Warm Blankets

~ Amelia ~ 2 Comments

image

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.

My Brush Pile

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

image

I semi-fled. Or retreated. Up the staircase. I plopped myself down with my back against the door. I stared out the window at a gigantic swaying tree. I took a few deep breaths. And I noticed my tiny closet window is the same shape as a stop sign. So, I stopped my overthinking. I stalled. Nobody was coming so I just didn’t move.

After I spent some time praying and looking out the window in my closet, I concluded that ultimately, I have to give somebody permission to hurt me. With their words or thoughts. I give them access to my brush pile. And if the conditions are right, they light me up and ignite a fire that has the potential to grow. And grow. Inside of my head. Trickling down to my heart. You see, it’s me, most of the time that gathers the fuel for the fire. I make a pile and stack it up. Nice and neat. The little insecure thoughts, the fallen twigs and sticks. The bigger, and much heavier branches also get thrown into my brush pile. They’re my doubts and fears. The fake truths. The lies I tell myself. My worries. All of the unknowns. In hindsight, it’s quite unfair to blame anybody but myself when my fire gets lit. Because I supplied the fuel. That was all on me. How could a person that loves me and that I love, too, know how big my brush pile had grown? If I didn’t tell them.

It’s not their fault.

Because it doesn’t matter how well you know a person or even how much you love them, it can be a tricky business knowing someone’s exact thoughts or fragile state at an exact moment in time. Or knowing their exact emotional or literal response to one of your thoughts. Ahhhh. Mind reading. If you could have any super power, would you choose the ability to fly or read someone’s thoughts? Could you help a loved one or even a complete stranger feel less insecure, perhaps more important if you knew exactly what she was thinking at a specific moment? Would we treat each other more gently and compassionately if we could slip past their outer appearance and sneak into their head to understand what they actually were thinking? What if we could know exactly how they felt? For better or worse.

I realize that I should have never been gathering sticks, stacking up all these bits of fuel. But I do. Like most people. And it’s extremely hard to let them go sometimes. We can oftentimes dodge or escape other people’s opinions or thoughts, but sometimes we are not as skilled in escaping our own negative thoughts.

We need help. With ourselves and each other. We all need the grace of God acting as the hose or the fire extinguisher, and we all need the type of person willing to stand there next to the flames helping us out. Or else we may continue to gather fuel, purposely or unintentionally causing our brush pile to grow. And grow. We may even go looking to pick a fight with someone with a torch who we know will happily light our fire. And not in the “C’mon baby, Light my Fire” Doors kind of way. In the self-defeating, humiliating sort of way.

It didn’t take a blow torch for me today. Just a few matches. My brush pile burned down. Which helped me learn that I need to stop gathering sticks, branches, etc. I need to be more kind and forgiving to myself. Maybe you do too.

Cream of Mushroom Soup

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

image

I vividly remember being an elementary school aged kid desperately searching the cabinets for canned goods. In the morning rush, before catching the bus,

“Ahhhhh! It’s the last day of the CANNED FOOD DRIVE!”

I couldn’t let my classmates down. I’m sure some sort of pizza party would be in the works for the class that brought in the most canned goods. I didn’t cook as a child so I had no idea what “Cream of Mushroom” soup was. Quite honestly, it sounded disgusting to me. Sure, grab that. Get it out. I would be happy to donate that one. That I didn’t purchase. No. Oh, don’t even think about it. Stay away from the fruit cocktail. Although, I really only endured the weird slimy grapes in hopes of the rare slice of a marachino cherry.

Yuck. I hated mushrooms as a child so I can imagine nothing more disgusting than eating a bowl of creamed mushroom soup. Or sitting at the table while every sibling left and I chose “not to eat it” and have a staring contest with my luke-warm milk. It always won. In a household of nine, with a mother who practically made everything from scratch, a couple cans of cream of mushroom soup missing surely would go unnoticed. Besides, it was all that I could offer in my last minute canned food drive efforts. Unfortunately, my home room was not going to benefit from my half-ass scrounging around.

I understand that my heart was in the vicinity of the right place as a child. I have learned and grown more as an adult who cooks. I know that Cream of Mushroom soup needs help or rather, it’s not a solo dish. It’s more of a canned good utility player. You’ve got to add it to green beans or hash browns or a million other things to make a casserole stick together or stand out. Well, as much as a casserole can.

I think I had a point with this blog. But I lost it somewhere in the fruit cocktail. With my marachino cherry.

Oh. Yeah. I think God nudges us to do better when we know better. I think he sees us as children, constantly developing, growing and maturing in our faith. I think he probably thought it was pretty cute that I wanted to give Cream of Mushroom soup as a kid. But I think he might tell me to head back to the pantry, as an adult, if I tried to pull some Cream of Mushroom soup shenanigans. Don’t justify it. Just don’t. You know better. So act accordingly. Go to the grocery store and buy some good stuff. The kind of stuff you would want to serve your guests. That’s what I picture God instilling in my grown-up thoughts and my heart. It’s about sacrificing more. Making a conscious effort. Going out of my way. It’s about forgetting about doing something for a pizza party or a high five. It’s about truly loving a complete stranger in the same way that I would love my best friends.

I think I do have some friends that would come over and eat Cream of Mushroom soup with me. But that’s another blog.

In the meantime, who wants to come over for some hash brown or green bean casserole? As it turns out, we’ve got a lot of Cream of Mushroom soup.

Defeated Moments

~ Amelia ~ 2 Comments

image

When I played basketball, I was annoyingly scrappy. A hustler. I wore floor burns with pride. I occasionally stole the ball from an opponent resulting in a break away lay-up. This meant that I had an opportunity to score two points practically without defense. I choked sometimes. A lot of times, actually. As in, I bricked the lay-up so hard off of the backboard that either the pissed-off opponent would get the rebound or sometimes one of my teammates would save the day following close behind for the put-back. Thank, goodness. I always enjoyed the steals, rebounds, assists, tips, blocked shots etc. a lot more than scoring.

I think about basketball a lot as a parent. It’s practically second nature to me. I often talk to myself like I used to on the basketball court. “Don’t lose your cool. Don’t show too many emotions. Don’t turnover the ball or lose the moment with your child,” I think. But parenting is a crud-ton harder than even playing collegiate basketball. It’s really harder than anything I’ve ever done. Even managing multiple chronic diseases can seem like a breeze when compared to the unpredictable, life stealing moments that mothering my sons can produce.

Don’t get me wrong. The last thing I want to sound like is a whining, complaining, ungrateful mother. I love the hell out of my kids. When they’re not wearing me out and oftentimes at the same time, they’re totally filling me up. I’m that crazy shaken up can of pop. I’m literally overflowing. They make me laugh and smile a million different smiles and they ignite this overwhelming and unexplainable sense of love, joy, hope and beauty that I otherwise may not have ever seen in this world. If not for their eyes, their hearts, and their ever growing inquisitive minds, I may be lacking something that I never knew existed.

For example. The other day, my husband trimmed the bushes. He found an empty bird nest. I saw it lying on the grass. It was beautiful but it made me a little sad. I wanted to take a picture. I knew I would be able to write about it later. I wanted to show a friend The empty nest. She unexpectedly had dropped by. We walked outside and it was gone. Disappeared. Later, I asked my boys if they had seen it. One of them replied, “Yeah. we put it back in the bushes.” I could have on-the-spot cried. For so many heart-exploding reasons. Of course, I thought and probably overthought their kindness. It was a simple gesture born out of an enormous love for tiny creatures and their importance. Their hard work. Not just an empty nest. They wanted birds to come back. They wanted to help. They did this thing without me ever prompting them. All by themselves, they did something so meaningful.

I love my boys.

Yet, I digress.

You can love the heck out of your kids and still have these moments of raw, ugly, and unexplainable defeat. I’m trying to tell myself. Like I used to do on the basketball court. It’s okay. You messed up. You’re not perfect. Neither are they. Mothering is not always going to be filled with these beautiful and proud moments. You’re going to need time-outs. You’re going to need to get back on defense. You’re going to feel like you’re outnumbered and failing at this zone defense. You’re going to lose some days. Some moments. Some arguments. But you will learn. You will grow. You will be stretched and pulled and strained in ways that you never could imagine. But, you can never give up. You must always recover. Get back. Keep your head up. Stack it up with your teammates. Those who know the caliber of mother you are. Who you strive to be. They know your potential. They’ve seen your best days and they have heard about your worst days too.

Accidents happen. Ugly moments happen. You can have both the gut-wrenching, mountain viewing beautiful moments and the dried up, hot-as-hell, dying of thirst valley moments. It’s okay. Your heart, your passion and your motivation to do better, grow stronger and learn from even the toughest moments will drive you to love in the most incredible ways.

Keep up the good yet hard work, teammates. Parenting friends. We are in this thing together. If I could stack it up with all of you in the center circle and smack all of your butts, I would.

Go! Fight! Win!
“I didn’t leave her there for long. When a player makes a mistake, you always want to put them back in quickly—you don’t just berate them and sit them down with no chance for redemption.” -Pat Summitt

Homeless. Not Hopeless.

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

image

I slowly drove past the building right off of the exit I take to get to work on Sunday mornings. The snow still gathered in the untrafficked places, on some of the sidewalks and at the corners of the abandoned downtown buildings. It rested on top of the hidden grass. Before the traffic light turned green, I looked up to the top of the steps. There. Sadness entered my heart. Cuddled up as close as possible to the entrance of the building. A homeless person still slept. Under a pile of blankets. I hurt. I wanted to stop and help. But I had to get to work. Knowing that he had slept outside all night long in the freezing cold downtown air made me feel helpless. And I thought my feet were cold last night. Under my blankets. In my bed. Under the roof of a safe and heated house.

I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Or her. Somebody’s son. Or daughter. Brother. Father. Or mother. Bundled underneath the dark blankets, most likely trying to get as close as physically possible to the warmth of the inside of that empty building. I thought how I would be scared. And cold. And confused. Alone. And hurt. If it were me lying there.
I don’t want to be homeless. I don’t want my children to ever be homeless. I began thinking and remembering many of the kids that I’ve met that have run away from their homes. The home that fostered abuse, hate, pain, lies, shame, violence and hopelessness. I thought about the choices a person makes that lead him or her to live without an address.

Homeless.

Then, I couldn’t help but think about my friend whose known on the streets of downtown Kansas City as “Amy the Angel.” She arrives in a Ford Fusion every Friday. Under the bridge. If she’s going to miss a week, she lets “her guys” know or she finds a friend to take her place. I’ve wanted to ask her why she invests so much of her time and energy into helping take care of homeless folks. Afterall, she’s an ER nurse so she already has earned a gold or platinum humanity badge for helping the littlest ones and their families in the scariest of times. Then, carrying the heavy emotional weight home with her exhausted self after she clocks out.

I couldn’t stop thinking about why she meets some of the downtown homeless every Friday with snacks, Mountain Dew, hand warmers, laundry detergent, shoes, etc. She looks them in the eye. She talks with them. She accepts hugs, long hugs. She offers them much more than a few snacks. She smiles. She serves. She unknowingly scatters hope, dignity and love in their ziplock bags full of necessities.

I think she sacrifices for them because they’re her fellow human beings. She loves them. Like her own.

If you’ve ever been bullied by somebody’s cruel actions or by your own thoughts or parents or life in general and you don’t possess the emotional skills or strength or people in your life to help you fight back, it’s really not difficult to imagine yourself lying on those steps. Without a home. Without food. Without a person to help you, to support and love you through it. Lying there without hope. Even if you can’t imagine yourself homeless or you would never be brave enough to meet homeless guys under a bridge with a car full of snacks, you can support a fellow human being. A thirsty, hungry, tired, cold, unstable or worried person that deserves kindness.

I’m privileged to know “Amy the Angel” and to call her my friend. She has changed my perspective. And she has unknowingly encouraged me to drive around with beef jerky snacks and protein bars in my car. Just in case. She has inspired me to stop, look, and smile and offer something that I would offer a friend.

Work Withdrawal

~ Amelia ~ 1 Comment

image

Damned if you don’t. Damned if you do, right? I just got sad tonight. I missed my work peeps. Ugh. My former work people, I suppose. I don’t want to come off as a complainer. I am grateful for the time I’ve had with my family, even extra family from out of town and friends too. We had some fun family time together at the lake for Father’s day, which was a first, since I’ve always worked on the actual Hallmark holiday. We’ve been swimming a lot and hitting the pillow hard at night with our tired heads. So, I know that I should not lament because it’s been an awesome summer so far.

But, still, I miss my friends. My work friends.

The ones who stood with me outside of rooms, in the hallways, next to the toy cabinets, and in the yellow charting zone area. My pseudo-office. I miss our conversations. I miss working. Even carrying my bag full of prizes, prep and distraction materials all around, throughout the red zone and yellow zone rooms. Even the green zone rooms, too. I miss blowing bubbles, holding hands, and teaching scared and anxious kids about what’s going to happen. I miss all of those powerful moments where I was confident or at least hopeful that I helped in a small way, either for the child or the parent. Or the nurses. Or the doctors. Call me crazy but I even miss hospital waitressing, grabbing warm blankets and dare I say it, those delicious lunchables for the patient or impatient yet hungry customers.

I thought I should just try and go to sleep tonight. Maybe dream the work withdrawal symptoms away, but I couldn’t. I had iced tea for lunch. That means my brain gets to keep on thinking and thinking and my heart gets to keep on wondering and feeling. A bit empty. I knew it would be hard, but I couldn’t predict how hard. (That’s what she said-Michael Scott) I don’t want to over-romanticize my career because there were definitely parts that I do not miss. And will not miss ever. But I always knew in my heart that I would miss the rare and beautiful and genuine people.

I reminded myself before I resigned that I may never find coworkers as great as some of the ones I worked with. I know I am only two weeks sober and I haven’t figured out my next career move, but I feel like I have a gaping heart hole. Which is ironic because I happen to know a crew that works really well in emergent situations. I should probably high tail it to the downtown pediatric ER. Please don’t do anything special for me like activate a trauma. I will not wear a gown. You can just meet me at the ambulance bay. I will bring cookies. If you grab me a Coke Zero. On ice.

Only I know it would be different. Because I don’t work there anymore. I don’t have a badge. Or keys.  I couldn’t naturally hop into a room to help out. Or interupt a conversation with my annoying morse code pager. It would be awkward. And painful, I think. I should probably just let my heart wound heal on it’s own. I could probably find an internet diagnosed cure for “work resignation withdrawal.” Treatment would probably encourage abstaining from the place I’m attempting to recover from.

I thought about grabbing a beer and retreating into my closet to read cards and blow some bubbles, but I don’t have any bubbles. How sad. I should have swiped a bubble tumbler on my way out. I definitely don’t want to have to make homemade bubbles. It would be like brewing my own beer. It sure kills the pitiful and sad moment when you’re measuring out glycerin. And where the heck would I even find a bubble wand this late at night in this house?

“Just don’t,” I told myself. So, I listened. For once.

I do think it would be okay to meet some of my former work friends for a beer. Or dinner. Or a playdate. I feel like I have certain stories that only my coworkers would truly appreciate or understand. For example, I have a lot of weird details surrounding the recent death of our guinea pig and his funeral that others may not fully grasp the beauty or humor or sadness or familiar combination of all three of these, like my work friends. Acckk. Former work friends. Anyways, spoiler alert. We had to put the guinea pig in the deep freezer overnight. Yeah, Yeah. It was the same place that I put your ice cream sandwiches a few weeks ago. Don’t worry, everything was wrapped up and sealed in a ziploc bag. The real deal, not a generic brand. Sterile-ish. The next day, my grieving inquisitive son wanted to pet his frozen guinea pig’s body before we buried him. So, I let him. It was a bit weird but he asked. It was his guinea pig afterall. And since he was frozen and dead….

I miss you guys. I’m sure you’ve got some great stories for me, too. Funny ones. Sad ones. Crazy ones. Work ones. Real life ones. Summer ones. It doesn’t really matter. I just miss your faces telling me the stories. Your stories. So, please, save some of your stories for me. The good ones. Or the bad ones. And I will do the same. Promise me we will all meet up soon. Don’t make me go against the internet doctor’s orders and go back to my former place of work. It’s just too soon.

Two ERs

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

image

I woke up. Took a shower, and then I laid back down wrapped up in my towel. In fetal position. My guts hurt and I didn’t think I was ready to face the day. But I had to get up. I had to get my boys ready. I wanted to call in to work but I only had two shifts left. I took a moment then I got myself dressed. Because that’s what you do when you’re a mom. You have jobs, responsibilities and dependents. Even when you have a disease that lately keeps competing with your favorite interruptions in life, your kids.

So you get up. Get moving. Think positive. Keep the faith. You fight harder. You push back. You breathe deeply. You remind yourself how powerful your thinking is. And you tell yourself that you can do it. Then, you believe it. You pray and ask, or is it demand, for God’s help. You need his strength to jump start yours. Then, you take a moment to curse the disease. You may even irrationally tell it that you hate it and you don’t want it anymore. It’s not like you are childhood best friends or anything. You know it’s a bit absurd. As if you could just return it to the chronic illness store, at this point in your life. You’ve had it too long. No exchanges or returns. Sorry.

Some days, you’re painfully aware. Like the moments when you look down in the shower. This amazing life preserving sort of gift of your small intestine coming out of your body. It’s beautiful and visible and life changing. You recognize and appreciate the lessons that having the disease has taught you. The silly unimportant things it has freed you from, in order to help you focus in on the ones that matter. The gentle touch of strangers doing their job, taking care of you, getting you warm blankets. Because you drove to the ER alone. In the middle of the night. It’s what you needed to do and your husband needed to stay with the sleeping boys. Thankfully there are the kind hearted, the compassionate, the ones who don’t know you but they see you vulnerable, hurting and they tend to you like their own. They touch your shoulder, speak gently and tell you they love your name. The nurses.

Other days, you’re just so damn tired. More like utterly exhausted. From life. And you feel like the disease is the heavy weight champion and you’re curled up in the corner of the ring with your head in between your legs and your eyes are shut so tightly. Just. Go. Away. Leave me alone, will you? Please. You beg. And plead.

It’s the worst listener.

It’s really a great big juggling act balancing all the present thoughts, feelings, pain, anticipation and previous medical experiences. Then, there’s the future. What are your options? Will this be the thing that kills you? Should you ever go to that land of unknowns? Probably not. Just stay where you are. You stay positive and present with the many, many painful experiences you’ve had before. You let gratefulness fill you up and smother the little flames of pity, fear and shame. You know that you’re not as bad off as you have been before. You’re hopeful that like all the other times, you will make it through this valley filled with it’s fair share of obstacles. You will always, always learn something that’s bigger and better than the pain. And soon, you will look back once again to realize that it wasn’t ever your strength so much as it was the overwhelming and never ending strength, love, and support of those surrounding you, encouraging you and helping you. You will never ever forget the friend who picked you up on the curb. And drove your tired body home and acted like you gave her the greatest birthday gift in letting her help you. You will always remember her. You will remember that love wins. Every time.

You know that when you get to feeling better you will do everything possible to show others this kind of readily available, self sacrificing, beautiful and rare kind of love. Because you believe that it’s not fair, every person deserves to feel this kind of love. Not just you.

Accidental Litter

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

image

I accidentally littered. It’s embarrassing. Humiliating. It’s not what I stand for. I hate littering. I will routinely, yet awkwardly, chase trash down that I’ve dropped. Or that one of my kids has dropped. Tiny Smartie or gum wrappers. Or other absurd pieces of trash. And for the record, I classify used gum as trash. It goes in the trash can. Not on the bottom of a shoe. Or in a curious or hungry kid’s mouth. Yep. That’s happened. One of the things that irritates me the most is when I see a car driving and trash starts flying out the window. What?!!! Un-freakin’-believable. Oh. Was that Taco Bell cup junking up your car? The audacity. Who do you think is going to pick that up? I want to pull up next to them and come up with something really clever and powerful to say. But I don’t want to get road raged. So I just make a really mean face as I nod my head back and forth with a “you oughta be ashamed of yourself” kind of disappointed face. And I vent in my car. “We don’t litter….” And so on. The nerve of some people.

When I’m on a walk or bike ride and I see trash all in the banks of the creek, I get pissed for the ducks. Or turtles or frogs. Or trees or grass or anything living. Like they want to swim around in your trash. I think I’m going to get one of those trash pick-up sticks and get to work around the Indian Creek.

But I have a confession.

Yesterday, I unintentionally joined the club. My van door opened up and two precious papers flew out. Like a prison break escape kind-of-flying out. Maybe they didn’t like the less than desirable living conditions of my van. Maybe they deserved a museum type of environment. A fancy frame, a wall, and some peace and quiet. Anyhow, the Kansas winds blew those water color paintings clear across the parking lot in less than two seconds. I was faced with a bit of a dilemma as I watched the painted rainbow pictures bounce across the pavement. Should I leave my child (in front of the preschool administration) and chase after the “accidental litter” or watch as those caffeinated winds carried the two pieces of artwork north of the river. Or maybe to the Nelson? Only a slight exaggeration. I’m sure someone has found them and put them where they rightfully belong: on a refrigerator. Hopefully, it’s a nice grandma of sorts type of person and not a creeper.

Since my house is totally under control, I’m going to head out to pick up some trash. I feel like I owe it to the environment. Maybe I will try and keep my van a bit cleaner too, so it will pose less of a risk of accidentally littering. See that. I blamed my poor van. I feel like such a jerk, but I’m gonna use all my feels to save the earth or at least the Indian trails.

Where do I get one of those trash pick-up sticks? I should probably wear an orange vest too. When we drove by a federal prison last week, my seven year son casually and confidentially said, “you’ve been there before, right?” Nope. I’m pretty sure I’ve never been to federal prison, son. Let’s not go spreading that rumor to your first grade class, ok? However, if your classmates do see me picking up trash on the side of the road, you can tell them it’s an “Accidental Littering voluntary mother’s guilty conscious program” that I started. If there are any other parents who have unexpectedly lost trash due to the unfortunate combination of children opening car doors and the Midwest winds, feel free to join my non-profit organization. I’ll meet you at the creek. I’ve got garbage bags galore.  Bring a trash pick up stick. Or maybe just borrow one from the creek. It won’t mind since its for a good cause.

Praying for Orlando

~ Amelia ~ Leave a comment

 

I just can’t sleep. For what seems like a million sad and scary reasons. I laid down with my twin boys tonight. Their heads nestled up next to my shoulders. We talked about today and tomorrow, and then they fell asleep. I wanted to lay there with them and protect them. From Orlando. From the hurt of this world. The things that I just can’t begin to explain to their tiny ears. So, I cupped my giant hands around one of each of their ears as if I could shelter them from my thoughts. The thoughts that won’t stop because it all hits so very close to home. Too close. Fear doesn’t knock. It barges in. And it has the powerful ability to take over.

I can’t stop thinking about how many nights my friends and I went out dancing in college and the years after. To bars, to dance clubs, to music venues. In Nashville, in Panama City, in the Bahamas, in Lawrence, in Kansas City. I remember getting ready, driving downtown, listening to our favorite music. Laughing. I never once remember fearing for our lives. I never once thought, “we could die tonight.” Because that would have just been absurd or ridiculous.

But not anymore. Not after Orlando.

I can’t stop thinking about all of the innocent victims, their families, the bystanders, the police officers, the paramedics, the nurses, the physicians. What they have all witnessed that they will forever carry with them. The community. Everybody. I can’t stop thinking about all of their mothers. And that’s when I just don’t want to let go of my boys. Ever. Surely they should never venture into this unpredictable, scary world alone. Without me or their dad.

Because it’s one thing to be affected by an illness or disease, and to wait to be seen by a physican in the emergency department to try and figure out if you’re going to be okay. But it’s a totally heart breaking and suffocating other thing to know how many lives are being taken because of one wreckless human being violently stealing another’s beautiful life away. I can’t begin to wrap my head or my heart around how people can destroy other people. How can we not see another human being as someone’s child, someone’s mother, someone’s wife, someone’s best friend or someone’s brother?

My boys love catching lightning bugs in the summer. I have a hard time letting them keep lightning bugs locked up in their bug boxes overnight because it seems unfair. I think they should be flying in the night sky. That’s why they’re so beautiful. Because they are free. They brighten up the summer nightime sky.  So, to begin to understand how a man can go into a night club and trap and kill, injure and forever damage so many human lives is beyond my comprehension. I know I have to focus on the helpers. All of those sacrificing to help and bring hope with their two hands. All of them. Like the ones waiting in line for hours to donate blood. I know I have to reach out to the ones I love so dearly and let them know how much they matter to me and my family. I know that. I know that we have to love harder and push the fear away. We cannot be trapped. By hate or fear. Or violence. This I know.

I will keep praying for Orlando. And I will keep trying to teach, protect and love on my children in a way that honors the victims, especially the mothers who had to let go. The ones whose babies grew up and wanted to go hang out with some friends. To all of the ones who ache with a pain that I’ve witnessed and can imagine, but hate to. It steals the air from my lungs. It makes me want to throw up. And it makes tears fall too fast to try and wipe them away.

We’re grieving with you. I hope you will look up and see us in the darkness, occasionally lighting up the night sky.

image

Mercy Warriors

~ Amelia ~ 1 Comment

image

I will never forget the wounded spirits thrashing about, trapped in yellow gowns. I will never forget the countless children, teens and parents who have mastered the delicate art of crying slow and silent tears. The ones that fall, quickly hidden beneath a mask, in the midst of a painful procedure. The vanishing kind that people may never notice. I will never forget the amazing parents who ache with empathy and would desperately do anything to take it all away. All the hurt. All the pain. All the uncertainty. I will never forget the parents who wished they could go back in time and love differently.

I will never forget all of the beautiful and enormous, curled, and thick eyelashes surrounding the biggest eyes and tiniest bodies. Often clumped together from the tears. I will never forget all of my work routines, cleaning toys, filling the treasure box, meeting new families and the routine honor and privilege of holding a hand, blowing bubbles or soliciting a smile. I will never forget the giggles. Or all of the innocent commentaries as kids think outloud….

“Are you a doctor?”
“Are you a kid?”
“Are you dizzy too?”
“Do you like farting?”
“I will stay with you because we both like laughing”
“Can I call you Banana?”

I will never forget the hugs. The apologies. The wrongfully bruised bodies and the repeatedly banged-up hearts. I will never forget their inspirational, yet unfair resilience. Their hope. Their shouts. “I did it! I didn’t think I could do it, but I did it!” I won’t forget their cries.

I will never forget all of the innocent siblings. There. On the edges. On the floor. In the waiting room. Always. Still somehow so brave. Perhaps feeling invisible through it all. The ones whose skinned up knees and broken bodies will manage to rise above the overwhelming heaps of pain. The ones whose hearts will forever be altered by the accidents, the injuries, the new diagnosis or the devastating loss of a brother or sister or mother or father. Sibling orphaned.

I will never forget the babies. The sweetest, littlest ones. Their mommies and daddies. The grandparents. Beautiful new lives swaddled for the first and last time. The tears. And the excruciating pain of life stolen. I won’t forget the long walks down the halls wondering how you could ever get me to let go, for the last time.

I will never forget the teens who stole my heart as they sat day in and day out hooked up to the dialysis machine that cleaned their blood. The kids whose lives revolved around modified diets, modified social lives, medicine taking, blood draws, and waiting hours on transportation to pick their exhausted bodies up after treatment. I will never forget their constantly changing moods, or their resilience, their smiles, their laughter, and their birthday requests. I will never forget both the excitement and sadness involved in anticipating their transplants as they were granted a chance at a new life.

It’s all quite impossible to forget.

So I will remember. Always.

I will remember the compassionate. The ones constantly sacrificing their hearts, their thoughts, their energy and their lives. The immeasureable amounts of love scattered and woven in the midst of the darkest of places. Everybody running and doing impossibly hard things. The nurses who bent down on their knees and bled with their patients. Time and time again. The doctors who gracefully carried all the knowledge, the responsibility and the weight of another human being’s life on their tired, slouched shoulders. I will always remember the care assistants who stood, time and time again, holding strongly onto a sweet child’s body as they fought their own instincts to cry. I will remember the neverending patience, the overflowing compassion and the grace of the team working together in the most difficult times.

I will always remember that violence, poverty, homelessness, neglect, abuse, orphaned, and unavoidable hurt and pain exist here. Right here. In our city. On a daily basis. I will always look differently and act more sympathetically and compassionately because of my experiences inside these walls. I will judge less and look out more for the broken, the familiar eyes, the ones whose tiny bodies, hearts and minds have witnessed so much of the pain of this world.

I will always remember the beauty of this place. Especially the people that should win the happy emotion lottery everyday for what they endure. I will always remember how they unknowingly brought hope to so many in the midst of some of the worst times. I will always remember how this place has changed my eyes, my mind and my heart. I will always remember the dedication, the loyalty, the comraderie, and the family that will forever be with me. I will remember you. Always.

Because I could never forget you.

It’s impossible to say goodbye. I can’t do it. I keep telling myself that I will see you all again. So, I will say “thank you” instead for all that you’ve taught me and for the hundreds of ways you’ve loved, supported and encouraged me. I will think of you often and pray for you constantly. You do hard things. All the time. I’m so proud to know you. Your moms, dads, spouses, kids, and everybody who can’t witness the work you do would all be so proud of you, if they could see front and center what I’ve gotten to see for all of these years. You’re truly amazing. Real life heroines and heroes. You’re life changers. Please always remember the sacred power that you possess.