I slowly woke up and got my boys ready for school. After breakfast, I stood outside watching them show me tricks on their new swing. I needed to quickly catch up for lost weekend time before I had to load them into the van.

It didn’t matter how many layers of clothes I had put on to try and block out the wind, none of them felt like enough. Not today. The cold winds blew right through me. I wrapped my arms tightly around my waist to try and keep myself warm. The thing is when I’m sensitive from the inside out, I don’t think it’s possible to fully insulate myself from feeling the hurt, the pain, the anger, and inevitably, the sadness. It’s just not fair. So many things that I saw on Sunday. It was too much brokenness. Too much wrong, not enough right. Unfortunate circumstances tangled up with loss. After loss. The good seemed so dim beneath the weight of the pure evil. The hope was drowning and there was nobody there to save it.

Everybody was too busy.

I don’t think I will ever forget the sound of the door to the blanket warmer opening and shutting, when I grab a few blankets for a patient. I think every one of us has wanted to stop at some point and curl up inside of there. Disappear and take a short nap in the middle of one of the shifts that feel more like twenty four hours. It’s sometimes the least and the most that you can do for a patient and family, go snag them a warm blanket. Or a cup of water. Because you can’t do anything about why they are there or how long they will wait, especially when there are real emergencies happening. Everywhere. You can’t tell them that it’s far better to wait impatiently alone than to have a swarm of doctors and nurses quickly take over your room. You can’t tell them that they should be grateful to leave, eventually, with their alive child.

This afternoon, at home, I grabbed a load of warm laundry from the dryer and remembered bits and pieces of the previous long work days. It all feels like a blur sometimes. The giggles. The tears. The loud cries. Infant cries. Toddler cries. School age cries. The silence before a procedure. The begging. The pleading. The lullaby music. The smells of different families, cleaning wipes, popcorn. The sadness or apathy lurking behind certain doors or curtains. The unknowns. All of the brief hallway conversations with co-workers. It all just makes me want to lay my tired body down. Then, I want someone to knock on my door and tuck me under a warm blanket so I will be temporarily sheltered from the harsh winds of sickness, the unknowns, evil, sadness, and pain.

Yet, unfortunately, a warm blanket will not make my work thoughts disappear.

After crazy weekends, there are far too many of my thoughts and feelings seemingly waiting loudly in line, bumping into one another, sharing with each other, asking to be heard, understood, or felt. All in my mind. When it gets too crowded, tears will be shed. My tears. Because I don’t know all the answers. I can’t begin to understand or solve the problems of our broken society. Tiny caskets. Shelters full. Psych facilities full. Hospitals full. It’s overwhelming. My heart can’t begin to fathom the atrocities that certain children see, hear, feel, or live through because of another human being’s ignorance, negligence, mistreatment, or selfishness. The one human being that should love and protect them the most.

I sometimes wonder what may trigger a child or family member to remember the painful moments, hours, or days spent in the hospital. Will a certain toy or TV show or sound or smell remind them of the painful times? Will it be something I said or did? Should I have them watch their favorite movie or not? I still can’t listen to certain songs or smell certain scents without being immediately taken back to specific hospital rooms, or the operating room, or the emergency department unexpectedly recalling my own medical experiences.

But somehow, despite all of my surgeries and recoveries, the warm blankets still always make me feel a little safer, a bit more comforted, and pretty warm too. There aren’t too many perks to being in the hospital. Loads of uncertainty, constant beeping, weird smells, awkward hospital gowns, and so on and so forth.

The warm blankets help.

They matter in a simple yet important way. Similar to a lot of the kind and thoughtful gestures in life, the times we go a bit out of our way to do some small act for another. Perhaps for someone we love or a complete stranger. I’m pretty sure we all possess the power to grab someone a warm blanket, wherever we are in life and whatever we’re doing. Or maybe we are the ones that need to graciously accept a warm blanket from time to time. Either way, the warmth wears off on both the giver and the receiver.