Be still

I have written about many topics on this blog.  I know it's largely an accounting of my son, his rare disease journey, and my own processing of that.  But I've also touched on family, breastfeeding, work, depression, and other topics.  Somehow I've never put to words my feelings about the most important person in my life. I've never needed to, to be honest.  He isn't one who likes attention anyways.  But the events of late, as well as my own introspection, coming up on 20 years of marriage together, has made me need to.  And if you are like, "Oh please, here's another humble brag post about how great my relationship is" (insert eye roll), don't worry.  This isn't that.  This is about the hard.  The not-glamorous parts of sharing your life with another.  So if that's for you, read on.  

I have a restless mind.  I am not quiet or meek, and do not keep my opinions to myself.  I feel deeply, can overthink, and can get in my own head all too easily.  I tend to fill my time with frantic activity, many times just to keep my mind quiet and my thoughts at bay.  But the man I married does not.  He is calm and quiet, but not without deep insight into me and the world around him.  I think many who know me and not him may wonder what manner of man could "handle" me.  And may assume that I must run over whoever I'm with.  The people who know us both probably get a good laugh out of that, as no one runs over this man.  He doesn't feel the need to beat his chest though, he just quietly does his thing and is who he is with no care of what anyone thinks about it.  And he has no problem telling me like it is, whether I like it or not.  And the level of insight he has on me, my motivations and feelings, and relationships with others is incredible.  I've said often that he is the smartest person I know, but what it really is, is that he knows me better than anyone, and it somehow amazes me when he has the insight that he does.  I don't know how he can see what he sees, but he does.  But all of this constitutes things I've known for a long time.  None of this is news. 

What I've come to appreciate so much in the past months is the stillness that he brings to my heart and mind.  He doesn't feel the need to fill every silence with words.  When I'm broken, he lets me be.  He is there to listen when I'm ready to talk, and has no trouble being silent if I'm not.  He is there to sit with me while I distract myself and read.  He doesn't feel like he has to "fix" anything, but knows to just be.  Be there.  Be still.  And for a heart and mind that has trouble being still, being with someone who does it so well is a haven.  

In the past months, I've experienced discouragement and brokenness in my job.  He was still and he was there, and saw me through it.  But all of that pales to what we walked through in the past month.  He experienced a loss so great, it completely changed his life.  I won't speak on how this affected him, as that is his to tell, but this loss rattled our entire family.  It changed how it looks for us all.  But as we walked this road, I saw again, who he is, and was amazed at the quiet strength he brings in even the darkest times.  The stillness and peace he brought to the ICU.  To the waiting room.  In the conversations where no good news could be found, and the shadow of death loomed.  To the quiet houses afterward. To the funeral home.  This man's strength and stillness was comfort.  

We then followed that with another trip to Boston with Jacob.  Again, even in the throes of grief, he was stillness and peace as we walked this road.  It was too soon.  Never mind that this waiting room was filled with hope and the shadows didn't linger; it was still too soon to be back in a hospital, back in a waiting room.  Yet he was still.  Unmoveable.  A strength when I struggle to find it.     

A few days after we got home I heard a song that brought me to my knees.  I'd never heard anything that describes him so well.  And it was the best thing that I could think of that comes close to doing justice to what he does for me.  He does so many things and loves me so well.  He is an amazing partner and father to my children, he is romantic and has never stopped being in love with me and showing it so well.  But what I never could put a finger on, and often overlooked, was how good he is at being still.  And how much I need that in my life.  

Be still 

Be still and know that I'm with you

Be still and know that I am here

Be still and know that I'm with you

Be still, Be still, and know

When darkness comes upon you

And colors you with fear and shame

Be still and know that I'm with you

And I will say your name

If terror falls upon your bed

And sleep no longer comes

Remember all the words I said

Be still, Be still, and know

And when you go through the valley

And the shadow comes down from the hill

If morning never comes to be

Be still, Be still, Be still

If you forget the way to go

And lose where you come from

If no one is standing beside you

Be still and know I am

Be still and know that I'm with you

Be still and know I am

-The Fray

I know it's not light and romantic and glamorous to talk about this aspect of a relationship.  We all love to show our shiniest faces and beautiful smiles, and sweet kisses to the world.  And just how wildly happy we are with our partners. But we wouldn't be that, couldn't be happy after 20 years if we hadn't learned how to weather the dark times.  The heartaches and disappointments.  And figured out how to love each other when our faces didn't shine, and instead were darkened with grief and streaked with tears.  And for me, the stillness of the man I love, brings peace to a mind rarely at rest.  Yes, he knows how to love me big, and we laugh and love beautifully.  But man, does he also know how to still my soul.     

I think so often we get it wrong.  I know I do.  In relationships, in friendship.  We want to fix someone, fix a situation.  Say the right thing, make them feel better.  When maybe all they need is for us to be still.  Be there.  In silence, in solidarity.  Just stop fixing and start being still.  And the darkness of a road may just be made a little lighter with someone we love sitting with us.  Their stillness and peace bringing strength for us to keep walking. I want to be more like him.  But more than anything, I'm thankful.  Thankful for who he is and the stillness he brings to my heart and mind and life.  

Break My Heart Sweetly

 It has been over 18 years since I first walked through the doors of the NICU.  It's hard to reconcile the person I was then with who I am now.  I have always been a largely introspective person, but for some reason of late, I have thought so much about this work, and what it is to me.  I think most everyone knows how much I love this "job", but only I know that it is woven into the fabric of who I am.  

I have heard so much over the years...advice on advancing my career path, and questioning over why I am still a bedside nurse.  My mind is wired differently, which could suit me for another role, but my heart lies in the trenches, at the bedside.  I find it hard to explain it to others, something I struggle myself to understand.  Sometimes I think life would be easier if I could walk away, or take another path, still here in the NICU.  But when you know with the certainty of which you know your own name, the calling you've been given, how can you choose another? 

I was told recently for the hundredth time, "I don't know how you keep doing it after all these years."  And sometimes, I don't either, and wonder if I can continue.  I work with passion and intensity, which drain the mind, body, and soul much faster, I've found.  But that's the only way for me.  The love I have for this work often feels a burden, and sometimes even, a curse.  But when you know you could not be happy doing anything else, what choice is there?  One thing I have discovered though, is that the more you do, the more of your soul is surrendered.  I have baggage, burdens I carry.  I have holes, scars, and ghosts.  The work of my hands has wrought such horror in a relentless quest for healing on bodies too small for this world.  Catheters, needles, lines, tubes, wires, compression, restraint...there is much blood on my hands.  Bloody gloves after a procedure, that I clean as I remain sterile, waiting for x-ray, telling myself it's so I'll keep my dressing clean, but knowing really why I have to do it.  Empty bedspaces after a battle lost, molds of tiny hands and feet that haunt.

I've made mistakes.  I've missed things.  I've made the wrong call.  I've fought with all I have and lost.  I've been broken more times than I can count.  I've limped out wondering how I'll ever come back.  I've limped in just hoping to make it through the shift.  I've misspoke, taken missteps.  In all the years of teaching, working, leading, and mentoring, sometimes I'll get it wrong.  I'm thankful for the depth of friendships and people who have loved me in my failures, and in even more difficultly, have said "You are not your best right now.  How can I help you fix it?"  Those people who love me enough to say the hard things and care enough to challenge me to be better.  I'm thankful for accountability, which is even more important for those entrusted with leadership; I never want to reach a place where I'm unwilling to receive feedback.  I'm thankful for the people who have given grace when I make mistakes and not written me off.  I'm here for friendship like that.  

I avoid comparison to others, running only from the me from yesterday, hoping to be better than her.  And that even in my failures, there is hope in being better tomorrow. Avoiding comparison lets me love my teammates, and leaves no room for jealousy or resentment, and also removes the ceiling for who I can become.  

I'm thankful for the people who trust me enough to keep coming back and asking me questions and for help, even if the last time I was impatient or short or gave the wrong answer.  I'm thankful for those who have loved me in my brokenness, who aren't afraid to look me in the eye and see the hurt that lies there.  I'm thankful for the sensitivity and discernment some have a way with, and see the shadows in my eyes when its hard to put the worry for my own baby to the back of my mind to see someone else's in front of me.  I'm thankful for those who see my humanity behind whatever image that people have of me here that I'll never understand.  I'm thankful for the people who are ok with me being real, even when its uncomfortable; as real, flawed, and hopeful is all I'm capable of.  

I'm thankful my mom shares my calling, here, in this place; that she understands, listens, and challenges me.  Some days I wish she didn't have to see my hurt, my failures, or see me break.  But most days I'm glad she does, and rest in knowing that the love she has for me is unconditional for she sees it all, and loves me just the same.  I hope every day that above all else, I make her proud.        

I know these are a lot of thoughts, not all connecting.  But the feelings that rattle in my heart and mind have no organization, nor my words eloquence.  I write only for myself, for the catharsis that writing brings me, and perhaps in hope another NICU nurse somewhere that has questioned themselves might find a shred of hope or meaning.  Because in all of this, I search for peace and understanding.  I found the closest thing to putting it into words, in a song I've heard many times.  But finally truly listened to.  In this song, I didn't hear words to a lover, or a friend.  But to the NICU, and every tiny baby that's ever stayed there.  To the ones who went home to their family, and the ones whose home was found in the eternal.  To the people I have fought beside, bearing witness with me to all, both horror and beauty.  In these words, I finally found what it is to me.  

I swore the days were over

Courtin' empty dreams

I worshipped at the altar of losing everything

And the guard I held together

Was losing all its shape

And in my head you looked so gorgeous

It's keeping me awake

There's a scar on my soul

So let me down easy

Break my heart sweetly

Like you always do

I guess I can't let go

'Til you wreck me completely

Break my heart sweetly

Drape me in blue

I was never scared of nothin'

Thought I had a home

Life went and broke me open

So I carried it alone

I'm findin' all this well-worn sadness

I never knew I kept

And I still chase you into heartache

Every time you take a step

There's a scar on my soul

So let me down easy

Break my heart sweetly

Like you always do

I guess I can't let go

'Til you wreck me completely

Break my heart sweetly

Drape me in blue

I swore the days were over

Of courtin' empty dreams

I worshipped at the altar

Of losing everything

But you had a halo made of diamonds

Resting on your head

I should be dealing with my demons

But I'm dodgin' them instead

There's a scar on my soul

So let me down easy

Break my heart sweetly

Like you always do

I guess I can't let go

'Til you wreck me completely

Break my heart sweetly

Drape me in blue

-John Moreland "Break my heart sweetly"

So I will remain here, you can find me draped in blue.  Chasing this calling, and these babies, even into heartache.  They will continue to break my heart sweetly, like they always do.  And I'm good with that.

Boston trip #10

Of note: I did backdate this post, so they would stay in order, but it was actually written in late summer 2021.  But the timing of these events were July 2020.  

I realized when I got on here to write the other day, that I was way behind in updating on Jacob.  I like to keep this updated as it's also my running record of his medical treatment, etc.  Our last trip was in December 2019, coincidentally right before the world went off the rails so to speak.  2020-2021 has been a challenge for us, as well as for the rest of the world, and writing took a back seat.  I likely won't share these "catch up posts", as they are simply for my own record, and a year and a half later, not a whole lot of feelings on them to share, but we'll hit the high points.   

We had planned after that December 2019 trip, to try to go longer than 6 months between treatments.  This was the most stable he had been between procedures, and his medical team felt this was the time to try to space out a bit.  Most kids hit a plateau of sorts on lesion growth in later childhood, before the rampant growth of lesions during puberty.  Jacob had still not shown any stability of growth until now, so we all were hoping we had finally hit that phase of relative dormancy.  So we were tentatively planning for a trip 9-12 months away, so fall 2020 or winter 2020.  However, these plans were halted in July when Jacob had a rapid onset of symptoms showing lesion growth in his legs and back.  The lesion in his left knee grew so much and was causing so much pain, he was limping and could no longer ride his bike or run.  This of course was concern, but greater concern for his chest/spine lesions, as growth in one tends to reflect growth in another.  So after contacting his medical team in Boston, the decision was made for an emergency trip for treatment.  We have always known this was a eventual probability, but the reality was very stressful.  We had 10 days until his procedure, to work out details of travel and accommodation, and during a global pandemic to boot.  They also wanted a full body MRI prior to his procedure, which had never been done at our local hospital, and also needed insurance approval.  The reason behind this, was they wanted to make sure and treat all the lesions while they were in there, so he wouldn't have a flare up of an untreated lesion soon after we returned home.  This took a great deal of maneuvering to get our local hospital to agree to do, and also involved them programming their machine with the 86 page protocol, move the entire weeks MRI schedule to get a 6 hour window in which this could be done, and secure an anesthesia team as well.  Not to mention the insurance approval.  I was so proud of our local hospital as they literally moved mountains to get this done for us, and I was so thankful.  As far as insurance goes, we were sitting in the MRI waiting prior to his procedure, still with no approval, and this mama had to get rather...adamant on the phone with our insurance to finally secure the approval.  It was quite a stressful day, but we got it done.  He was amazing, waiting patiently until after 1pm without eating, and recovered like a champ.  

It took 7 hours, in fact, and Jacob was under general anesthesia for the entirety of this procedure, so it was a long day for us all.  Unfortunately, the results were not good.  We were unable to change the plan of care, and treat all of his lesions.  The MRI literally lit up like a Christmas Tree.  The radiologist used the words "innumerable" 4 times in the report to describe the number of lesions present throughout his body.  In light of this, our Boston team said it is not possible to treat all of the lesions, so we will have to continue just treating what is symptomatic.  This was discouraging, but not necessarily surprising.  He has constantly had new ones pop up, go quiet, then flare up again.  This condition is just so unpredictable, and so difficult to treat as there is no actual cure, or potential for permanent removal of these lesions.  But we knew this, so will continue on as before. 

We headed up for his procedure, and it was much different than every trip before.  This was July 2020, and Boston had been hit hard and fast in the pandemic by Covid-19, and it was clear that the people of Boston wanted no further part of this virus.  It was much different from the South, where everyone was still bickering over social distancing and wearing masks.  We went to Boston and literally EVERYONE was masked.  And the city was so different, it was a ghost town.  Many of the places we normally like to visit were closed, and some that were open we chose to avoid due to potential spread of germs.  So we mostly kept to ourselves, and the outdoor spots we were comfortable with.  It was sad, as it was supposed to be Luke's turn to go, and due to restrictions on sibling visitation, he was unable to go.  So it was just me, David, and Jacob.  We did all of the usual pre-procedural visits, with the addition of a Covid test.

And we still had time before to go visit our favorite place in the city, the Boston Commons and Public Garden.  It was different than usual, with far less people, and the swan boats weren't running, which is unusual for this time of year, but we had a great time.  Jacob was excited to find a "Boston Strong" sign at the ballfield, which he loves, remembering the BOSTON STRONG t-shirt he got on our first trip.  

Procedure day went great.  Jacob is so brave and an actual pro at this by now.  They are still amazing and go to great lengths to make sure he is not scared, and making him comfortable.  Normally he tends to like to clown around in pre-op, but this time was different.  The early morning got to him, and he fell asleep.  I was pleased he was relaxed enough to do so. 

He did let anesthesia know he still wants to be a diver, so is an expert at breathing into the mask, and when we entered the IR suite, they had the underwater scene ready on the big TV.  

He again recovered well, so much so that we were able to leave that day.  He had some pain, but we were able to keep it under control.  His doctor was fairly pleased with things all in all, his back and chest was again, "moderately stable."  Not no growth, but only a moderate amount which is good for him.  They also treated both of his knees, the one that had been hurting him so much was a mess.  The lesion had actually ruptured, leaving a large clot in and around the joint.  As a result, there wasn't much they could do for that one, the blood will slowly dissolve on its own, but the lesion was already shrunk back down since its rupture.  So we left pleased with the report, and as usual we left the hospital and slept through the evening. 

He again recovered well, so much so that we were able to leave that day.  He had some pain, but we were able to keep it under control.  His doctor was fairly pleased with things all in all, his back and chest was again, "moderately stable."  Not no growth, but only a moderate amount which is good for him.  They also treated both of his knees, the one that had been hurting him so much was a mess.  The lesion had actually ruptured, leaving a large clot in and around the joint.  As a result, there wasn't much they could do for that one, the blood will slowly dissolve on its own, but the lesion was already shrunk back down since its rupture.  So we left pleased with the report, and as usual we left the hospital and slept through the evening.  The next day he wanted to get out, but we didn't want to go too crazy.  We went to the North End and saw some places he likes, and got some good food and gelato.  Kept it low key, and came back fairly quick before we overdid it.  

We had one last day before we left, and Jacob was doing great.  We wanted to continue to keep our distance, and not expose him to the virus, so we decided to do something we had never done before.  We rented a car and drove to Cape Cod.  In all of our Boston trips, we had never done that, and figured we'd be able to keep to ourselves, and keep our distance from everyone.  It was close to a 2 hour drive, but he did great.  The first beach we stopped at was on the Atlantic side of the Cape, was very beautiful, but very rocky and COLD.  He lasted about 20 minutes before telling us he was tired and ready to go.  

We quickly left. and drove a bit and saw some lighthouses. He fell asleep fast, so we decided just to drive and see what we could so he could sleep as long as he needed.  We drove all the way to the tip of the Cape and made our way back.  When he woke up, we stopped at a local restaurant and got some good seafood.  David was excited about the lobster, of course.  Afterwards, we stopped at another beach, this time on the bay side.  The water was much warmer, the waves calmer, and the sand softer.  This was more his speed. We still only stayed 45 minutes or so, but had a good time.  He didn't spend much time in the water, but mostly on the beach looking for shells and small sea creatures.  He knows how he feels and what he is up to, and I'm thankful to not have to hold him back to keep him safe.  

We left the next day and had an uneventful trip home.  Looking back, I do remember small things that were an encouragement to me.  There always seem to be little things along the way that are a balm to my heart, and help keep my mind hopeful and positive.  This time was no different.  A sign in the hospital, "Where the world comes for answers," that made me thankful as always, that we have a place to go.  That answers are always found here, even with this mysterious condition.  

Most poignant of all, as we walked towards the North End, through waterfront park, someone had suspended the word "HOPE" above one of the archways.  It was hung in such a way that you really didn't notice it, except for the shadow it cast on the ground.  We had been through there many times, and I have never noticed it.  I'm not sure who hung it or when, but that day, it was for me.  I'm so thankful that little signs always seem to pop up, in and around these trips, reminding me to hope.  For as Robert Schuller says, "Let your hopes, not your hurts, shape your future."  For my son, may it be so.  

*All photos posted with Jacob's permission. 

Breath of Heaven

We just returned Sunday from our 9th trip to Boston for Jacob.  It was a good trip.  David and Jacob and I went, and we took Elena as well this time.  It was a sweet time for her and Jacob together, as it was last time when we took Asa.  I am so thankful for my kids and the love they have for each other.  His procedure was challenging as usual, but successful.  They treated the large main lesion in his chest, trying to keep it small and keep the pressure off his spine.  It is still working, as it continues to respond to treatment and shrink, though the effect is temporary and it will reroute and regrow.  But we are so thankful, that the treatments are still working.  We had a follow up appointment with the ortho specialist, who was pleased at the continued stable curvature of his spine (around 20 degrees).  They also treated the lesion in his right leg that they treated last time, that has caused him some pain, as well as a new one in his left knee that popped up just a couple weeks before the trip.  He has one in his neck that had been hurting him as well, that they were not able to treat, as it had already ruptured and there was only a blood clot remaining.  But overall, they were very pleased with how he is doing, and plan on seeing him again and treating him next fall to winter, depending on his symptoms.  He did well post-op, and we were able to be discharged that day. He recovered well over the next few days, is still having some intermittent pain, but less every day.  It was a good trip. 

 

 

I've been thinking a lot the past weeks about the past year.  Those closest to me know I have had a difficult time this fall.  I always struggle when we get close to going to Boston, but these past months have been more than that.  I have experienced depression before, and have spoken of it here.  I know this fall, that's been where I have been.  I have also spoken of the challenges I've faced this year at work.  That has played into this as well.  I have experienced more doubt, more discouragement these past 6 months than in my whole career.  I have personally been attacked and judged, regardless of my words, actions, and intentions.  In my darkness I have at one time or another doubted my hands' ability to heal, my mind's ability to teach, and my heart's ability to lead.  The depression has been crippling at times at home as well, and I am so thankful for my husband who understands and is there with me, and keeps everything running when I am incapable of doing so.  I always doubt my decisions with Jacob, and did even more so than usual in the weeks leading up, as he had more symptoms seemingly by the day.  I always feel so inadequate, and am crippled with fear of what could happen to him. 

My favorite Christmas song is "Breath of Heaven" by Amy Grant.  The past few years it has hit especially close to home.  In no way do I dare compare myself to the mother of Jesus, but I also identify with the words and feelings of this song.  So many times have I wondered if people look at my face when I'm feeling lost and wonder "if a wiser one should've had my place."  So many times I have known they should.  I see so many walk roads more difficult and heartbreaking than mine, with such grace and joy.  I struggle on with my lot, which is nothing compared to the suffering of so many.  But funny thing, there is no sliding scale on suffering, the validity of it is real to those who bear it.  I've even had friends make light of their problems in the face of mine, and I brush that off, as heartbreak is heartbreak regardless of its comparison to that of another.  But I struggle to give myself such grace and instead allow that comparison to make me doubt my ability to be Jacob's mom.  I know a wiser one should've had my place. 

More than this though, I identify with her words, begging for a "breath of heaven" to "hold me together."  I have searched so much the past few months, in my self-imposed darkness for a breath of heaven.  The beauty is that, as I am finally seeing clearer, as I look back over the past months, I see countless breaths of heaven on me and my family.  Things like a hug from a friend...a heating pad left under the covers to warm the bed for me for when I get home from work...a message of encouragement from a young nurse...texts and calls from my brother who understands firsthand how dark the darkness inside you can be.  Things like a bracelet from a friend to remind me I'm not alone no matter how far I go.  A friend walking into your messy house and just being present with you and helping you pack. Things like a team around me excitingly working hard on a project I have poured myself into, together giving a baby the best start at life.  My daughter's clear sweet voice, singing hear heart out.  The prayers of our church body, with hands laid on our son for healing.  Huge breaths of heaven, like a check in the mail from a church family not our own, but one moved to help us when our flight assistance fell through...a handwritten letter and gift from a colleague turned friend...and generosity of a stranger from simply finding their lost dog.  And breaths of heaven straight to my heart, from an anesthesiologist who heard my son wants to be a diver, and hand drew fish and bubbles on the anesthesia bag that would be used to inflate the lungs of my unconscious child.  This one who also gave him goggles to go with his "diver mask" so he wouldn't be afraid to breathe deep and go to sleep for surgery. 

For the recovery team who picked the bedspace so my son would wake up in the spot that has a diving picture on the wall next to it.  The breath of heaven in the form of seeing wiggling toes under the blanket of my still sleeping son in recovery.  So many times over the past months have I had a breath of heaven breathed into my life and heart.  Some breaths helped my family in tangible ways, and some I know simply encouraged my heart and cast light into my life. 

I don't know who all is reading this.  I've had as few as 50 people read my blog posts, and as many as several thousands.  I pray though whoever needs this one reads it.  I pray it touches a heart.  So many around us are hurting this time of year, and need their own breaths from heaven.  I pray that if you are experiencing your own season of darkness, that you will be able to see and feel the breath of heaven in your life this Christmas.  Much love to you all.
  

"Breath of heaven, light in my darkness, pour onto me your holiness, for you are holy.  Breath of heaven." 

One Year

One year ago tonight at midnight the entire medical team for our NICU walked out the door after a non-renewal of their contract by the hospital where I work.  There was more than a year of unknown before that day, and there were a lot of reasons behind this and a lot of politics and ugliness surrounding this event, none of which matter anymore.  I say they don't matter; they do, but there is no changing what was done, so in that sense, it doesn't matter, and I've tried to lay all of that to rest.  What does remain is the memories.  The friendships with people I miss every day.

This past year has been a challenge of which I never could've imagined.  I truly have thrown myself whole heartedly in trying to rebuild and be a part of my new team.  To get to know them and work in harmony.  At first it was so weird.  Like there were strangers in my house.  They were polite, but it was awkward, with neither side knowing quite how to navigate this situation we found ourselves in.  It got pretty rough very fast, with so many different people from so many different backgrounds and practices.  Collaboration was difficult...continuity impossible.

I was told one day in mid-February by one of our new providers, "You all have lost your groove.  It's ok, we'll help you get it back."  That was the most discouraging thought, that we were so misunderstood that someone could say that, with no respect or consideration for what has gone on here.  We didn't lose our groove.  We lost our team.  Let me say that again, WE LOST OUR TEAM.  And a step further, we lost our family.  I try to keep this grief hidden, out of respect for all of them, and also because there is no place for it here in the unit anymore.  But I feel the loss daily.  I once worked together with providers who valued my contribution to the team, cared enough about us to teach instead of just criticize.  We worked in a rhythm so fluidly and smoothly it appeared effortless.  We admitted with efficiency, even coded with hands moving together with the surety of each of our roles and the expectations thereof, and with the common goal of saving a life.  The more difficult things were, the more we held together.   This team knew our hearts, the passion we have for the calling that comes from our souls, the commitment to learning the best and providing it for our patients.  They knew the loyalty we had to each other, to this family that we chose, and the trust that comes with it.  They knew the things we've seen and done, the battles we've won and lost, the lives we've lived, and the family we are.  Do not misunderstand my words; in my heart, I know it is none of my new team's fault, and I try to never even give the appearance of thinking so.  But I just wanted them to understand.  Understand what it was that we lost, as it certainly was not our "groove."   I understand we won't always agree and do not expect that.  We didn't always agree with our team in the past.  But we discussed things as professionals, and worked through it.  Because truly, it is my honest desire to build this team again.  To once again work and move together in this work in a seamless, efficient way, providing the very best of care.  And I am encouraged because it is getting better. We've kept working.  We've fought, conceded things, learned new things, and day by day it is slowly getting better.  I try to see the hearts behind the differences, to the one thing that should bring us together...what's best for the babies.  When I get discouraged, I try to remember how far we've come this year.   I am so grateful for the people I've met this year. Especially those of you that have listened, given us a voice, and made an effort to teach us, THANK YOU.  The compassion you have shown us, and the care you exhibit has not gone unnoticed.  Taking the time to teach us shows you value our knowledge base and are willing to invest in it.  That means so much, and reflects your commitment to the building of this team.  Again, thank you.  Please know I am still just as committed as ever to building this team.  We have to be.  We need it, and our babies deserve it.

I have grown so much this year.  Learned what it means to advocate, how to be a professional when it isn't easy to do so.  Learned about myself and what is important.  And I will never stop fighting for what we can and should be.  I don't see my efforts for my new team as a betrayal of the one I lost.  I see it as the only way I can honor the people who taught me how to be a teammate.  I hope they would see what we are doing for our babies and be proud.  I hope every day to honor their legacy in the unit that they built.  

Today though, I don't think about that.  Today I allow myself to remember.  I remember what was lost.  I remember the dedication and the gifts of the people who built the unit I call home.  I remember their care and skill, their hard work and investment.  I remember countless meetings, deliveries, transports, admissions, codes, even losses, that we worked through together.  I remember limitless laughter and joy, and even tears and grief that we shared, both personal and professional.  I remember the people.  The people who went from strangers the 21 year old me was in awe of, to colleagues I respected, to friends I counted on, and finally to family that took a piece of my heart when they left.  I miss them.  Today I remember.  And tomorrow I'll go back in and stand beside my new team in whatever fight comes our way.  

I made this video for our going away party, many of you may have seen it, or may wish to see it again.  Here it is, and here is to the memories.  I love you all and will never forget. 

https://photos.app.goo.gl/GPvZWemSiaX4KF617

All thoughts and opinions are mine, and not reflective of any healthcare institution.  Any identifiable patients shown are with permission.  

Music credits: "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac, "Best Days" by Graham Colton, and "Rivers and Roads" by The Head and The Heart

And here is some of my favorite memories from their going away party...