Thick Line in the Sand (Part 1)

This post is the second in a series on self-care for care-givers. Physicians, nurses, mommas, pastors, teachers and unsung care-givers of every stripe, I hope you find something restorative here. Post 1, Caregiver, Love Thyself. 

The guy was dying in agony. An ill-informed physician and his lengthy drug history added up to inadequate pain medication. He'd scream and curse and spread filth everywhere. Some days his wife was sober. Some days she wove down the hall like someone slowly dodging bullets.

I became one with this family. I was the only nurse who would care for them repeatedly. Shift in, shift out. I read his wife's mood changes fairly well (although she yelled at me plenty). I spent all the patience I had at his bedside, tending the wounds he made worse.

I called to check on them after my shift, asking the current nurse about labs, or subtle changes. And nightmares -- I heard his screams in my sleep. I dreaded caring for them, and feeling guilty for that, tried harder and harder to be more and more, until his wife yelled at me for addressing her intoxication and kicked me out of the room. I realized I was in too deep and with tears streaming down my face, and great gasps for air, informed my manager I could not care for them any more.

He died several days later. I never worked far enough away to not hear his screams.

I wish I could talk to that young, passionate, and utterly broken nurse and tell her leaving this family in other hands was just that -- letting other people do their job. It wasn't a moral failing. And it was utterly brave to do something so counter to her culture.

Blog Hop: Not the Same as Sock Hop

I'm excited to be included in a blog hop by the intriguing Karissa. She writes at karissaknoxsorrell.com about gender, and god, and love, and Eastern Orthodoxy (particularly interesting to me!), and many other things.

I'll be honest, I spent time on the interwebz figuring out a blog hop (thus the title), but now I'm glad to take part in a bunch of bloggers recognizing each other, and sharing their story and process.

The approved questions, followed by my answers:

What am I writing or working on?
I'm in one of those in between places. The spaces between identifiable roles, or expectations, or jobs, or... (I peter out because I'm in between). I was faithless, now I feel faith stirring. I was in a job, now I'm leaving it. I was firmly planning on not having children, until I decidedly wanted one, and now I'm a mom trying to figure out how all that happened so fast. I write about the things I learn as I gain distance from certainty.

But, writing blog stuff isn't the only thing I'm working on. My dream is to be a public speaker. So a lot of this in between mulling is fodder for the message I want to share with whoever will listen -- You Only Have Today. (That's the message, not some dire warning, or psychic insight, dear reader.) It's a message about living your life, aware of is limited nature, not paralyzed by it -- rather, motivated to truly learn what makes life worth living to you.

How does my work differ from others in its genre (commingled with Why do I write what I do)?
Well, I suppose I'd have to have a genre to answer that in a meaningful way. But, I'm a person infatuated with words. Why should I let a little thing like meaning stop me from communicating?

I write to discover my strengths and weaknesses as a communicator. I blog because at the very core of me I thirst for connectedness. I write because I can't not share (my passion, my experiences, my lessons learned). I blog because so many people don't talk about their existence, and this quirky journey has needed the little band of quirksters I meet in the other blogs. I suspect this doesn't make me different. It may actually be the common blood of the writing community.

How does my writing process work?
Coffee. And Mr. Mori. (No deer were harmed for my writing process. Husband found this guy as-is while out doing archaeology.)

Also, outside = better. Need a computer AND a Pilot Precise Extra Fine Rolling Ball pen (not a plug, just a habit going back to high school) and preferably a personally designed notebook. Coffee...

Logistics, with a 10 month old, are of course crucial. I can't write on days I work. I haven't the calories left. On home days, I make a mad dash to write during naps, or leave the husband and the baby to create a cute apocalypse while I dream on the front porch.

Ever seen a toddler excited to get to a toy across the room? That's kinda the phase of development I'm in. I write excitedly, and in fits and starts, and may occasionally throw tantrums if I don't get where I thought I wanted to go. It's actually quite a lot of fun. I'm learning more discipline and thoughtfulness -- even putting intention and research and planning into my first series, going on right now (first post on self-care here)!


What other writers would I like to introduce you to?

I'm still building relationships in the blogging world, but some writers whose minds and work I enjoy are:

M. Kircher (YA author extraordinaire) at mkircher.com
Rob Carmack at robcarmackwords.com
Alissa at alissabc.com

How would you guys answer these questions?
 

Caregiver, Love Thyself

Self is a stranger to many people who never met a stranger in their life -- people who sense another's needs across the airport, but have no understanding of their own inner struggles.

These people are experts in the Other. They bore secrets, tended wounds, and ran to rescue starting in childhood. They gravitate toward helping professions like nursing, teaching, pastoring, counseling, mothering etc. So, obviously, I'm one of the people I'm talking about.

I coached a group of nurses on self-care yesterday. I always open the session asking "Why nursing?" so we hear why each chose this profession. Invariably, someone tells how they started caring for others as a kid. This time, to make the group aware of that common bond, I asked them to raise their hands if they had been secret-bearer, soother, bandage-applier, or other caregiver in childhood. Twenty-three nurses in the room -- 18 hands raised (mine too).

When you start doing something as early as childhood, your identity gets all wrapped up in it. Many caregivers don't know themselves without other people to care for. I didn't know who I was, because I built my identity to suit the needs of others.  It seemed natural to go into a profession where my daily work turns on expressions of compassion.

Not knowing myself, I couldn't create boundaries around my identity, capacity, and responsibilities. I never responded "no." I never turned off.

It still hurts to look back at how deeply this type of living wounded me and impacted my family. 

Reblog: M. Kircher's "Failure Isn't"

While in Laguna Beach, at Rob Bell's Craft Lab, I met Melissa, a Young Adult fiction author, who writes as M. Kircher. We walked a mile back to our hotel, in the dark, and had one of those conversations that just bubbles up and over itself -- immediate connection. We also "learned" to surf together, which she perfectly captured below (I'm the solitary learner on the far left of the surfing photo).


At Craft Lab, Melissa posed a question to Rob about failure, and his answer helped revolutionize my thinking. I planned on blogging about it, but the work has already been done so much better by Melissa! With her permission, I'm reblogging her entire post, titled "Failure Isn't." Fear of failure has haunted me my whole life, and I can point directly to moments where that fear kept me from pursuing dreams. If you can identify, you need the humor and clarity below. If something resonates, please comment on her blog, here.

You can find Melissa's website at www.mkircher.com. Look after the post for information on purchasing her books.



Failure is a word we all fear. No matter your age, your stage in life, your gender or personality, a sense of failure is something we try to avoid at all costs.

I’ve been grappling with failure a lot over the past six years or so (maybe even my whole life)—what it means, what it looks like and if this nebulous ball of crap actually defines me or not.

I’ve decided not, but it’s taken me a while to arrive at this conclusion.

Doubt as Hope

Crisis of faith. Time in the desert. Struggling. Doubt.

I worked hard for a long time to find language and metaphors for my loss of faith. I left a religious culture cemented in certainty to drift, untethered, in a wide ocean of possibilities and fear.

The thing about leaving that culture is, you act exactly the way they tell you you'll act when you're backslidden. Sermons don't move you, and worse, irritate you. You read attempts at proselytizing as an insult to your intelligence and right to self-determination. You forget your religious language fluency, and scrunch your nose in concentration to understand what others mean when they say, "It's my heart to..." or, "The Lord told me..." or, you know, "backslidden." So, I constantly felt one foot in the accusations of the old world, while the toes of the other stretched to pull me toward new thoughts and truths.