I tell her about the family member on hold, before slowly returning to the blinking phone.

Her gaze and changed demeanor startle me. 

She continues to answer questions and type and be present when needed.

In the small spaces in between, however, her eyes un-focus. She allows her lids to close partway, for wrinkles to from at the corners, and for her chin to drop.

Her outward appearance is carefully orchestrated to disguise whatever lies beneath the surface.

I wonder at her secrets. Her life. The one she shows to the world, and the one that takes place behind closed doors.

The pager's strident buzz catches both of us off-guard and we reach for it, she with her work face back in place, and me, not making the transition quite as quickly.

Worth It?

Saturday there was a doctor at the hospital.

At work at 6pm on a Saturday night. Looking tired, beaten down. Having a discussion with his wife on the phone. Deciding on pizza toppings. Not an argument, per se, but more thought and effort than it should have taken to decide against spinach.

They're both being noncommittal; she, knowing he's tired, not wanting to add more stress, he, just wishing that someone else would make a decision, just once.

They decide on cheese, pepperoni, and chicken and pineapple. I wonder how many kids are at home, waiting for their dad.

His light blue scrubs are wrinkled as he sits and dictates his report. There's a big sigh when he can't find the chart.

The huge stack of pre-made flashcards. To become board certified, just general surgery, he explains to the nurse. And this is just half of them.

"Well maybe that's why you look so tired."

He doesn't say anything, as there really isn't a response to this.

I watch him check something on his phone, wondering if it's worth it.

Do they pay him enough, to make up for the long, exhausting days? All that time away from your family?

And more than that--is it worth it?

Dedicating your career, your life, really, to helping other people. Learning and teaching and caring. Knowing that no matter how many times you run through those flashcards, you'll never know it all. You'll make a mistake, a costly one, at some point.

Is it worth it?

The Hospital

I think I've mentioned it in passing a couple of times. Really talked about it once.

Which is strange, because it means so much to me.

I think I haven't written about it because I didn't know how to put it into words. All that it means to me.

I want to do it justice.

For almost a year I've been volunteering every Saturday evening at the hospital.

I love it.

I have since my first shift.

It started out great because I was finally on the other side of things; a caregiver instead of a patient.

But it's turned into so much more than that.

It's a place where I feel safe and comfortable. I fit. I am known. I am part of a greater whole.

It is such a privilege to be part of such a dedicated group that works so hard to care for their patients.

And while the patients want nothing more than to go home, to escape the hospital, I'm the opposite.

The hospital is my escape.

From life and homework and procrastination.

To a place where I fit.

It just feels right.

***

And this thing is hospital related. It's actually really good news. And I promise I'll talk about it someday, when I've figured out what it means to me.

In the Elevator

I stride purposefully toward the elevators. The "up" button is already glowing orange, so I lean against the wall, grateful for even a quick break. Already waiting is a man juggling two full hands of cafeteria food.

We do that little stranger dance where our eyes meet briefly, and then we both look away quickly, each pretending we weren't sizing up the other person.

"These elevators are painfully slow" I say to break the silence.

"Oh, I know," he replies, "I've been here for five weeks."

"Wow" I say. I leave the word hanging in the air, not wanting to pry, but hoping he'll continue.

"Yeah. My wife's pregnant and on bed rest."

"Wow" I say again "When's she due?"

"October" he replies as the middle elevator dings.

We both move forward as the doors open. He gestures with his full hands that I should go ahead. I smile in thanks and enter the small space.

Pressing "6", I ask "Which floor?"

"5" he answers as the doors close and we jerk upward.

"October's a good birthday month." I smile. "Both my mom and I can attest to that."

"I think so too. I'm the third."

We smile at each other over this small coincidence.

"How long are you going to be here?"

"Until October."

"That's a long time to eat hospital food."

"Yes, but it means my wife and baby are getting the care they need. They're in the best place they could be, so I'm more than happy to be here with them, eating hospital food."

The elevator dings and the doors open onto the fifth floor.

"Good luck" I tell the man as he exits, still balancing two more hospital dinners.

The doors slide shut again and I lean against the wall.

I've never met anyone so happy to be in the hospital. Seeing it as a way to keep his family safe and healthy.

I straighten as the elevator arrives at my floor.

I brush back my hair with one hand, checking my badge is still in place and stride out of the open doors, back onto the bustling Surgical Trauma floor at shift change.

***

This was several months ago. Today is October third. I wonder about this man, whether he is holding his precious child, or if he's still patiently waiting next to his wife, eating hospital food.

***

I almost never write with dialog, so I am very aware that all the grammar is far from correct. Hopefully it's still legible, and if you know the rules, I would appreciate it if you shared your knowledge.