facing death and trying to live life

I've been away for some time now.

I figured I had to post something at some point, because perhaps one of you was getting worried that those cockroaches I've been fighting with all over my house had gotten the better of me, and perhaps carried me off to their underworld or else drove me completely, totally insane.

I'm here to say that I don't need cockroaches to drive me batty. The pregnancy hormones do that all on their own, thank you.

No, it's just been one of Those Weeks, I'm afraid. As I write this, I'm doing much better. My head feels clearer and I don't feel quite so emotionally volatile.

Last Wednesday night, I stood in a patient's room - not one of my assigned patients for the night, as it turned out - and felt like an absolute ninny while the entire staff swarmed around me, code cart bustling around and medical equipment flying, to save the patient who was quite blue and not really breathing. I had been one of the first to rush in there, but I froze, unsure of where to jump in, and by the time I figured it out, I was one of maybe 30 people in a rather cramped space, so I excused myself from the near-death experience to cover the 20+ patients on the floor not going into respiratory distress. I was shaken. All I could think was, what if that was MY patient? Would I have stood there like a fool then, too?

The next night, I went next door to our ICU to say good-bye to a patient who had spent months on our floor, fighting for his life, only to have a severe and profound allergic reaction during a procedure that might have aided in his recovery, had it turned out the way it should have. Instead, I came in just after midnight on a national holiday, all monitors reading a flat line, and said a final prayer to this man, still grossly swollen from the allergic reaction, still and calm, finally at rest after fighting his own failing body for so long. He wasn't that old, just in his early 60's. I thought about my own dad who was his same age (older by just a couple of years, actually). I thought about his wife, now a widow, and how she would never remember our nation's independence day the same again, or how she alone had to make the decision to let him go and turn off life support. I wondered if there was anything I could have done to make my nursing care kinder, more compassionate, while he'd been alive, ringing his call bell for me and wordlessly motioning that he'd like the channel changed on his TV while the respirator hummed without pause.

I had one rather uneventful nursing shift after that.

Then Thursday morning, just a couple of hours before I was set to hand off my patients to the day shift, one of my own patient's monitors starts to ding. A lot. His oxygen level is critically low. His heart rate is lethally erratic. He's not waking up, even when I shout in his ear and shake him. His orders read that he is a DNR patient, or "do not resuscitate", which means I don't rush to get the code cart, I don't hop on his bed to do chest compressions, I don't "bag" him and try to breathe for him. No, I just hold his hand, tell him he's not alone though I doubt he hears me, and hope I'm not forgetting to do something important or critical as I watch the numbers fall on the monitor over his head. I know the family was called, the supervising medical team summoned, a host of my coworkers brought in to witness, but I didn't do any of that. I went into the bathroom and cried my eyes out over a 93-year-old man who wasn't expected to last much longer, although several of my coworkers had assured me earlier that "no, I doubt he'll go tonight". I had another patient left to take care of, a sweet woman who was having some sharp chest pains, and I had to pull myself together enough to take care of her, too. I left work a few hours later completely numb.

Not too many hours later, after a fitful, unrestful attempt at sleep, Jason takes me to the Gulf Coast to try and celebrate our 3rd wedding anniversary. He'd spent more money on me than he should have on a beautiful seaside hotel room, complete with a whirlpool and plush bedding. He tried to take me out for a nice Italian dinner. He tried to say all the nice, comforting things a man says to his wife when she is having a hard time. He took me out for a nice breakfast the next morning, a meal we never eat out except on the most special of occasions, and again tried his best to encourage me.

Have you ever tried to have a romantic getaway to celebrate an anniversary with a person who alternates between uncontrollable sobbing, stony blank-stared silence, and nasty verbal barbs aimed at you?

Yeah. That's about how successful it was.

Even after my experiences at the hospital and the death of my patient being the culmination of a spectacularly hard week at work, I had earnestly hoped that our time away together would be just the balm I needed for my hurting heart. There's not too much that salty sea breezes and rolling ocean waves cannot cure, after all. But it wasn't enough. I was physically tired, emotionally spent, completely on edge, and rather uncomfortable with my ever-growing belly.

I just couldn't enjoy it and LET GO.

On the drive home after hardly seeing any beach, any cuddle time, any sweet moments, I'm suddenly hit with this huge wave of remorse over our ruined anniversary celebration. I did a mental rewind of the previous 24 hours and realized there was no possible moment of enjoyment for Jason at any point, except perhaps for the 30 minutes or so after breakfast that morning when he left me crumpled in the bed (at my adamant request), snarling nasty comments at him, and took a walk on the beach by himself. It was a really pretty morning, too.

I felt horrible about it. In many ways, I still do. Jason has told me, lovingly and gently, that it's okay, I don't need to apologize any more, that he loves me and is still blessed to be my husband. I still apologize. And I'm still racking my brain to figure out a way to make it up to him, to salvage this anniversary and make at least one sweet memory. I don't want to look back at this weekend and only remember how awful I felt, or worse, how awful I behaved toward the man I was meant to love on.

I'm going back to work tonight. Over my French toast yesterday morning, I cried tears and vowed that I just couldn't go back. But I know I have to, not just because I need the paycheck or that I don't need the hassle of quitting a job and all that entails, but because I know I'm called to be there. God calls us to some pretty daunting tasks sometimes, and He doesn't promise it will be easy, but He always promises to be there with us. I know He was there during all those nights at work, during the days inbetween, and during our time at the beach. I know He'll be there tonight. I don't know yet what awaits me at work, what kind of patients I'll have or how I'll respond, but I know I won't be alone.