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Learning and trying to be kind and living my life as fully as I can stand it.

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Lifey

This essay was written a couple weeks ago and put away until I could come back and edit. Reading it now I will leave it mostly untouched--not because it doesn't ask for editing but because I am tired and it seems good enough.

In the weeks since I've written this page has kept me company as I've wondered how to share the things I've seen and done and felt. Essays have partially formed in my head as I drove but none of those are there, sitting on a mental shelf, now that I'm ready for them.

It's been a month since I went to work. A long, 31-day month but whoa. That's a lot of life to pack into one month. Work has been intense and amazing and sweet and slow and full. In the world of organ donation there is a lot of hurry up and wait--hurry to get to a hospital and then wait until the right time to be introduced to a family. I knew this but mostly from an office perspective-from a far off, semi-connected perspective where I was acutely aware of time passing and couldn't do much about it. To have a job where I sit quietly for long stretches of time is so rich for me right now. Because that sitting doesn't happen a lot as a mom of four small children. During the sitting I am very aware of the people around me. Of the energy in the room. Of the walking to and fro happening in the hallways, in and out of rooms. Of the phones ringing. There can be an edginess in me, of wanting to do something. To make something happen. But I am there to wait. To learn. To remember to pause. To remember that very rarely will rushing to get something done make anything better in these circumstances.

It will be hard not to write and write and write about the holy experiences I am witnessing. I want to share them with you because they will make your life better. Confidentiality is hugely important though. So I will seek opportunities to give you things to hold, even for a moment. Because they are so worth holding.

Last week I worked three 12-hour shifts--each of them more than two hours away from my house. I flew to one in a private jet. I took Uber to one, sitting in the back seat of a car with a stranger for three hours. I drove myself to the last one, ready for some alone time. I left a hospital at 9 pm after spending the day in an alternate universe. The universe of the grief of strangers. A room I am invited into and allowed to stay for a while.

I walked out of the hospital and found my car--my husband's sedan that I'd driven, leaving the minivan with four car seats with him because I knew I might be home late. I sat on a bench and Facetimed with my family, those four little faces lit up with smiles and love. My son asking "Are you coming back?" I walked out of the room where a man's heart stopped beating and got to sit down and talk to my husband and my kids. Gratitude and life poured through me. So much of each.

I have three iPhones. One for each job and one for myself. Often I carry them all with me. The various vibrations and dings and rings can be hard to separate one from the next. Who is calling or texting? How quickly do I need to look?

On my way to the car a phone went off once. . .and then again. . .and then again. Not one text but three. I looked and saw notes from my mom. A quick response from my sister. Another one from my brother. The words referenced an email I hadn't read yet whose bad news was made clear. Family news from across the country. I thought I could guess at it and I almost didn't pull up the email in that dark parking lot in the land of lettuce farms worked by poor men and women. I was tired but glowing, as though the edges of my person had been mostly erased in order to hold space for necessary required unhoped for feelings. I ultimately opened the email because I couldn't leave it unread.

It was one sentence, written by my uncle. So stark and heartbreaking that I floated further away from my body. Confused. Lonely. So, so very sad. I drove a few miles in the dark, headlights shining only as far as their batteries could reach. Am I safe to drive? I wondered. I didn't want to sleep anywhere other than home so driving seemed like the best option. I called my husband to speak a few brief, full sentences about what was going on and how I felt. Strange. Other-wordly. Hearing his voice grounded me and I kept going, anxious to be home.

We all get those emails, or ones like them. Or phone calls bringing the worst news in the world. We sit at bedsides, hold hands, try to listen. And then go grocery shopping or for a tooth-cleaning, sitting in traffic, frustrated at a long red light, so many stories and losses or joys folded into our hearts for safe-keeping or to be discovered later or because there is nowhere else for them to go. Are we all just doing our best? We hold multitudes and I am reassured and bewildered by this fact.

3 comments:

  1. And have nightmares. You are a wonder.

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  2. Poignant passage; thank you for sharing your words .

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  3. Way beyond "good enough." Moving and superbly written.

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