In my years of being a trauma ICU nurse, I've seen every form of shock that there is. The story is similar and repetitive...a young man is driving home and falls asleep at the wheel...a young woman gets brutally injured after a driver hits her while crossing the street...an old man falls while hanging Christmas lights for his grand kids...
They all have one thing in common. They happen suddenly, without warning. One minute, everything is fine. The next minute, the whole world changes.
In each case, I see family members struggle for control. A young mother will freak out when we don't get her a blanket fast enough to cover her 19 year old son's feverish body. "He's COLD!!" She will yell, her shrill voice screaming out for someone, anyone, to listen. "What do you do?" people will ask me. I tell them that I get her the blanket, then I stand there and hug her, and listen to her. I'll take a deep breath and quietly ask the universe to calm me down and work through me. Guide me. Somehow, it always comes back to the same thing...
Control.
If there's one thing I've learned from nursing families through the emotional trauma of a physical trauma, it's that they all struggle with the complete loss of control. Imagine it....You get a call at 3am to come to the hospital. There's been an accident. You frantically get there, walk into the hospital room, and see the busy hustle of nurses and doctors. They ask you about your son's wishes 'in the event'...CT scans, chest Xrays, study after study after study. Days turn into weeks, each doctor more grim than the last. One morning, you wake up sore, foggy, and wishing that this terrible dream would end. Your whole body aches. You go up to the hospital to see your son lying there. Breath in...breath out. 14 times per minute, just as the breathing machine is set. Eyes that once looked into yours don't wake. Arms that hugged you...don't move. Lips you kissed on their first day of school now kiss a breathing tube. Breath in. Breath out. It's breaks your heart to watch. I cannot imagine the hell of living it.
Give her the fucking blanket.
That control thing is a bitch. I don't dance around it at all. I touch them, if they let me. I'll look them in the eye and speak to them directly and lovingly. My eyes always well up with tears, and I don't even try to choke them back. I'll talk about what their son needs, and why doing something to warm him when we are deliberately cooling him down could harm him. I tell them that the blanket is best used to wrap around their own arms in this cold, dark room. And, then...I'll give them something that they can control. I'll teach them how to do oral care. I'll grab lotion and show them how to care for his skin. I'll let them assist me as I turn them so that their son doesn't get pressure wounds. Like a baby needing their safety blanket, I'll let the mama control something...anything....for her son.
The irony of it all is that to be a good ICU nurse, you have to be a control freak.
The last year of my marriage was aching agony. I was always on guard, waiting for the shadows to jump out and bite me. On the afternoon of one Christmas Day, I went for a walk with my sister-in-law and told her that I just wished he would fall in love with someone else. I couldn't express to her what I really felt...that I wished that the universe would not make me go the treacherous path that lay ahead. A year and nine months later, and I was sleeping with a knife under my pillow, the same knife that had been held to my throat on several occasions before. I was such a hypocrite. I was assessing for family violence in my patient's families by knowing the indicators of victim behavior because they reminded me of my own.
I started praying to a God that I knew existed, but couldn't understand. I prayed that somehow I would get through it without a hospital bed or the morgue.
Somehow, I surrendered. I don't know how it happened, truly. I went to Al-Anon meetings and I memorized passages of Codependent No More. I searched for answers in my Psych Nursing textbook from school. I prayed. I found true joy that was completely independent of my circumstances. I committed to therapy. I remember the redemption of my work nursing others, how it was the only thing that really gave me perspective and gratitude, and I leaned into those conscious thoughts. I knew that this was about me and my issue with control. Like that patient, my marriage was on that hospital bed. Whether or not it survived was already written in the stars, and I'd been screaming for a fucking blanket long enough.
When the student is ready, the teacher appears.
There was a patient. She was hit in the head with a blunt object by a man to whom she professed love. She had a child. She did not survive. I cried for her, but I cried harder for me. Then a feminine energy surrounded me. It came in the form of a few women that I allowed to get close and became vulnerable with. After telling my story, I listened without speaking. It spoke into me with such clarity, such focus. I knew my path was before me, and her collective voice was so clear and so wise that I was sure that God must be a woman. But I was still afraid.
So then, the universe brought to me a Marine. His jaw was chiseled and his shoulders were broad. He used them to protect those who were vulnerable. He had a hard outer shell with a gooey soft center. He told me his own story long before I was in the place where I could tell him mine. He showed me what friendship really looked like. And I felt safe and protected, and I was sure that God must be a Marine.
I took the advice of those wiser and I told my family. After the safe house shelter, someone from church offered up their home for me and my children to stay in until he was arrested and charged.
Like a warm blanket in a cold, dark room the universe brought them to my side. My brain-dead marriage with its mechanical ventilator...Breath in. Breath out. There are no trophies for the one who hurts the most, there is no glory in suffering. What is best for us is always what is best for everyone. I let go. I closed my eyes. I put a foot out in front of me into the dark vastness of space, and then the ground appeared beneath my foot. Then another. And, I walked with my eyes closed and my heart open. The ground would not show itself to me until my foot was already suspended above it. With no control of where I was going or with whom I would travel, I walked.
Fifth Grade
Fifth grade was the first year I became keenly aware of my awkwardness. I remember my feet growing faster than the rest of my body, going days without brushing my teeth if my parents didn't realize it, and being semi-disgusted and semi-intrigued with my cubbie-mate's fascination with spitballs. I hated it when they landed on me, yet I hated it more when he directed them at other girls.
Fifth grade was the year that I became aware of the heightened sexuality of my teacher, Mrs. Ford. She wore t-shirts that were so tight, her nipples poked through. She taught class in three inch high heels, and wore night-time makeup during the day. She would often have us grade each other's papers and she would give one student a note to run to Mr. Marshall, the teacher next door. They passed notes frequently throughout the day. When one teacher was absent, so was the other.
Fifth grade was the year I returned a little roughed-up after a summer on the big island of Hawaii with my mother. My father, whom had custody of me and my brother, was dating his girlfriend of three months when they announced to us that she was pregnant and moving in. My brother and I painfully stayed with a family member while they went on a little adults-only trip together, and came back married. Fifth grade was also the year my sweet sister was born.
Its amazing how the memories that shape us are so three-dimensional. There's beauty sprinkled in with the pain. Nothing is ever all good. And, nothing is ever all bad.
The week after my children got home from their summer adventures, my fifth-grade daughter was overheard talking about her recent experiences. She kissed a girl playing truth-or-dare, and took up the habit of dumpster diving. The suitcase she brought home was riddled with used canisters, cracked vases, and half-broken picture frames. Not long after she arrived home, I was informed that she snuck off into the woods with one of the boys from her class, and they kissed. When I asked her about it, I said..."How did you kiss? Like this..." and I pecked her on the lips. She looked at me completely puzzled. "Is there another way to kiss, mom?" she asked.
I recall how I made the awful mothering mistake once of giving my daughter the birds-and-bees talk as if her future partner was going to be a male. I said, "One day...you're going to want to kiss a boy. You might want to touch him, or to look at his...privates..." When I was later telling my friend about this (you know they're a real friend by how impolite they are willing to be with their straight-up feedback), her response was...
"Really. Really? You really fuckin' told her that?"
I looked at her completely puzzled. After all, I thought I was killing it on the cool mom scene. She continued, "What if she doesn't want to look at penises? What if she likes vaginas? You just conveyed bias on the subject, letting her know that she is only safe around you in the context of a heterosexual relationship..."
Wow. Bam. Just like that, I'd been hit. Gravity. My friend was completely right.
She went on..."What you should've said is that one day, you're going to get curious. You might want to explore, to touch your body...and you might want to touch someone else's and to have them touch you. And it's okay...it's normal to be curious. It's normal to explore. As long as you decide what you're comfortable with and what you want to explore, nothing is wrong..."
My daughter is so much like her father. The good parts. The self-confident parts. The parts of him that I fell in love with that were enough to sustain me so that I could overlook all of those other things that caused me great pain. When I see that same fiery spirit well up in her, I think to myself...there he is. Somewhere between the dumpster trips and truth or dare games, I see that same curious glimmer of the eye. I recognize that that fire, that adventurousness...that risk.
I love it that he lives inside of her, even if he is dead to me.
I have no idea what my daughter's fifth grade year will end up looking like. I see some of my same awkwardness in her, but maybe that's true of almost all fifth graders. On the other hand, she is far more sure of herself and experimental that I remember being. We are still in the first month of school, and already she has used birthday money she saved to get bangs cut into her hair, gone to school in cornrows, and is well on her way to earning her next belt in taekwondo. What I do know is that I'll continue to have those moments when I really see her. Moments when I honor her...all of her. Moments when I'm thankful that I've got a daughter who follows her feelings and desires enough to bring me trash out of a dumpster the way a cat instinctually brings you the rat they just killed.
And, somehow in doing so, somewhere in my seeing all the parts of her I like and don't like, yet love because they makeup her...I am able to honor her father from afar. They're nowhere near the same person, yet there's an undeniable thread woven into the fabric of her being.
She definitely got that dumpster thing from him.
Dear Soldier
Dear Soldier,
If what you want is a healthy, happy life with a healthy, happy wife and kids...this is for you. I'm about to give you some nuggets, the key, if you will, to having it all. If you love suiting up in your uniform, crossing oceans to move mountains for our country, posting facebook photos of you eating street cuisine with the locals, and coming home to serenity...listen up. This one's for you, Soldier.
Close your eyes for a minute and imagine that you've switched places with her. Imagine that you're up each night working on school projects, talking to an emotional child who misses their mommy, fitting in your daily workout with work commitments with grocery shopping and teacher's conferences. Imagine that every time you check your email, someone is asking you how she's doing. When you hear from her, it's only for a few minutes every few days where she talks about her mission, her job, her.... Imagine that after working, and cooking, and carpooling, and grocery-shopping you come home to an empty bed. Invisible. No medal on your uniform.
The woman you choose and how you treat her will make or break you.
Choose wisely.
The woman who is going to thrive by your side is a strong, lively, independent woman. She has her own friends, is a great multi-tasker, has good relationships and great boundaries. She doesn't need your help when it comes to managing multiple tasks, getting kids educated and athlecticized, getting in her yoga or daily run, and holding down a full time job. She is a pleasure to have on your arm at any social function, and makes you look better than you actually are. She doesn't drink too much, is good at managing money and working on a limited budget, and can go long periods of time in your absence without so much as looking at another man, even though every man notices her. These women are hard to find. Make a mistake in your choosing, and you'll find yourself in another country wondering if your child is getting the care they need and what kind of a mess you're going to come home to. Imagine trying to do your job overseas when your mind is a million miles away. Pick right, and you'll be able to give good focus on your job at hand knowing that the home you come home to is safe and sound.
Honor her.
Kids don't get themselves to soccer practice. Children don't learn to read on their own. The spouse I describe above is a master at juggling a hundred tasks and making them look simple. She can get kids to do chores and behave themselves at social functions. If she works, then she is often juggling home responsibilities while also contributing to the bottom line and making up for any income that you don't make while you're sporting your night vision goggles. She gets no glory if the house didn't burn down, the new babysitter arrived when they needed to, and she made it to work on time. Hers is a thankless job, and when everything goes well, nobody notices her. It's only when things don't go well that people see the cracks. Not to mention, if she realizes that she's been doing it on her own and can do it better without you since you have nothing to offer her, she is entitled to walk away with a good chunk of your retirement, savings, alimony, and child support.
Find out what she needs and give it to her.
Nobody can pour from an empty cup. Most spouses don't want help with the logistics, they just want to be validated. Nobody is sending her a care package. Every time you go away, her job gets more difficult because the same amount of work exists with less hands to do it. But, she doesn't get a raise. She molds her career around yours, finding jobs that will allow her mobility and flexibility so that she can be there for you when you've got to drop everything and POOF...be gone.
You get to see the world while she gets to see the drivers seat of her mini-van. She wants to know that even though she's the silent partner in your team, and that the world tells you that you're the hero...that you SEE her, she's YOUR hero. Find out what she needs, and give it to her. If she likes gifts, set up an Amazon Prime account and set a calendar event to remind yourself to send her something each month. If her love language is acts of kindness, set up a weekly cleaning service to come clean her home or a Massage Envy account for her and book her a service. If she just wants to be heard, then set aside 10 minutes every few days to call her and not talk about training exercises, missions, staffing, or logistics and just talk about her.
Find out what fills her cup, and fill it. If you do, she will pour over and pour over and pour over.
Good luck, Soldier.
My Duckling
One of the structures in the limbic system deep in our brain is the habenula. We think that the habenular complex is responsible for mediating the hormones that provide us with nesting or instinctual maternal behaviors. I remembered learning about this structure in my neuro-anatomy class thinking that maybe some mothers just have really small habenulas, and maybe I got two or three of them from people who didn't get them at all. That cat must have a mega-sized habenula.
Right now, winds at 165 mph sweep over the Caribbean Ocean. By tomorrow morning, the first of the high winds will start to reach the San Juan airport, and around 2pm the eye of the Category 5 hurricane is expected to pass over the island. After the bashing of the gulf coast less than a month ago, resources are slim. Men and women are protecting the interests of the island while their spouses and children are at home without their protectors. Their big shoulders move mountains, but often those mountains are overseas.
My soul mirrors the winds. Semi-predictable. Amid the hurricane party and the work/play atmosphere that will be sweeping over the island tomorrow, it's hard for me to concentrate. I'm living at the intersection of jealousy and worry. There are times I'd like to the be the one out there on the leading edge. Hell, being an ICU nurse, I often am...but there are more similarities between me and him than I'd like to admit at times. The work, the glory, the adrenaline, the fear, the homecomings.
No hurricane parties here. I've got yoga in the morning, dinner to plan for the kids, and a little juggling this week with a Thurs/Fri/Sat work schedule in the midst of three children. My leading edge is figuring out what they'll be doing this Saturday while I'm working 7a-7p. A little bitterness is sometimes sprinkled in with the mundane.
And, then I hear them sleeping. Three children...my leader, my follower, and my free spirit. Two kids that came out of my body, and one sweet soul that this beautiful universe brought to me. Like a duckling.
Puerto Fuckin' Rico
It's someday in September, and we've got a Labor Day BBQ planned for tomorrow with guests already making the side dishes they're bringing. We sit down for dinner, then the phone rings.
"Just got the call. I'm leaving tomorrow. Puerto Rico."
I'm mid-bite between flank steak and zucchini when my stomach drops. His bag has been packed for two days. I knew he was on the national response team with a 2-hour call-out for the next tropical storm brewing somewhere in the ocean. He had already told me that there was a 100% chance that he wouldn't see Tuesday. Yet, my stomach still turns at the thought of him leaving. I take a moment to text everyone coming to the BBQ to let them know we have to cancel.
I'm not one of those moms who do stay-at-home mom-ing well. I've found that the more I'm around the house, the more I fill up on junk TV and facebook. I've found that I'm most productive when I'm lost in something else. Nooo...life for me is so much better when I'm juggling - work, kids, activities. I've known this for awhile about myself. Sadness and jealousy sweep over me as I struggle to swallow my steak. Sadness because I'm going to miss him, and there's always a chance...jealousy because I know that going to Puerto Rico to work will be hard(ish), but staying at home with three kiddos is a helluva harder.
Puerto Rico.
The conversation fades into some talk about how granola bars and potato chips should be saved for school-day snacks and not consumed on weekends. Voices fade. I can hear people talking, but I have no idea what they're saying. When I'm asked for my opinion, I cannot contribute. I think..."Who gives a fuck about granola bars..."
I see a bottle of wine in my future.
This is the life. This is the moment-to-moment, I don't know what tomorrow brings, I'm going to raise my kids and hold my head up and appreciate every damn second life. I'm new to it. Other women, much better and stronger than me, have been doing this life for much longer. Lifetimes. This is where we earn the military dances and the free health insurance and the no-tax grocery benefits that we get. There's no such thing as a free lunch, and the fact is that this is the price we pay so that our children can see the world and we have guaranteed income doing work we love.
Last week, we went away for my birthday. It was a 7-hour drive. As on all of our road trips, I lose myself in him. I purchase the 2 for $3 Rockstars at every gas station even though I know they can send me into renal failure. I find the best cup of coffee an Exxon can offer, and I listen to his voice. I ask him about something that I know nothing about. He explains, often going on tangent after tangent. I allow him to lose himself as I listen. The song list plays in the background. Sometimes he'll sing along in his off-key raspy voice. And I'll think about how lucky I am...that I have this moment.
Because tomorrow he'll be in Puerto fuckin' Rico with a bunch of men telling dirty jokes...and doing work that keeps our country safe. And our bed will be empty. I'll make my own damn coffee. The kids will wake up and get themselves ready to catch the bus as I'm getting report at work. The world will be just a little smaller without him in it. And after a dinner of leftovers and conversation, I'll lay my head down in our lonely bed. I'll close my eyes and think of his voice. His raspy, smoky voice.
Self Reflection On My 43rd Birthday
Its been years since I've written. It's been years since I've wanted to, needed to. I used to feel like I'd write out my thoughts and sort them out fully to provide myself clarity and perspective. I'd share them with the world on a blog, which means I attempted to appeal to an audience as well. But, with the shame of the demise of my marriage and the inevitable pain that followed, I felt it difficult to even begin to put words on a page, thought to meaning. I was wiped.
And now...this. Sitting in quiet stillness somewhere in nowhere Tennessee. My kids both physically and emotionally safe sleeping inside. My heart full. A few more pounds on my body, a few more lines on my face. The tear down, the desolate wasteland, the rawness and the bitterness having already swept over me. Then, the rebirth where buds sprout, then begin to mature into fruit. I sit outside looking at waterslides I will ride on with my kids later that day. How beautiful the pain was...how this moment couldn't have gotten here without the pain.
It was a hard road. People say that you've got to be brave enough to tell your story while being kind enough not to tell someone else's. I'll attempt to do that. So here's mine...
I loved. I loved deep, and hard, and fast. I loved my family, my children, my husband. I felt that I often tried to love people who I thought were unlovable, did despicable things. I'd look at the good side of them and focus on that, I'd turn off the bad things, the aggressive, volatile things. I found happiness in my life, fulfillment in my job. I started seeking out friends and counselors. I went to therapy. The more happy I became in my own life, the more difficult certain relationships became for me to maintain. And then, the crack and fault lines really started to show. Aggressiveness started looking less like aggressiveness and more like abuse. The honeymoon periods between episodes became shorter. Volatility became the norm. Eventually, I would look in the mirror and I would no longer see a wife and mother. I would see myself as a single mom. I had a life, and I shared it with my children. I was striving to make it a healthy life....and the unhealthy just didn't have a place in it anymore. I could no longer tolerate the intolerable because I was no longer the person I once was. Compassion left me. Empathy was nowhere to be found. Encouragement and enabling were replaced with a fiery strength...the kind a mama bear can muster to save her cubs, but cannot find to save herself. .
I no longer cared if people liked me, instead I cared if I liked them. I wasn't paying attention to whether or not they wanted to be around me, instead I'd pay careful attention to the way I felt when they came around. I started following the good energy. I stood up for myself. I thought about something I'd heard in an al-anon meeting once...
"Every once in awhile, I'd get angry enough to actually take care of myself..."
What came after was a whirlwind of a dissolution of my marriage, the restructuring of my family, and grief. I lost myself in chocolate. I found friends, amazing friends. I stopped caring about what people knew or thought, and I just told my truth...if people self-selected to not be around after meeting the real me...well, they did me a favor. I fell in love with myself. And then, I fell in love with someone else.
I had one of those moments that 43rd birthday out on the balcony...one of those moments when you just cannot believe life gets this good. As my therapist once said to me..."Mariah, you have an amazing life waiting for you. But you cannot carry it yet. Your arms are too full. You must first put down the burdens you are carrying in your arms so that your arms are empty. Only then, will you be able to grasp what is waiting for you..."
I hope you find the courage to find what is waiting for you.
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