Just as I am

Herr, ich komme zu Dir, 

und ich steh' vor Dir, so wie ich bin

(Transl.) Lord, I come to You, 

And I stand before you just as I am

The security guard and I walk together through the dark night; silent and concentrated on the task on hand. The outdoor corridor which links the main building of our hospital to the morgue is long, but we eventually make it to our destination. All the way I can hear the shuffling of feet behind us as a family member of the deceased follows us. Out of compassion, I give him a "job" helping me push the gurney, so as to give him a sense of being a part of it all. Death is funny that way. It's scary and we want to run away from it. But when it's a loved one being wheeled away, we ironically stay put. 

****

(Earlier)

My shift is almost over and I'm taking shift-end vitals of my post-op patients. I'm about the retrieve the glass thermometer from under the arm of my patient when I hear the sirens. My co-worker shouts for me, "Hurry! It's an emergency!" I barely don't break the thermometer or totally drop my instruments tray as I maneuver myself out of the room. I rush into the Nurses' station, toss my tray to the side, grab my cell and don a pair of gloves. 

I can see the ambulance pull up, with its siren blaring and lights flashing. 

"Do I call the doctor?" I ask the other nurse.

"Yes!"

As I pull out my phone and dial, the back door to the ambulance is opened. It like a scene from Greys when I see two white, blond men practically straddling the patient, performing CPR. 

The doctor picks up the phone and for a nano-second I panic. I'm new. This is my first call-in for an incoming trauma. How do I explain to the doctor all he needs to know as quickly as possible? In the end my brain farts and fragments all forms of intelligent conversation: 

"Doctor! Emergency! Come quick!" 

He hangs up. 

I'm already in the ER when the man is rolled in by the paramedic and the two blonde men. I slip the oxygen mask on the patient and ask for a report. One of the blonde men tells me in learned Spanish that he isn't a doctor and points at the paramedic.

"English?" I ask him in English.

"Yes." He replies and continues to detail the sequence of events which led to the man's arrival at our hospital. 

The paramedic informs that the man was on a motorbike, drunk and crashed with a car. His apparent injuries prove this. I ask for a stethoscope and try to listen to his heart. Nothing. I reach to feel a pulse at his neck. Nothing. I open his eyes and check his pupils. Dilated. His lips are already turning purple. The doctor isn't present yet, but pending his confirmation, I call it: "Time of death: 18:34." The doctor arrives and checks the patient again, confirming his death. Instinctively and respectfully, I make the sign of the cross over the man's body. 

***

I concentrate hard on keeping the wheels of the gurney on the sidewalk. Off and on I hear them squeaking. Their rotation, along with the pounding of my feet on the pavement, form a rhythm in my mind. The rhythm translates into silent song as I recall the words to a popular German church song: 

            

               Herr, Ich komme zu dir und ich steh' vor Dir so wie ich bin. 

I can't stop my imagination as it visualizes this man literally standing before God "just as he is." What does God see? Unsolicited, I see the memory of the young volunteer from a couple of weeks ago (the young man from my previous entry) joining my jumbled Judgement Day thoughts. They stand side by side, two completely different people from totally contrasting lives. Yet similar... in death. 

Inevitably, the looking glass turns directions and I find myself looking at myself. What do I look like? Do I like what I see? Just as I am now, does He like was He sees?

Dad says that the moments of crises in life are the times when we are most malleable - most open to change. Trauma and death are definitely crises. I hate to wish anything unfortunate on anyone, but I do hope that experiences others have had or ones that you have observed from the periphery will impact your life enough to open yourself up to self-examination.

Because life is short. 

One more thought: 

What do YOU look like just as you are? 

(Lifetime) Endings

The ER on the day of the accident

It's been 9 days. 

216 hours. 

12960 minutes. 

Just a short memory ago, really. 

Yet, literally… a lifetime ago. 

Dressed in my hospital scrubs I rush over to the Emergency room at our hospital. There's been an accident. A crash. A motorcycle. A young man… one of ours! I am pretty sure I won't be of much help, but I feel compelled to see it with my own eyes. My pace slows down as I arrive at the door. My eyes glance at the door handle. I know, instinctively, that on the other side is a scene that will shock me and touch the depths of my heart. But I am a nurse. I need to see the clinical facts and absorb it all to understand. I open the door and am received by silence. The young man is lying on a gurney in the middle of the room. I take in the obvious procedures done on him and the demeanor of those present and inconspicuously take my leave. 

With a heavy heart, I return to my work station and am quickly immersed in my duties. An ambulance pulls up and through the window I see the gurney pass by, surrounded by our doctors, nurses and the newly arrived paramedics. The hospital chaplain flits back and forth between the staff and worried spectators, offering what I can imagine are words of comfort and hope. It's not an easy day on the job for any of us! The ambulance drives off, its bright lights reflecting off the glass from my window. People are still milling around - still looking out in the distance in the direction where the ambulance drove off to. It's like time has stood still and no one knows what to do. No one can believe that something like this has happened here… to one of us. 

An hour or two later we receive the news that the young man barely made it to the hospital in the city, and died. A part of me recognizes that this was an obvious possibility, but the reality of it all is that I (along with all the others) had been hoping for a miracle. There is a sense of finality and resignation in the air. 

The thing about tragedies in life is that they don't always happen "for a reason." That's just what they are: events that cause great suffering, destruction and distress. There aren't always lessons to be learned which neatly make everything whole again. Our lives are definitely not Hollywood or Disney movies with "happily ever afters." It's probably more accurate (if we continue to follow film analogies) to consider our lives an independent film; like those on Sundance that don't always have a good ending. 

But, human and naïve as I am, I stubbornly and almost desperately seek out my healing in the form of at least a decent ending. 

These are the short scenes of my ending: 

***

I walk out to the breezeway and am stopped by a lady waiting her turn for a doctor's appointment. 

"I was watching. Is the boy going to be all right?"she asks. 

I am momentarily confused. Who is this? I see the hunched-over and frail body of the elderly stranger and I am struck by her profound concern. It amazes me the compassion we innately have towards those around us. So great is its force that even strangers are pulled in. 

***

I observe from afar as the hospital administrator and foreman receive the family of the young man and physically guide them through the events of the terrible day. They are patient and obliging in their time of need. Meetings are set up with the young man's roommates and friends so that the relatives can rescue remnants of their loved one's life in the form of friendships, memories, items, etc. I can't help but feel proud of the compassion of our people. 

***

The ambulance returns from its trip to the city and I rush out to help unload it. Our nurse steps out of its side door, her movements slow and heavy. I stand in front of her and look her straight in the eye. 

"How are you?" I ask her. 

There is deep, deep sorrow in the pools of her eyes. I hear her sigh and can almost physically feel the weight on her shoulders. It clutches at my soul and I can feel my heart rising in my throat. 

"I kept him alive until we got there," was her answer. 

I knew that this minute success would indubitably be a balm to her soul. Although the young man had not survived, she would be comforted by the fact that he hadn't died on her watch. Tiny comforts. 

I pull her in for a hug and hold her for a long time. She doesn't cry, being so exhausted as she is. But she clings to me and I know that this is exactly what she needs. I thank Jesus that I am allowed to hold her up in her time of need. I, myself, feel unexplainably lifted up. 

***

A memory returns to me as I remember the previous Sunday services, just 3 days before the accident. I am sitting in the last pew and in front of me is this young man sitting next to a beautiful blonde with gorgeous hair (bc her hair is all I see from behind). The person leading services asks if there are guests among us and the young man stands up, proudly introducing his girlfriend to the congregation. They are planning on getting married soon and she has come to visit him. 

As I reflect on this memory, I am wowed by the timing of it all… It was an unknown final goodbye between the almost-engaged couple. A final weekend in which they most likely made lovely memories drinking tereré together, going for walks, talking, hugging, etc. A gift of sorts, if you will. 

***

There are so many more short scenes that I could add, but then I would never get to the end of this entry. 

Endings are hard. They aren't neat or simple. They are horrible and unfair. 

Dear Reader, I don't have a good ending for you this time. It really is a Sundance film. The drapes fall and signal the end of the show on a cast of confused and hurting actors. The only silver lining I could find was... each other. In every single one of my scenes, there are no lone actors. I dare to presume that real life is much the same. We don't act alone. There are others in the cast. 

Even though I still can't make heads or tails of it all, as I look back on the scenes… no one was ever alone. Perhaps our greatest challenge in times of grief is to remember this. There are others around us grieving along, also uncertain of how things should or will end. 

That's it for today. Perhaps a more cheerful entry will come soon :) 

"What are you doing for others?"

Today's experience was hopefully the first of many. 

As a nurse, my primary section here at the hospital is working MedSurg. For those who don't speak "Nurse" this means that I work with sick patients and those who are going to go into or have just come out of surgery. In a sense, they are "easy" because they have something wrong with them that I have to help fix (disease or operated wound). The hospital where I work at (here) is a hospital that specializes in working with people affected by Leprosy - a disease considered in many parts of the world to be eradicated. It has two wards: MedSurg and long-term Hansen (aka. Leprosy). 

This morning I headed over to our long-term Hansen ward to learn how to do wound care. In our MedSurg ward I have seen my fair share of wounds, but because of the specific nature of my job, I don't do a lot of the deep wound care. The wounds that people affected by Leprosy have are special wounds. Most of the time they are so deep and extensive that they require grafting and occasional debridement (basically, stripping of the bad parts of the wound). They can smell bad and look mangled and gruesome. 

First off, at 9:30 every day, the patients are wheeled into the Foot Wash room and they set their wounded feet into warm salted water for 20 minutes. They take off their own bandages (or sometimes with the help of their family assistant) and gently clean their wounds. After the soaking they cover their feet with vaseline (Petroleum Jelly) and head over to the Wound Care room. 

I have had a quick peek of the patients in the Foot Wash room and I am already surprised by their wounds. It's my first day and I want to make the patients feel a welcoming spirit and not one of disgust. I have already been praying through the night for this moment. 

I gown myself and head over to meet those who have finished their foot wash in the Wound Care room. 

The first man has an enormous smile on his face and directly tells me that he wants ME to do his wound care because his wounds will certainly heal faster with my lovely touch (Gah!). I banter with him and take my place at his feet and to the side of the male nurse who is teaching me. The man has half a toe... That's it... 9 1/2 of his toes are gone. I watch the male nurse as he uses a new gillette to shave off the calluses around his open wounds. The wounds will heal better if there is tender skin around it to help it close. I flinch every once in a while, as I am unaccustomed to the patient's insensitivity to pain. It should hurt. But it doesn't. That's what Leprosy is like.  

Next up, and my first, is a 70 year old lady who doesn't have nor has had Leprosy. She has an enormous (diabetic) ulcer that won't close on her leg. I can plainly see a necrotic tendon and perhaps also a bit of bone peeking out. I'm not sure. But because she doesn't have Leprosy, every time I touch her… It hurts. She flinches and pulls back and I'm only wiping her gently with Simple Saline and a small gauze. I encourage her, chit-chatting - trying my best to distract her from my work. I can see tears in her eyes and am amazed that she hasn't cried out already. I realize that she is most likely accustomed to this and her tolerance is already heightened. Just, wow. 

Call it gross. Call it nasty. Call it whatever you want to call it. 

Everyone has a heart for something. Your heart (or your stomach) might not lead you towards the kind of work that I do. But, with an honest self-examination you'll find yourself inclined in some direction. I feel blessed when I can help my special patients. 

Interestingly, there's quite a bit of irony in all this bit of doing things for others. You give and give… But it doesn't matter how much you give, you always get something back. You will never be able to empty yourself. 

In the words of MLK: What are you doing for others? 

Need an idea of something small you can do to start? Create awareness! Check out The Leprosy Mission UK's Feet First initiative. No money donation needed (if you don't want). Just a cool 24hr challenge.