With love, Nursing

She did wear it.  She hesitated to be fair. I convinced her to humor me just for a photo, but once it was on it didn’t come off. She fell asleep with it wrapped around her.

It was a Wonderwoman cape that a dear friend had given me during a time that I didn’t feel very brave. 

Mahala and I weren’t sure which weekend to hold a movie night in the hospital. It seemed that God had sprinkled some pixie dust down and we had it on a Saturday night shortly after she had been admitted.

“I had a really hard conversation with the doctor, Dani”, she said. I asked, “what did you talk about?” She said, “The doctor asked me if I wanted to keep fighting or if I wanted to be comfortable, and I chose to be comfortable”.  I asked her how she felt, and she replied, “pretty rough, man”.  Her answers felt like cement. They were hard and cold and grey.

Her eyes were sure and confident. They were a wonder. She was a wonder. She was also 15.

I wanted her to be Wonderwoman. I wanted to be Wonderwoman. I wanted her to fly away and be safe.

But she’s not Wonderwoman. I’m not Wonderwoman.

My thoughts were laced with underlying disbelief in the sovereign. My desperation was interwoven with disconnection from the holy and sacred.

Disbelief that left my heart wrecked and crumbling. Disbelief that excluded the one who loved me the most. Disbelief that did not acknowledge the presence of the one who loved her the most. Disbelief that was arrogantly unaware that Jesus carried this pain long ago. Disbelief that there is a place for this suffering. That this pain has a home. That this pain has a name. That this pain is significant and real and raw. That this pain and desperation does not disprove who Jesus is, but that it is evidence. Evidence of His devotion. His devotion to humans who are broken in all manner of pieces. It proves his presence. It proves not only His will but also His desire to be where we are. It proves that He has made his home with the suffering. It proves His love.

Today is Maundy Thursday. We are asked on this day to enter into suffering in a small but significant way. My prayer today is to accept the invitation to enter into suffering. To make a home in it and to honor it. To make a home where suffering is is synonymous with making a home where Jesus is.

 

“Well”, I said, “It makes sure you’re always safe. I can try and program any type of medication at any rate that I want and it won’t let me if it’s unsafe”. Her eyes sparked for the first time since she arrived 2 days earlier. Everything was unsafe for her. She was found underdressed, unresponsive, and overexposed. She was admitted for something called catatonia which, when self-induced marks the inability to exist fully in life. When I said the word safe, something resonated. Safety. It resonates with me too. I wish there was a pump for life that kept the painful, death and decay out.

Can we create safe spaces? Spaces for humans that don’t just shut out the death, but that also let in the light?

 

She asked. I didn’t. What I really wanted to do was to wrap her in an invisibility cloak that her cystic fibrosis couldn’t find, her mother couldn’t hurt, and unkind eyes couldn’t pierce. I wanted her to be invisible to all except that which is kind and good and soft. Instead, I could only see. I could only see through the treatments. I could only see through the cystic fibrosis. I could only see through the pain. When I looked at her, I could only see a human whose greatest necessity was not an invisibility cloak. I could only see a human whose greatest necessity was to be loved.

“I’d love to”, I said passionately as I put on my own invisibility cloak in the form of an isolation gown.

Nursing gives and takes. Sometimes it does both at the exact same time. This blog is meant to be a love letter from the beautiful profession I have chosen.

Enjoy and partake.