Uncategorized

Beyond The Final Breath

~ cindylw ~ 3 Comments

Republished at:  https://www.washingtonpost.com/national/health-science/we-didnt-save-his-life-but-we-didnt-disrespect-him-either/2017/02/03/74612afe-d1f6-11e6-9cb0-54ab630851e8_story.html?utm_term=.9e665c02ec43

Republished at:  http://www.kevinmd.com/blog/2016/12/didnt-save-life-better.html

“Well?  Did you save him?” “No. We did better than that.”

He came in pulseless. The machine performing chest compressions with the rhythmic thud, thwack, thump. His ribs heaving under the force of the compressor, keeping his heart artificially beating. The plastic tube secured in his airway forcing puffs of air to inflate his lungs.  His skin slightly purple-gray, on that narrow brink between life and death. His eyes like speckled round pieces of glass, with fixed pupils, staring nowhere.

Our team was assembled, prepared, ready. We worked deftly with experienced hands, our focus and determination fueled by adrenaline, a synchronized team, we worked side by side; this was our life to save and we were going to do everything.

But his glassy, fixed eyes spoke to me. As we regained a heartbeat, and we halted the chest compressions, and our adrenaline settled–here he lay, not out of the woods, but heart back from a standstill. His glassy eyes told me his heart was back, but his life of living was gone. The life that laughed, that smiled, that held his wife’s hand–there was no amount of life saving measures that could bring that part of him back.  We didn’t know how long ago he had stopped breathing. But it was long enough to have robbed him of his mind, his memory, of everything that made him that man his family loved.

His wife and only daughter arrived. I left him in my able teams’ hands and sat down with them. I looked them in the eyes. I told them the story of his final hour of life, from the perspective of his fighting, beating heart.

His heart was here with us, but his  brain had gone too long without oxygen before we could reach him. He would never walk out of this hospital. They listened to my words.  Words spinning and exploding beyond comprehension. They nodded their heads, as if to ask me to keep talking.  So long as I was talking, we didn’t have to move.  Tears were inevitable. It was so sudden. How could they be asked to make a decision of whether to continue with the resuscitation or to just let life walk its final march.

Yes, this was about them, but this was ultimately about him. What would he want? It is true it was sudden. It is true it is the toughest decision anyone will make.  But with the return of his heartbeat, the decision to continue resuscitation is as big, as active a decision as it is to stop all aggressive measures and let him be comfortable. These are both big decisions with big paths for us to travel down.  I needed them to understand that this wasn’t their decision to shoulder. It was their time to respect–in the most selfless of ways–the man they loved.  To step outside themselves, slip into his shoes and honor his wishes in the greatest way possible.  What would he have wanted if he saw himself in this moment?  Representing him in this way is a responsibility no one cares to bear, but this final act is the biggest, most giving way they could love and honor him.

His daughter immediately said, “oh, he would want none of this. He would want you to stop.”

They stood by his bedside. We withdrew all aggressive cares. We turned off the beeping monitors, we stopped artificially putting oxygen in his lungs, we turned off all pumps, we covered him with warm blankets, we let him be comfortable with his wife holding his hand for his final minutes, and his daughter stroking his hair.

And that’s how he left us.

Did we save his life?  No we did not.  Not today.  We did better than that. We upheld our promise to continue to respect his wishes beyond his final breath.

Broken Oven, Glory to You

~ cindylw ~ 2 Comments

Also published at:  http://www.scarymommy.com/being-busy-not-badge-honor/

Four weeks ago, in the midst of a baking/cooking frenzy, my oven took its final breath and puttered out. With zucchini bread batter mixed and poured, I stared at it, wild eyed with that blood vessel menacingly popping out of my right temple. With flour highlights in my hair and batter splatters on my shirt and yoga pants, I had a few words with my oven.

The next day, the repair guys were out, and let us know that it was the central circuit board that needed repair. As luck always has it, they no longer made the parts to repair it; however, they said they could certainly send it to the manufacturer for a “small” gob of money to have it repaired. Or, we could spend the large gobs of money to replace the entire oven. Yep, I’d love to send it in to the manufacturer, I replied, as if there was much of a decision to be made. So they removed it, and on their way out the door, explained it would take two weeks and I would be without an oven, oh, and without my stove as well. Huh? What the what??? The nice repair guy grinned sheepishly, “well, there have got to be a lot of great take out options around here, right?” He zipped up his jacket, grabbed the signed paperwork and scrambled to his van, keeping one eye on that crazed vein in my right temple that was slowly starting to declare itself.

No stove or oven for two weeks???? Oh boy. I checked the freezer. Emergency corn dogs and dinosaur nuggets and microwaveable-bagged veggies to save the day. I wish I had some inspirational MacGyver-meets-Martha-Stewart story of how I used chicken wire to make a stove top with flint and kindle or how I made adorable tea party finger foods or how I did the sensible thing and went out and bought a temporary, portable stove-top, but God no. That never happened. The repair guy was right. There has been a lot of take out, and a lot of microwaved, processed foods these last few weeks. And you know what? I liked it. No, no. I didn’t like it, I loved it. I love my microwave. I am one with my microwave. There. I said it.

Since having children, I have felt this great responsibility to feed them healthy, well-balanced meals. Foods that make me feel good about what I am putting in their little, rapidly growing and developing little bodies. They have been hearty-vegetable-eaters, fruit-devouring-monsters, home-cooked-meal-lovers. They have a sweet tooth for home-made healthy baked goods. All this feels so good to be able to provide this for my family, some weeks I am better than others, but in these last two weeks . . . turned three weeks without a stove, I have come to a realization that I was too busy to notice before.

In trying to keep up with my career-family balance, I have constantly felt over-stretched, over-tired, and overwhelmed. I remember leaving a late shift at work, and one of my beloved nurses telling me, as she realized that with my husband out of town, I still had to go home and pack lunches for my kids and had to get up early the next morning to take them to school, “You have to let it go.   Just let it go.” And I looked at her with that same bewildered“HOW DID MY OVEN JUST BREAK” look, but too tired to ask further, just nodded, smiled and kept on walking out the door.

But now. Now I get it. See, the breaking of my beloved, necessary stove and oven has shown me something I’m not quite sure I could have seen myself. That in taking this break from the often insurmountable task of meal preparation and everything that goes into it for my family, I have allowed something to go and it has allowed me to breathe. Those extra hours a day that have fallen into my lap are glorious. They are hours I can spend on something productive or spend on nothing at all but my couch, a cup of coffee and HGTV. They are hours I can call a friend and ask, “How are you?” Those extra hours have lifted a weight, a responsibility, a stress, that gifts me energy and leaves me less tired, less cranky, less irritable. I had no idea that something as simple or as tough as preparing meals was doing this to me. Because, if I think about it, I tell myself, “Come on, how hard is it to make meals?” I don’t have to explain it to you if you are this person in your family. It is hard.

So, now I am thinking what else do I feel this way about? Every task, every responsibility we pile onto our shoulders is just one more “simple” thing, and we say to ourselves, come on, how hard could this be to add this one tiny thing? Well, one thing adds time, time adds energy, energy adds stress, stress leads to irritability . . . ahh, it is all making sense!!! What a simple concept. Where have I been???

I think I’ve been where all of you have been. We have been feeling that we are working mothers and fathers taking care of our family, of our home, of our communities. Sometimes, we lose sight of the value of our own limits and really, our own self. Boundaries blur until there are no boundaries, and we keep on keeping on. We estimate our capabilities, and like the old saying, our eyes are bigger than our stomachs, our undertakings underestimate what is needed from us to accomplish every minutiae of every day—and soon we are stretched too thin doing everything, but unable to do anything with the best version of ourselves.

So, let’s give ourselves a break. What we do is enough. What we don’t do is acceptable. Give what you have to the things that matter the most, and when there is not enough of you to go around, be okay with it. There is no glory in “I am so busy!” There is value to doing things with time, with your full attention and ability, choosing wisely what is important to you and having the energy to enjoy rest, relaxation, and time for calm. Let’s chisel away at this society of “busy”, and let the glory be with broken ovens and microwaves once in awhile.

These American Dreams

~ cindylw ~ 3 Comments

Whichever side you fall, you cannot deny that half of the country is hurting. That half of the country is in pain. In disbelief. In fear. Whichever side you fall on, you can acknowledge that there are people excited about this new era. About a leader like no other we have ever known. Whichever side you fall, there are two perspectives that deserve acknowledgement and respect. For after all is said and done, we are all in this together. Please.

My parents came to the United States of America with two suitcases of belongings as their entire inventory of wealth. My mother came to a country where she did not speak the language. My father came to a country and dove into a post-graduate program to receive his Ph.D. in mechanical engineering in a language he had just learned to speak. My mother–from a wealthy family–that wept and begrudgingly allowed her to come to America, but made it clear that this would be a journey she must make on her own.  She wrote home about seeing snow for the first time, about American grocery stores, but never spoke a word about the poorly insulated one room makeshift shed being the only place they could afford to live. She never wrote about the times when their landlord turned off their electricity because they were late on rent. My father, from a farming family in rural Taiwan that made ends meet by eating the over-supply of sweet potatoes generally reserved to feed their livestock. My father, who found his passion in the math and sciences, and dragged his desk out to the sole street light on the dirt road they lived on when it became dark to continue studying.

My father studied hard when he came into his graduate program. My brother was born within their first year of them being in America. To make ends meet, my mom took on odd jobs that she could do from home while taking care of my brother. She gratefully accepted any hand-me-downs to provide for my brother from other foreign graduate students as their kids outgrew clothes. To make ends meet, my mom kept a tight budget, allotting money for food and bare essentials.

My mom tells the story, with a calm and steady voice of when my brother was preschool age. She went to the store to buy milk, and she came short of the 19 cents it cost for his milk. She rummaged through her purse, in her pockets, and ultimately felt as if there was nowhere to hide, but to swallow that lump in her throat and nonchalantly say she would come back for it later.

She tells the story of when she was so excited that my brother had a friend come over for a play date that in the weeks following, she encouraged my brother to invite his friend back. After being met with silence on numerous urgings, my brother ultimately replied, “He said he couldn’t, because his mom said our house was not a real house.” She turned that heartbreak into strength, and vowed at that moment, that she and my father would put every ounce of their energy into providing for my brother and his siblings to come, so we would never feel less than or have the opportunity to feel humiliated in this way.

Slowly, but with unwavering strength, my parents did just that. They carved out a life for themselves. A 5-bedroom, 4-bathroom life in the suburbs of West Des Moines, Iowa. They became American citizens. They raised three children that fully identify as Americans with families of their own, fully entrenched in the communities that they serve.

My parents’ story is the story of one American dream. Immigrants that paved their own way through hard work and heart ache. That made an amazingly better life for their family and fought to provide the wealth of American opportunities within finger’s reach for their children.

But my parents’ story is only one story of one American dream. There is also the American dream of the little boy that grew up knowing he should like girls, but instead fell in love with the man of his dreams as an adult. There is also the American dream of the little girl who grew up with a single mother working three jobs who never got a free ride and wondered if her daydream to pursue college was just a far away fantasy. There is also the American dream of the African American boy who grew up in a middle class family, whose mom is on the PTO, and yet he is still being convicted of a crime he did not commit because he was at the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong skin color. There is also the American dream of the boy who came from three generations of law enforcement who puts on that blue uniform for the first time knowing that he is carrying the great responsibility upheld by his family to serve and protect with pride and dignity. There is also the American dream of the boy who picks education over the violence on the streets he walks every day, who never feels the encouragement that his choices are the right choices. These are American dreams. These are the dreams we need to protect.

Whichever side you fall on, remember that our country is about heart, about hope, about fostering these American dreams. As we all breathe our next breath, let’s breathe together knowing we share this air, we share the land we live on, and we share this country.  Let’s respect and embrace one another with open minds with the ultimate goal to carry one another forward.  Let’s leave no one feeling marginalized or left behind. While some of our hearts are breaking and some of our hearts are feeling empowered, let’s fight hard to unite  when we need it most.

What This Win Means to Us

~ cindylw ~ Leave a comment

There is something about this Cubs win that is about so much more than sports.

When I met my father-in-law some 14 years ago, there were three things I quickly learned about him.  I learned that he has the best, hearty, deep-from-the-belly laugh. I learned that his greatest pride is his kids. I learned that he was a die-hard Cubs baseball fan.

The minute I stepped into his house, I felt I was home. He squeezed me by the shoulders, and he looked me in the eyes, and he yelled over to my then boyfriend, now husband, “Well, aren’t you lucky?” And the rest is history. I remember spending summer weekends at the lake with his teasing and affable banter. I remember big family holiday gatherings where he would always sneak time to sit right next to me, with his plate piled high with turkey, gravy, and Grandma’s famous potato salad, and he would say, “you having fun yet?” with that wink in his eye.

He didn’t have an easy life. There were obstacles that got in the way of life and family. He was a workaholic to a fault. But as life moved along, he woke up. He redefined his priorities, and he set out to be who deep down, he had always been, buried under those things that had led him astray. By the time I met him, all I knew was a man that loved his children and his family and a man that was wholeheartedly loved by my husband.

My husband gave the eulogy at his dad’s funeral. During the eulogy, he talked about his respect for his father. He was proud of what his father had overcome and who he had become. He was proud of how his father made amends and embraced loving his family as his greatest priority. His death left a hole in my husband’s heart that would take time to heal, but that would never completely mend. I am so thankful I met this great man in my husband’s life. I am so thankful we will always have memories of him infused in this family map we are weaving.

There have been so many times that we have felt his great void. My husband’s graduations from college and law school, our wedding day, the birth of his grandchildren, holidays, birthdays, family gatherings. In all the chaos of these wonderful celebrations, there has always been a moment’s pause, to recognize how much sweeter it would be to have him by our sides, laughing his deep-belly-laugh, and teasing his son about changing dirty diapers. I know if he saw who his children had become today, he would be bursting at the seams with pride.  We miss him.

One of my favorite stories is that of my father-in-law piling his dad and three young kids, including my husband, into the car one early Saturday morning, driving the three hours to Chicago to bring his family to their first Cubs babeball game at Wrigleyfield.  Then driving right back home after the game. When time is tight and money is tighter, you do what you can to create memories for your family and share the things you love. That is exactly what my father-in-law did.  He did it right. To this day, my husband cherishes that trip they took to the great Wrigleyfield and it remains one of the most magical places for us to visit. This summer when we took our own kids to Wrigleyfield for the first time, it was as if we were sharing a part of Grandpa Mark’s legacy with them.  It was as if he was there with us, sharing those Chicago dogs in a poppy seed bun, piled high with onions, mustard, green relish, tomatoes and a pickle spear.

My father-in-law was passionate about Cubs baseball, to say the least. To him, like so many, Cubs baseball is not just a sport. It is an undeniable, slightly crazed passion we high-five and howl over. It is putting all your life’s heaviness aside to cheer for America’s favorite pastime. It is a shared hope that brings us closer together. It is a place to belong. It is the heartbeat that unites us.

Cubs baseball is infused into the identity of my father-in-law and the family that gathered around him. His love for the Cubs has sparked and cultivated our love for the team, which we are now passing along to our kids. During this roller coaster of a history-making series, my father-in-law undoubtedly took a seat on the couch along side each of his children. He has brought us together, to celebrate the Cubs, because in celebrating the Cubs, we are celebrating his passion, his heart, and remembering his constant presence.  Every text that was fired between his kids as the Cubs scored a homerun, made a sick defensive play, won a game, was sent with the unspoken message, “wouldn’t Dad love this?”

We wish he could be here to experience this epic Win. Oh, you would love to hear his deep-belly-laugh in all its glory. You would feel his hands slap you on the back and love to watch him sweep his grandchildren off the ground with his big bear hugs.

This is more than a won baseball series. This is about the history and families of fans that have united behind their love for their team. Fans that remember their fathers and mothers, uncles and aunts, grandfathers and grandmothers that passed on this tradition to root, root, root for the Cubbies–win or lose. But this time, they won it all. And for all of us that are carrying on, generation after generation, this die-hard love for the Cubs, we are celebrating big, for us and those that we wished were right here along side of us.

Fly the W

About A Boy

~ cindylw ~ Leave a comment

8 years old. Blond hair, neatly cut. Fair skin with flushed cheeks. Curious, trusting, clear blue eyes. Rosy, red lips in a perfectly content, relaxed grin. Wearing a plain red cotton t-shirt and blue jeans with the elastic waist and Velcro sneakers. I meet you in your wheelchair. I asked your dad what was the best way to get you onto the hospital bed to examine you. He picked you up easily in a bear hug, and your lanky, skinny arms wrapped around him, as your tight, contracted legs held their bent position as he plopped you gingerly on the bed. I listened to your heart and lungs, I pressed on your soft tummy, I noted the pull-up you wore with Buzz Light Year printed on the front. You never took those calm, trusting eyes off of me. You never smiled, but your whole face smiled at me. You never spoke, but your whole being spoke to me.

This was maybe two weeks ago, but my visit with you still pops into my mind frequently. It’s unpredictable which patients stay with us. We see patient after patient, and some just settle into our hearts and mind, lingering in our thoughts, reminding us that after they leave our care, they are still here.

What I remember about you is how sweet and happy you are. How you didn’t have to say a thing to let me know you trusted me. You trusted your dad. You trusted this world that you live in. On this day when you weren’t feeling well, you still smiled with your whole face.

What I remember is how well cared for you are. Your styled hair. Your clean clothes and newly changed pull-up. Your new Velcro sneakers and socks without holes.

What I remember about you is how much you are like my own son. Your lanky arms, your lanky legs, your fair skin with flushed cheeks. Your big, curious eyes, trusting me.

You came in for nausea and vomiting.  While this is something that has plagued you in the past, this time, it was just a stomach bug rippling through your daycare.  Your dad relayed this in sighs of relief.  Because this was something common. This was something other kids were going through. This was a “just-like-everyone-else” problem and not a “just-unique-to-you” phenomenon.

See, there are milestones that you and your family have not experienced. Your first word. Your first steps. Your first laugh. But there are milestones that are like gold. Those first hugs. Those first nods of understanding and communication. The realization that you are taking it all in, and those eyes are your window to experiencing and memorizing this whole world around you.

I cannot begin to comprehend how hard this life is for you, for your parents, for the three brothers that came before you. I also cannot speak for the immense beauty and happiness in your life.  But the one thing that I do know is that you are loved. You are enriching and touching the lives of your family, of those like me that have had the honor of meeting you. This I have experienced first hand.  You are louder than you could ever be in your steadfast ways.

You didn’t have to say a word, but you have touched me. I see you the way I see my son. A wonderful boy that is filled with love and that is loved.

Life is hard. It is hard in different ways for different people. But it is these moments of strong, quiet beauty that keep it tender and keep it worth our hardest work.

To All My Ladies 

~ cindylw ~ 1 Comment

Time spent with friends is different in your thirties than it was in our twenties. In our twenties, it was spending weekdays studying at the library, evenings ordering carry-out and huddled together on our dusty apartment floors watching episodes of Felicity or Sex in the City. It was weekend days together shopping or together at the street fair. It was late nights eating ice cream out of the carton and watching romantic comedies to heal from our latest heartbreaks with our right hand women at our sides, couch-style.

In our thirties, friendship is planning weeks in advance for that happy hour after the kids are in bed, or finding that one day in two months that we are both off during the day for a few hours and blocking it off in red on our calendars. For me, October 6th has been highlighted in red with the word LISA for the last two months. As we sift through the must-dos and the want-to-dos of everyday life, kids and careers and husbands and parents and housework gets to us first.

In the back of our minds, we still cherish those friendships that have carried us to this point, but everything else steps in our way, demanding our attention. In all of this, I’ve found one thing that has kept us connected and able to say, “Hey, I still love you from behind all of these to-dos, I am still thinking about you.” That connection happens through texts. Phone calls are hard to coordinate. When you are free to catch up on your drive home from work, I am elbow-deep in bubble bath scrubbing down three sets of sticky hands. It is even tougher to coordinate in-person get-togethers. But there are those times throughout the day when something reminds me of you or something makes me laugh or groan that I feel compelled to share, and so I reach out and you respond when you can, and that human, adult connection reminds me that I am not alone. I am here in my current to-dos and you are there in yours, but we are here to say to each other, “me too.”

It seems like a small thing. A silly thing. A text here, a text there. But sometimes, when you are feeling isolated in your day and feeling so overwhelmed by parenthood and adulthood, friendship is still that undercurrent that pulls you along and gives you that love that only sisterhood can give.

To all my ladies, I hope you feel me hugging and loving you through those sometimes texts, because I am feeling it from you and needing it to get me through, now that we can’t share a take-out carton of noodles or a lazy Saturday morning debating brunch spots. Our lives are fuller now, but it wouldn’t be filled without you still an arms’ reach away making me smile and reminding me you are right here with me.

 

The Best Friend You Never Wanted

~ cindylw ~ 1 Comment

This moment has been rolling around and around in my head. I sat down on the stool. I turned to my patient. He was intoxicated. I realized I had seen him here in my emergency department just six days ago. “Hey.” I said gently. “What happened?” Tears welled in his eyes. He went into the story of his past six days. I had seen him six days ago, and he had begged to go to rehab. As he had innumerable times in the past. He really wanted help. He needed help. But it never helped. He had gone to a Detoxification Center and had stayed there three days where they ensured he went through withdrawals safely. Then he went home. And he started drinking again. And here he was. Back again. “Please. I need help.”

I leaned in. I listened. I nodded. I felt his sadness. He suddenly stopped talking abruptly. And he just stared at me. “Why do you care so much?”

The question startled me. Took me off guard. No one had ever asked me that. And trust me. I have been asked some fairly awkward questions. Why do I care. How do I even answer that question? Isn’t it just a fundamental part of what I do?   At the time, I had no eloquent answer.  I just stared back.  And dumbly said, “I just DO. I care because I know you need me to.”  At the time, I thought, I care because you are hurting. I care because you are human and everyone makes mistakes. And I believe you. You need help. This is your hellish cycle: You get help. It fails you, or maybe you slipped back away yourself.  Or maybe it is a combination of both.  It doesn’t matter. Then you need help again. I don’t know. The system is broken. It is so broken. And for you, something is failing, time and time again.  I do care. I don’t know. I can’t explain it, really.

But when he asked that question, I felt it knock the wind out of me. All of the caring I had bottled and neatly packaged into some crevice of my chest resurfaced into this avalanche of emotions. Yesterday, I saved a life. I brought his heart back from a standstill just as my daughter and son’s kindergarten open house was starting. I missed the open house waiting for his brother to arrive so I could talk to him. But I got there (mostly) in time for the kindergarten meeting. I sprinted up the walkway to the elementary school entrance, out of breath, just in time to see my daughter’s face light up when she saw me.  I mouthed an apologetic “sorry” to my son’s kindergarten teacher who was in the middle of addressing all the on-time parents as I slipped into a seat in the back of her classroom.

Before I walked into this room, I delivered a 16-week-old baby that the mother had spontaneously miscarried. I left her to grieve in private with her husband. And her baby girl. Tiny fingers. Tiny toes. Lifeless. Limp. Wrapped in a warm blanket. I’ll remember my heart-broken patient’s face. Stunned, sweaty, strong, brave. So many questions. So many fears. So much loss.

I care because it is all so much bigger than me. It is about lives. It is about families. It is about death. It is about surviving. It is about hopes.  It is about milestones. And I don’t know how to make sense of it all, how it all strings together and falls into place. Sometimes, I don’t know what else to do but care. To be present. To listen. It seems so very, very surreal that I can grieve the return-to-life of someone that I am not sure will make it to tomorrow as I race in the door, breathless, to my son and daughter’s kindergarten meeting.

I care because I am the best friend you never wanted.  You come into my space and tell me your most personal thoughts.  You tell me how this was unexpected.  How this is a horrible day.  How you had so many exciting hopes and daydreams for this growing baby in your womb.  How ecstatic you were to be a cozy family of three.  You tell me that my dying patient is your brother and you are the only family he has and how you wished he and his daughter had made amends.  You tell me you have been in and out of 14 different rehabs and you just want help.  You just want help.  Is there anything else I can do?  These are all the things you want to tell your best friend.  The best friend that you haven’t had a chance to call yet as you were rushing to the hospital.  The best friend you never had but wished you did.  The best friend that has given up on you because you have had one too many chances.  But here we are, just you and me, staring at one another.  So, you tell me your story.  It is about your hopes, your fallen dreams, your gut-wrenching day of heartbreak.  And it is all so real and I can’t help but feel fallen with you.

This is what we do. My colleagues and I. We care. We care more than you know. We don’t know the best way to express it all the time, but we do. We wonder if you have already started setting up the nursery that you will now have to let sit empty.  And we secretly hope you have not, as we can’t imagine the heartache of deciding whether to leave it as is or take it down.  We wonder if you will live to walk out of the hospital.  We wonder if this time, maybe this time, you will get the help you need.

We are far from your best friends.  But today, we will be who you need us to be in your life.  We will time and again–without question–put our lives on hold for yours. We will grapple with the balance between life at home with lives at work. But we know what is important. I can’t explain it better than to say, our hearts are with you.

No Matter What Love

~ cindylw ~ 4 Comments

We are raising our kids in a difficult time, aren’t we? I have no comparison. I haven’t raised kids in any other era; however, as each headline pops up, the latest terrorist bombing on Quetta Hospital in Pakistan 8 days ago killing 70 and injuring 130; the shooting and killing of a black man in Milwaukee, WI, and the riots and police protests that have ensued, following the innumerable hate crimes against humanity that have already played out. With each attack, my heart aches for those suffering, and my eyes dart towards my three fortunate kids, playing soundly in the living room. I look at each one of them, and I am thankful they are here and that they are healthy. With each injustice I hear about or read about, my responsibility mounts, and I wonder how I will discuss these tragedies, these inequalities with my three children. These three children that play with their hearts filled with love and their lives filled with boundless energy and childhood adventures.

In two weeks, my two eldest will start kindergarten. I’ve been thinking a lot about what tools I want to equip them with as they begin this new endeavor. We’ve been doing a lot of role-playing. Sometimes, I will play the role of being the bully, one of them will play the friend being bullied, and the other will play the role of either the bully or the bullied. We take turns with these roles. Then we talk about what was said, how it made us feel, and what we could have said or how we can all help each other in these difficult encounters. We talk about why we think a bully would say the things that were said, and how we can help the bully so maybe next time he or she will be nicer. We’ve talked about how sometimes people bully others because they are different. Maybe because they don’t understand someone else that is different. For example, we’ve talked about how sometimes, the food we eat, is different than a lot of foods other people eat. We chat about how if someone makes a negative comment about what we are eating, we can respond, “That’s okay, it’s probably just something you haven’t tried, but this is something that I grew up eating and I really like it.” Except, interpreted and translated through their minds, it comes out something like, “It’s okay, this food is something I was born with.” We’re working out the details, but what’s important to me, is that they start to process this information and react to things in ways that convey tolerance, acceptance, and kindness. We are starting with food (because my son is obsessed with food) but I’m hoping to branch out from here.

I recently read an article that the discussion about race should start with your children now. There is not a time you should be waiting for; by not talking about it, we are allowing them to form their own prejudices and allowing that to be okay. I read on about how kids are noticing these differences and making their own assumptions and categorizations. I had never thought about this, and this was alarming to me. But as I thought about it, I thought back to conversations between my son and daughter. How they would talk about kids in their pre-school classes, and one of the things my son would ask my daughter at 4 years-old when trying to figure out who in her class she was talking about, was, “Well, was she wearing pants or a dress or tights today? Did she have a bow in her hair? What color was it? Is she white or brown?” I never thought much of it. It was a descriptor to him like any other descriptor. But if he was noticing this, then yes. Maybe it was time to start talking more openly about race and inequalities.

Max and Sofia. I want you to know that I love you no matter what. I have loved you since the day you were born. There are times when I may be disappointed or mad about your actions, but even at those times, I love you. I would love you if you were tall or short, had long hair or short hair, had white skin or brown skin, had brown eyes or green eyes. I would love you if you wanted to play soccer or football or no sports at all. I would love you if you wanted to dance or do gymnastics or sing or none of the above. I would love you if you loved to read or do math or crafts or science projects. It just wouldn’t matter. I would love you. No matter what. It is mom’s no-matter-what-love promise to you. I think a parent’s love is the best kind of love, because all you have to do is be born, and mom and dad will love you no matter what. It is really that simple.

I think it is at the core of being human that makes someone want to love others and be loved by others. Love is the most powerful of things and is at the core of it all. Let’s extend the love between a mom and her child to the love between other people. Every person is someone’s child. Mommy is A-ma and A-gong’s daughter. Daddy is Grandma and Grandpa’s son. And A-ma and A-gong love mommy not because my hair is black, not because I have brown eyes, not because I like to run and read and write, but they loved me even before they knew all that about me. When I had no hair, and all I did was eat, cry, and sleep. And that has never changed. Grandma and Grandpa love daddy not because his hair is blonde, not because he wears glasses, not because he likes to run and root for the Cubs in baseball, but because they have always loved him.

The best kind of love is this love. The no-matter-what love. Why is mommy telling you so much about this? Because, this is what I want you to look for in every single person you meet at school. I want you to see that every friend in your class is worthy of being loved by someone no-matter-what, just like you. It may be their mom and dad. Or maybe they don’t have a mom, or don’t have a dad. Then maybe their no-matter-what-love comes from their grandma or grandpa. Or maybe from their aunt or uncle. Or their brother or sister. Or maybe they have two moms or two dads and that’s where their no-matter-what-love comes from. Or maybe they have a mom and no dad or a dad and no mom. Every story of your friends’ families will be different. I want you to notice all these differences. And I want you to know that no matter if their skin color is white or brown, hair is black or blonde, eyes are brown or green, no matter if they are tall or short, like math or recess, science or music, they are just like you where it matters. You can be mad or disappointed or happy about their actions, but they are people that deserve no-matter-what love.

Sometimes, you might see other kids that don’t see this about others in your class, or maybe they don’t see this about you. They may bully others or make fun of others because of what they eat, because of what they wear, because of their skin color, because they believe in God or they don’t believe in God. It happens to kids and to grown-ups too! I think that is because they forget that we are all the same in the middle. That we all deserve to have someone love us no-matter-what.

It makes me panic that I cannot be at school with you every day, telling everyone that I love you, and that everything that makes you different is what I love about you, but this is a part of growing up, and this is what everyone else in your class is going through. You are going to learn about everyone’s differences, and I want you to notice them, I want you to think about how they are different from you and how they are like you and know that everyone is worthy of love. If you get nothing else from this year of school, focus on this. Focus on opening your eyes to all the differences and know that everyone is worthy of no-matter-what love.

 

Your Last 24

~ cindylw ~ 5 Comments

Republished at: https://www.kevinmd.com/blog/2019/04/a-patients-last-24-hours.html

There are those 25 minutes before my work day begins that I either drive in silence, or blare the radio and jam out to pop hits priming myself for the unexpected hours ahead. When the music is loud and the tempo is upbeat, it transports me back to being 21 on a summer day in Chicago, before kids and bills, headed nowhere too important, definitely not too fast, stuck in traffic on Lake Shore Drive. But lately, I’ve trended more towards driving in silence. Calmed by the gentle hum of the engine, feeling the gentle pull of the turns in the road, letting my mind settle. And lately, my mind has been on you.

My heart settles into a dull ache. It pulls me in and hollows me out. I feel unjustified in feeling this way. These are not my feelings to feel. These are not my emotions to own and declare. There are people more deserving of telling this story. It is not me. But here I am. These emotions clinging onto me for the past 5 weeks now, and I don’t want it just to be in my mind. I don’t want this hollowness in my chest to go unidentified. It means too much. So, I’m going to talk about you.

I met you on a busy night in the emergency department. You were short of breath, you were sweaty, your heart rate was going too fast. I thought within seconds of meeting you, “He is sick.”

When emergency medicine providers say someone is sick, it doesn’t mean the usual sick.  We do not throw around the word “sick” haphazardly.  It does not mean you have the sniffles, or a bad cough, or fever, or appendicitis, or a broken leg. When we say “sick”, we are on high alert. Our heads turn.  Our focus shifts from everyone else in the emergency department to you. You are the one that needs us most. We will take care of everyone else, but you have taken priority over everything else that must be done. Bluntly put, when we say “sick”, we realize–perhaps before you do–that you are struggling for your life.  We are worried that you may get worse and die.

Everything had happened so suddenly, your wife told me. You had seemed fine. Maybe a little fever. Maybe a bit of body aches. Then tonight, you were suddenly short of breath. Sweating. Feeling your heart beat out of your chest.   You have no idea what suddenly changed. I don’t want to get into the medical specifics. Though I replay them over and over in my mind. I pour over your chart again and again. What more could I have done? I’ve talked to my closest colleagues. I’ve lay in bed at night and replayed everything.

I remember exactly how you looked when I walked in the room. I remember your wife sitting there on the edge of her seat.   I remember you said you have three kids. Two boys and a girl. I remember how old they are. I remember the name of your youngest. I remember the puzzled look your wife gave me, “What is going on?” I remember explaining to the both of you what was happening. How infection was taking over your body, taking over your organs, shutting down your body. You asked me how long you would be in the emergency department. I explained you needed to be admitted to the intensive care unit. You both were a bit puzzled. How could a healthy 43-year-old become sick so fast? I explained that I was worried about you.

I don’t worry about a lot in the emergency department. I can handle it. I can fix it. But you. I was worried about. I did everything my training had taught me to do.  You were getting better. I felt slight hope that maybe things would turn around. You were admitted to the intensive care unit.

The next day, I checked on your chart when I got to work. You had died.

You have a beautiful wife. You have three amazing kids. You are the nicest of people. You are hard working.

You are no longer with us.

My heart aches. My heart aches, but when it aches, it is an unworthy ache. Because the heart ache of those that love you, those that were your life: your wife, your children, your parents, your siblings, your nieces and nephews, those are the ones that are truly hurting. And this makes my heart ache more. I wish you were alive. They wish so more than my words can do justice.

I did everything I knew how to.  But it wasn’t enough to save your life.  I wish I could have done more. I am so, so sorry.

I was maybe one of the final ten people you met in your life. For you, I was only part of those last 24 hours. For me, you will be in my heart a lifetime. I can’t even say this without grimacing, because what you mean to me doesn’t even compare to those that love you most. But I just want you to know, you have affected me. You will stay with me. You will live on in every one you touched along the way. Even in your last 24 hours of life.

Grandpa

~ cindylw ~ 2 Comments

Making plans with other moms these days is somewhat of an exercise similar to that three-mile run I force myself to do after a two week . . . or six month . . . hiatus from running. It is sweaty, it is a brutal uphill challenge, but when you come out the other end and finish that run–or find that one perfect day where your schedules match up–it feels like the best, inconsequential accomplishment ever. There are nap schedules, there are doctors’ appointments, there is gymnastics and T-ball, there are work schedules, that day your friend is watching her sister’s kids, your child’s preschool friend’s birthday party . . . I’m not even sure how it all piles up, but there are piles, and piles of commitments to navigate. But that is life, and it is rich, and it is wonderful, and it was worth all the hectic mayhem. We are so lucky to have the ability to participate in all these amazing things. This is what makes a family full and alive.

But as we age, there is something else presenting itself and glaring us in the face. It is the aging of our parents. It is their doctor’s appointments, their unexpected emergency department visits. It may be a fall. It may be weakness. It may be feeling dizzy. It may be feeling short of breath. We find ourselves sitting in hospital rooms with our lifelong caretakers. In our visions for our futures, with our homes, with our careers, with our families, we never envisioned this. This is all very unexpected.

I met my father-in-law 14 Thanksgivings ago. I was so nervous to meet my boyfriend’s parents. I had no idea what to expect and even less of a clue how to act. I battled my nerves the whole three-hour drive from our little bubble of a world on our college campus to my boyfriend’s little hometown in Michigan. He told me not to be nervous, “there is nothing to be nervous about! They will love you!” Ah yes. What mother doesn’t love the girl her son brings home? Of course she will think I am good enough . . .

I remember pulling up to their home. I remember finding my now father-in-law in the midst of making lunch for us. I remember that big, hearty hug he gave me, and that gentle pat on the back with those kind eyes. I remember feeling welcome.

I learned in the years to come more and more about my father-in-law. I learned that he worked hard hours, never complained, and put his head and hands to his work to provide for his family. He was always a do-it-yourself, fix-it-yourself man. He worked with his hands. He built the kitchen in their home. He built their deck. He fixed the plumbing. He fixed the car. He built an extra bathroom. Sometimes by trial and error, but he got it done. He was a man of not too many words, but he showed his love and affection through his work. He was the builder, the fixer, the caretaker for his family, for his neighbors, for his friends. When we moved into our new home and the basement flooded, we waited patiently for my father-in-law to visit so he could teach my husband how to replace the base molding that was now water-logged and rotted. After I gave birth to the twins and was in a complete state of sleep deprivation and disarray, it was my father-in-law that, night after night, cooked us dinner without which, I am at a loss to know how we would have eaten or if we would even have remembered. This is how he provided. He was the strength, producing for his family.

As the years have passed, I know it has been a struggle for him. It has been a struggle for him because often times, the walk up those 8 steps leading from our garage to our home is a daunting challenge. It sometimes takes all he has to make it up those steps, feeling winded, feeling light-headed, feeling bewildered, trying to remember when his physical strength had been hijacked. It breaks my heart to imagine what this must be like. To be the strength, and now to find your body unable to keep up with your will and desires to provide as you have lived your lifetime doing.

I can’t imagine, but I want him to imagine what it is like for us. For us, it has never been about what he built, it has never been what he could fix, it has always been about his intentions, the vast amount of love and steadfast committment that went into every project. It has been his effort, it has been his heart.

It is his heart. Oh, it has always, always been his heart that is his greatest strength. It is those words he says when I’ve been working tirelessly all weekend, feeling so incredibly worn, those words of acknowledgement, “you must be tired.”  This is the strength that we see in those kind, always welcoming eyes that I met those 14 Thanksgivings ago. It is that heart that my five-year-olds so affectionately call Grampy and my two-year-old calls Babba.

So, today, on my father-in-law’s birthday, I just want him to know, we see him for who he is. He may not say much, but we hear every word.  Don’t let his sometimes gruff demeanor fool you.  He is full teddy bear.  He is full of heart, he is full of love, he is full of strength.

On your 78th Birthday, we love you Grampy, Babba, Byron. Happy, happy birthday.

Dinner Prep

~ cindylw ~ Leave a comment

11:19 pm. I am stirring butter and marshmallows in a pan making my kids rice krispie treats. Since my kids had these little morsels of sugary bliss at their grandma’s house last weekend, they have been asking and asking about rice krispie treats. So, I thought, might as well give it a gander. My first attempt at this delicious treat. Um, why was this my first attempt at making this delicious treat??? Prior to this, I had been cutting onions and carrots and setting up the Crockpot to dump beef stew contents into in the morning. 11:19 pm may be an odd time to start making dinner and treats for the next day, but you find time when you find time, and it turned out to be a glorious hour of uninterrupted, quiet, peaceful, no 2-year-olds-to-trip-over therapeutic cooking session.

Now. Don’t start thinking I am some modern-day Betty Crocker type. HA. Many days look more like Jimmy John’s drive-through windows or frozen chicken strips and frozen green beans. By the way, it truly does freak me out how fast Jimmy John’s can make a sub. Ironically, it equally irritates me when I am at the JJ drive-through and I am not getting freaked out because they are taking an absurdly “normal” amount of sub-making time.

I digress.

My point is that, like most, I fiercely love my family. And even when I am not there, even when I am working evenings or days or at meetings or interviews or with friends or out with my husband, I want them to know that my heart is always with them. Last week my daughter had dance camp. Every night, no matter if it was 10 pm or 3 am, I would pack her lunch for the next day. I could only be there one of the five days to pick her up and drop her off. She asked me yesterday, “Mommy, on the days you weren’t there, who packed my lunch?” “I did.” I told her. Her heart erupted into a smile that peaked through her almond brown-eyed, button-nosed face. It wasn’t so much that she was blown away that the amazing chef behind her ham and cheese sandwiches was me, I think it was more that every day, no matter if I was physically present or not, I was thinking about her, I was the loving hands behind her (sometimes soggy) lunch. I’m going to hold onto that smile. I’m going to hold on to that smile so freakin’ tight as I launch into another epic stretch of shifts.

I don’t know which is tougher. Days I am home or days I am not. Because, man, both can be seriously tough. I do know that the days I am gone, my heart aches. To damper that ache, I make dinner at 11 pm at night. I love knowing that tomorrow night when I am at work and not there, they will eat yummy beef stew with carrots and onions and potatoes that I prepared. I imagine their faces lighting up when they see they get an after dinner dessert of rice krispies with sprinkles. Yes, sprinkles. What the heck. They are not usually sugared up kids. And let’s be honest. I won’t be the one herding them to bed tomorrow night. (Sorry Husband, Love of my Life) I’ll only be the hero that put their all-time favorite sprinkles on an already sickly sugary treat. Winning.

 

 

 

For Her

~ cindylw ~ Leave a comment

I guess one pro to working odd hours is that I am also up at odd hours, which provides me moments of complete blissful quiet to monopolize. On a string of 5 pm – 2 am’s, you can find me up at 3 am on the following nights as I try to adjust back to going to sleep earlier. On a string of 7 am – 4 pm’s, you’ll find me awake the subsequent mornings at 5:30 am while the house is still silent aside from the steady, rhythmic slumbering breaths of my husband and children.

This morning was one of those mornings. Coming off of a string of day shifts, I was wide awake staring at the clock that read 5:21 am in bright, cool blue numbers. I was too lazy to get out of the warmth and softness of bed; I scrolled through various news feeds and came across a music video of celebrities and non-celebrities celebrating the first female nominee of a major political party. Put aside your political opinions and stay with me for a moment. As I watched this video, I was overwhelmed with living during and being witness to this monumental making of history. Whatever your political views, you cannot help but acknowledge that this is a big moment for our country. I lay there in bed, with my coke bottle glasses, with one headphone bud in my right ear as to not wake my still sleeping husband, and I cried.

I cried at the huge leap in progress we are making as a country. We still have so much progress to make. But this. This is an immeasurable step forward. With all the recent heart breaks on humanity–This. This is something indescribably amazing.

I finally found my way out of bed, and excitedly woke my five-year-old kids to discuss with them this great event in history that we are living. My son and daughter looked at me startled. “Huh??? There has never been a female president??? Why not????” Preach, kids. Preach.

Regardless of your political views, this is a big moment in our history.  This morning I watched my sassy two-year-old daughter figure out how to build a tower of Legos as tall as she is. I thought about the possibilities that strong, resilient female leaders today are paving for her. For her. My little two-year-old daughter with eternally sticky hands. For her. My five-year-old daughter that wants to spend her five-year-old days dancing and coloring.  For all hers that still have their entire futures ahead of them.

My children have big plastic bins in their closets that I once in a while toss in keepsakes that I want them to have when they are older. They range from the hospital identification bracelet they had placed around their tiny ankles the day they were born to the hand-print projects they made for Valentine’s Day in pre-school. Today, I printed out articles about the making of history by our first female presidential nominee, and added this to the pile of treasures I want them to have as memories of their childhood.

All that keeps tousling around in my mind is that this is big. This is so, so big. I have so much pride for our country for making it here today. There is so much ache of the reminder of how much farther we need to go. There is so much ache for all the countries that are far from being where we are.

By writing these sentiments, I am not suggesting you vote for her because she is a woman.  Vote for who you vote for because you believe in their vision for our country.  Vote for who you believe would lead our country with the greatest moral compass.  Vote for who you believe has the experience and track record to make intelligent and difficult decisions on behalf of our country.  Vote for who you believe will make forward progress for the majority and every minority.

Whether you passionately support or don’t support our first female presidential candidate, can we agree that breaking this uphill, challenging gender barrier is great progress for our country?

As a woman who values strength and leadership as admirable qualities in other women,

As a woman who will fight to protect and broaden the future opportunities available for her daughters,

As a woman who will always teach her son that women are to be upheld with the utmost respect,

As a woman who believes in the kindness and equality of humanity,

This is a big day. A big, new day, indeed.

 

 

 

Today. Love is Greater than Hate

~ cindylw ~ 1 Comment

My heart is breaking today. It has been breaking with every news alert that flashed across my cell phone throughout the night. Every alert of another human life fallen made me feel anguish, desperation, bewildered, devastation. From the recent mass shooting in Florida to the bombings in Turkey, Bangladesh, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia to the recent lives lost in Minnesota, and Louisiana, to the shooting and killing of police officers last evening in Texas . . . What has happened to our sense of humanity?

We mourn for the families of those who have lost lives. We weep for the joys and love these shootings have haphazardly and suddenly ripped from their families’ daily existence. We hope for peace during these tragic, senseless acts that leave their communities feeling hollow. We hope for unity in this fragmented nation and world of ours.

I find myself asking, is this rock bottom? Please let this be rock bottom. How much more can we escalate with hatred? With anger? With our inequalities? With our attacks against one another? How many more lives? Devastation is reverberating through our nation, and reactions span the spectrum from disbelief to anger to outrage to deep anguish.

As I plugged along the overnight shift, with news alerts flashing across my phone stacking on the heartbreak and terror occurring across the nation, I am reminded of my last patient of the morning. She was a kind woman who had gotten her hand slammed in her back door and came in with a bloodied finger. As I washed her finger off and started to stitch it back together, the background news she was watching was reporting about the events of the night, of the officers that had lost their lives. About the presumed shooter that was now dead. There was anger and hatred in the man’s voice that I could hear giving a speech. He was saying how police officers have been made targets, ultimately faulting our president. I listened while hunched over the bright light shining overhead, carefully pulling together wound edges with each stitch. The woman said, “I just worry about my grandbaby. She is 10 months old. She is my world.  Do you want to see her picture?” Of course I wanted to see her picture.

In the midst of all this hatred, we turn to our loved ones. We worry about their future. We feel heartbreak for those that can no longer worry about their loved ones’ futures. In the midst of all this, I remember the love. During this hateful, angry broadcast, I will remember this woman’s love for her granddaughter and the picture she eagerly presented of her granddaughter in that adorable ruffle-butt swimsuit, proudly standing while holding onto an oak cabinet.

None of us can predict where we go from here. We hope that we will start to unite. Start to heal together. Start to propagate love. And this starts with you and me. This starts with us and extends to those around us, especially to our children.

There are a few things I am absolutely intolerant about with my children.

  1. Acting unkindly towards others
  2. Disrespect
  3. Acting without compassion

I have zero tolerance for these things. There is absolutely no circumstance in which hateful, disrespectful, heartless behavior is valid and acceptable. My kids know that any such behavior will be met with their mother’s wrath. They know better.

And here we are. As a nation of Americans. Propagating hate. Propagating disrespect. Trying to find the right steps forward in the aftermath of heartless crimes.

The one thing I take solace in right now, is that there is love and it will shine through. I will continue to teach my kids that color is just a color. That sexual orientation is no different than being right-handed or left-handed–it is a part of who we are. That females and males alike are competent and strong. That religion of any spectrum is faith that helps each individual guide them through life. That love is greater than hate.

That love is greater than hate.

That love is greater than hate.

That love is greater than hate.

 

Not Just a Notebook

~ cindylw ~ Leave a comment

I remember a conversation I had with a friend in college.  We concluded that a friend isn’t the person that flocks to you at your most catastrophic moment, but the person that unexpectedly offers to walk ten minutes out of their way to pick up the notebook you forgot but frantically need for your next class. For some reason, this conversation has always stuck with me.

This week has been one of those really trying ones. It was a week of stressful work commitments. It was a week when the summer nanny I hired two months ago said she had something come up and she was no longer available two weeks before her start date. It was a week when my dad collapsed in a grocery store parking lot and I had to gently coerce him over the phone from thousands of miles away that his collapse and ongoing chest pain were both very valid reasons for him to please go to the local emergency department. (I did not win this battle, and ultimately had to beg his friend to just go to my parents’ house and give him no choice but to be taken to the emergency department.) It was a week when I had to be steady and calm for my mom who is shaken by having witnessed my dad fall unconscious on the cement ground, not knowing what to do or how to help him. Yesterday, I hit an all-time week low, when I was trying so hard to get some sleep, any sleep, before my overnight shift, and felt close to my tipping point. It was like I had hit a hard stop. I thought to myself, “I can’t. I just can’t do this.”

This mom thing. This work thing. This juggling-of-all-aspects-of-life thing. Damn, is it hard. I can barely keep together the day-to-day; then add anything on top of that, and I am sure to topple.

So what exactly pulled me through? It goes without saying–though it is always worth saying–that the majority of what pulls me through day in and day out is my husband. Always my husband. But I was surprised this week at what I needed to pull me through. And that was friendship.

I was pulling into the work parking lot, when I parked the car and saw the flash of a banner across my phone notifying me of a new e-mail. I saw it was from our summer-nanny-to-be. I read her apologetic words of why she could no longer be our nanny this summer, and my heart sank. In that moment’s emotional outburst, I reached out to a friend that I knew could relate. Later, my mind still reeling, I reached out to another friend. Within 12 short hours, I had three potential new summer nannies thanks to friends that somehow took it upon themselves to help me find a replacement, and another friend willing to drop everything and spend weeks with my kids. I have no words for what their rallying on my behalf meant to me. There I was, feeling defeated and incredulous, and there they were, walking that ten minutes (okay, more than that) out of their way to bring me the notebook that I so desperately needed in that not-crisis but not-inconsequential moment. It was nothing dramatic. It was nothing worthy of gossip. But there they were. Friends. Delivering friendship in its greatest form.

There is a feeling that comes with friendship. It is hard to describe in one word. It is feeling accepted. Feeling you belong. Feeling respected for who you are. Feeling prioritized. Feeling loved. All of this in one bundle of goodness.

I have said thank you to my friends that pulled me through this tough week. But saying thank you makes me feel sheepish when I mean so much more than thank you. What I want to say is that I’ll remember that you brought my notebook to class for me, and next time, without a moment’s hesitation, I’ll bring you yours.

A Work Day That Ends in Sushi

~ cindylw ~ Leave a comment

Previously published on:  http://www.coffeeandcrumbs.net/blog/2016/4/8/a-work-day-that-ends-in-sushi

My husband and I waited seven years to get married; in those months after we became engaged, before I even picked my dress or wedding colors, I had already started planning for the family that occupied our daydreams. We’d have three kids; I was sure of it. We would have two boys and one girl. Of course, our baby girl would be the youngest so she would have two older, protective brothers. They would come on cue two years apart.

Instead, I picked my strapless A-line dress, we settled on red roses and ivory linens with gold trim, we got married, and we had six miscarriages.

I would get pregnant, and just as we would allow ourselves that hopeful glimpse of the first trimester final stretch, I would miscarry. It was crushing. Yet it became a cycle that I became all too familiar with. My emotions became a pattern of predictability: excitement, anxiety, devastation.

By my third miscarriage, the emotional strain of losing each baby I had lovingly carried  brought me to the point of buckle-at-the-knees desperation . . . followed by a sinking relief. I felt relief that I wouldn’t have to wake up another morning asking, is my baby’s heart still beating? I would let my anxiety wash away, replaced by a heaviness in my heart, and almost a strange sense of peace. It was a dark place to be, but a familiar dark place. A place that I could control.

In the midst of uncertainty, I even developed a miscarriage routine. Routine was something I could do. And something I could do well, on my terms. It was a way to say, “I got this.” Even if I didn’t.

 I would realize I was miscarrying, and continue through my day. Continue to care for other people, to smile and joke, when inside, I was hurting so much. I was thinking, “I know you are hurting, patient-in-my-emergency-department, and please be assured I will do my best to take care of you, but you see, what I can’t tell you is that my baby is dying and I am hurting too.”

My baby is dying right now as I stitch up this cut on your finger. My baby is dying while I try to figure out why you are having abdominal pain. My baby is dying while I tell your loved ones you are having a heart attack. My baby is dying and I can’t take care of her the way I can take care of you.  My baby is dying and no one knows it but me.

After work, I would call my husband, then stop to get the sushi I had craved since learning I was pregnant. I would go home and focus on the pain of my cramps, because that was exponentially easier than acknowledging my broken heart. When everything passed, I would mentally brush my hands off and ready myself for the next time. That was my routine. My miscarriage routine.

I was riddled with guilt over everything about it.

During this two-year period, I felt like a failure. I felt like a weak woman. I felt I was doing something wrong. I felt it was my fault. I felt guilty. I felt inadequate. I felt out of control. I felt ashamed. I had never felt so vulnerable and nothing had ever felt so personal.

A year into the process, I went to an infertility specialist and received the million-dollar work-up. Nothing was wrong. How could nothing be wrong? But test after test confirmed that, “Congratulations! Nothing is wrong!” Translation: there is nothing we can fix. I was started on this medication and that medication, because “It’s worth trying.” I was hopeful, but hopeless. I was exhausted from this constant testing of my emotional strength.

And then it was our seventh pregnancy, and this time–twins!!!! Twins!!! My excitement was quickly followed by a flood of anxiety. My husband and I kept our news to ourselves. We held our breaths.   We had been through this. We tiptoed around our fears, whispering to one another, stifling the excitement we held in our glances towards one another, and we waited. And waited. And my belly grew. And I had no cramps. And I had no bleeding. And I saw their heartbeats. Time and time again.

The infertility specialist said we didn’t need him anymore. I sat still in his clean, slightly-dated office, in the same blue upholstered chair with its thin wooden arm rests, the same chair I had sat in for two years, staring at the same framed picture of him and some big fish he had caught with his nephew, and I weighed the heaviness of his words. Then I broke down in wave after wave of tears. We didn’t need our infertility specialist anymore.

We passed three months. And four months. And five, and six, and seven, and eight!!!!! And two healthy beautiful babies were born.  They are beautiful to this day. I stare at them sometimes, and marvel at how they came to be.

Sometimes when I am tucking in my five-year-old daughter at night, I tell her, “Do you know that you are more beautiful than I could have ever imagined?” What I mean to say is, everything about her existence is more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.

When we decided to have a third, I was ready for the journey. I was nervous of going through the process again, but having had our twins, I knew it was more than worth it. The day we decided we wanted to try again, I put up my defenses against my own emotions.

Five weeks later, just like that, we found out we were pregnant. I braced myself. I was fearful this would become another pregnancy that would fall victim to my routine. I went in for ultrasounds every week. Week after week, there was a heartbeat—I couldn’t believe my ears. And then our beautiful baby girl came into our lives seemingly seamlessly. It was too good to be true, but it is true.

These three beautiful babies of ours.

I realize now after eight pregnancies and three babies and innumerable dreams for our family, there is nothing to be ashamed of. There never was. There was nothing I failed at.

 These days, when I see the chief complaint of “possible miscarriage” show up in my emergency department, I want to see that patient. Not because I can provide better care than my colleagues, but because I want to share my story. Mother to mother. I want to give them hope and I want them to know they are not alone. I am unashamed of the tears that fall from my face when I share in their grief and acknowledge my own. I want them to know it is okay to grieve and natural to feel defeated, and then it is okay to hope again when you are ready.

Sushi has once again become my favorite food. When I eat it now, it doesn’t taste the way it once did. I don’t feel like I am swallowing heartache, loss, and failure. These days, when I stop for sushi at the end of a long day, I bring it home to share with my three children and husband. We talk about what was good about our days, what could have been better about our days, what we look forward to tomorrow. It has become our family favorite meal.  No words can express what these days that end with sushi mean to me now.

I am thankful for everything I have been through. It has given me what I have, it has given me who I am, and it has given me what I have to share. And most of all, it has given me and my husband our beautiful, healthy children.

The Thing About Mother-In-Laws

~ cindylw ~ Leave a comment

I met my husband in college. Just two college students trying to make it to class and finish papers before those absurdly-quickly-approaching deadlines. We met each other’s friends, we learned about each other’s hobbies, and about each other’s likes and dislikes. We came to know each other’s favorite study spots, favorite foods; we came to understand how the other dealt with stress and success. We were different in so many ways, but we were beyond compatible and I think we both knew, this was it.

Fast-forward seven years: he proposed, I said yes, we got married. Instantly, I had another side of the family, and so did he. But what has been on my mind isn’t brother-in-laws, or sister-in-laws, or father-in-laws, though they all have their crucial places in our lives; what has been on my mind is mother-in-laws.

It’s a strange thing isn’t? You’ve grown up your whole life with your own mother, who is the center of your world. You know what a mother-child relationship is like, what it should be, based on your own upbringing; and here you are, a grown adult, being thrown into a new mother-child relationship. Except no one is the child, and really, the mother role has changed dramatically.

I think about the parallel lives my mother-in-law and I have lead. She too was present in her children’s lives from the moment they were born. She too made decisions about when she would breastfeed her children and when she would give them formula. She too decided how their foods would be prepared when they transitioned to solids. She too decided when her children would begin to potty train. She too decided what vegetables they would eat, what type of milk they drank, and what clothes they had hanging in their closets. She too planned their summers and weekends together. She too orchestrated every detail of her young family’s lives down to the socks her children wore. Neither of our families would have taken its particular routes without us in them.

I think about what it must be like to evolve from being a mom, directing every part of your child’s life, to now assuming the role of a mother-in-law and grandmother. In thinking about this, I have come to realize the most wonderful thing about my mother-in-law. No matter our differences, my mother-in-law never judges or criticizes the choices I make as a mom. I wish I could bold this, underline this, shout this through the written words on the page. She now stands witness to another person making a separate set of footprints in this path of young motherhood, with footprints that are different from her own. I imagine it must be hard at times to see another person parenting the people you love in a manner different than your own.

But. She never judges me. She never criticizes me for the decisions I make for my family.

And this is why my mother-in-law has taught me the greatest lesson of whom I’d like to be when I enter into her role.

As a young mother, struggling to navigate the raising of young children, this is the greatest gift a mother-in-law can give: non-judgmental eyes, and a gentle, but resilient ever-present support. This is the quiet, constant backing I need for my waxing and waning confidence.  This means everything to me. And while my Type A spirit, will keep me barreling forward in my independent parenting style, my mother-in-law’s influence on how I would like to be as a grandparent and mother-in-law resonate loud and clear. The best way to be–I have come to appreciate–is to respect a young parent’s judgment, way of parenting, and just be supportive and present.

Becoming a mother-in-law, I imagine, must take some adjusting to. You now share this role as the heartbeat of your family with someone you never anticipated sharing this role with.

I am so thankful to have the best mother-in-law to learn from. She has shown me what it is to be kind, to be patient, and to be open-minded. She has given unconditional support, even to a daughter-in-law that is somewhat frantic, somewhat uptight, somewhat of a neat-freak.

The thing about mother-in-laws, is that adding that title to their resume changes nothing about who they are as a mother, because our ultimate goals are all the same: to love the families we share and be present in the best way possible. I am thankful that I have a mother-in-law that gets that.

Thank you to my mother-in-law. You are the definition of love and I couldn’t be more appreciative of having you here to steady our day-to-day chaos.

Happy Mother’s Day. We love you.  Please never move.

Sweet Claire is Two!

~ cindylw ~ Leave a comment

Oh, Sweet Clarabelle! Today you are two! My heart can barely take it! I never imagined having a girl like you, and everything I could never imagine makes me so proud of the little girl that you are. You are Sass. You are independent. You are daring. You are brave. You will do it your way. You walk with confidence and the cutest diaper waddle strut. You are on a mission, and nothing will stop you. You will climb up the biggest ladder to go down the biggest slide, and if Dad tries to hover over you, you will be sure to speak your mind, and tell him, you got this. It makes your dad sweat, but it makes us so proud that this is who you are.

Even better than this fierce independence, is this crazy innate compassion you have for people. Since you learned to walk, you have learned to walk up and comfort your family when they are sad, not feeling well, or just plain tired. You will run and grab blankets for your grandparents and siblings when you think they don’t feel well or when they are sleeping. You try desperately to cover them in the blanket you found, and pat them ever so gently. I think about this weekend, and how your brother awoke from his nap a groggy, still sleepy guy, snuggled in my lap. You grabbed a blanket, put it over him, and patted him on his hair. You subsequently stopped mid-play, three times, to check on him. “Ok Dax?” you would say, as you offered him a stuffed animal, a toy, his water bottle in your effort to cheer him up. Whenever your dad sneezes, whether it be right next to you or from a room down the hall, you always turn his way and say, “Ok Daddy?” When you see your big sister crying, you squat down and put your face in hers, and babble soothing words and kiss her on the cheek. When you bounced a little too hard on my legs, and I let out a grunt, you stopped to ask, “Ok Mommy?” When you saw two dogs fighting at the park, you murmured, “It’s ok.” Oh, sweet, Claire, where does this huge heart and sense of compassion come from? It is truly amazing, and there is nothing I love to watch more than you watch over our family, with those little grunts of effort as you try to lift a huge blanket up onto the couch to cover your grandma when she is napping.

I love to try and guess what kind of girl you will be. Will you be a tutu-twirling, dancing, singing, pink princess like your sister? Or will you gravitate towards sports and getting dirty outside? I think what you have proven to us thus far, is that you cannot be categorized as any one type of girl. You love your bracelets and necklaces and headbands (or, your sister’s bracelets, necklaces and headbands.) You love being chased, tickled and swung upside down. You laugh with pure joy when you slide down the slide and fall in the mud, yelling “OW!” as you pick yourself up and giggle and climb back up to the top. You try to climb on your brother’s bike to take it for a spin, leaving your tricycle as if it is too baby for you. You are your own girl, and no one is going to define that for you but you. And all we can do is follow along—nothing could make us prouder.

You have already grasped the concept of sarcasm. I suppose there is no way you couldn’t, being part of our family. Your favorite thing to do is offer us your favorite foods, “here go, Mama”, and when I reach for your sticky, wet handful of raisins, you pull away and smile that devious smile promptly stick the handful in your mouth, erupting in fits of giggles at your trickery.

I have to bite my lip when I witness how you handle adversity. When you get in trouble, and you are sent to time out, you protest, you cry, then you settle down. And when it is time to come out of time out, you have the biggest grin on your face, trying to disarm your disciplinarian. Or sometimes, you waltz right into time out, defiantly, as if this was the plan all along, and come out, head held high, smiling as if there is nothing that you are not in charge of about this situation. Sometimes, when we are warning you that your time to listen will be over in “1, 2, . . . “ you chime in with us at “threeeee” before you decide to listen, as if we are prepping together for the next big step to finish the squash on your plate.

How can one girl be so fierce, and yet so full of fun-loving energy and compassion? We don’t know how you do it, sweet girl. But I can see it in your father’s eyes. You have your parents by the heart strings. Your brother and sister adore you, want to take care of you, and love you. We cannot imagine our lives without you.

Happy birthday, Sweet Clarabelle. Keep braving forward, and we will keep chasing after you, proudly trying to keep up with your every, independent step.

We love you always.

A Memory of Sundresses and Heels

~ cindylw ~ 4 Comments

As previously published on:  http://www.scarymommy.com/ever-evolving-marriage/

All of our mornings begin the same. We wake up as if in mid-panic, frantically racing against the clock to brush our teeth, take a quick shower (or sometimes not—thank you, top knot, for being on trend at this season in my life), throw on some clothes and get the kids ready for school. Sometimes we tag team, sometimes one of us has been up way too late with work and one of us takes the morning duties, sometimes we both have been up way too late and we both take the morning duties, or one of us takes one for the team and let’s the other sleep a little longer.

This particular morning, I can’t remember who was up late or if we were both up late, but we both got up in a frenzy, bleary-eyed, hurriedly getting ready for the day ahead. At one point, I remember being half-ready, opening a dresser drawer to grab a shirt as my husband passed by hurriedly pulling his undershirt over his head. I thought about how we have evolved.   Six years ago, there would probably have been a pause, a flirty comment about his half-dressed wife, or a playful kiss or hug. This morning, like every morning, there was a sense of immediacy. There were demands that needed to be met before it was too late, and we were already waking up, mid-rush. Our three kids’ teeth needed to be brushed, they needed help getting this arm in this sleeve or that button buttoned, and our littlest needed her nighttime diaper changed as its bulging bottom taunted us with what would happen if we waited. There was breakfast that needed to be prepped, and hair that needed to be combed and put in braids. There was my husband that needed to be ready to go to work, and my need to at least have my teeth brushed and no remnants of yesterday’s mascara under my eyes when I dropped them off in the morning. It was our morning routine of the race against time.

Yes, today, our day-to-day routine and the way we interact in these routines have changed.

I have a vivid memory of walking with my husband through the middle of campus when we were in college. It was a gorgeous mid-morning spring day. I remember the green ivy that added so much richness and life to the brick walls of those old buildings. He was walking me to chemistry class.  I remember realizing that I had forgotten a sweater to pull over my strappy dress because though it was sunny and warm outside, chemistry class was always freezing cold. I remember the gentle, lazy click of my heels on the uneven paver stones. The thing about this memory, is that I was wearing a strappy, floral dress to chemistry class. In heels. And that was who I was when my husband met me. I was this girl that dedicated an hour every morning to blow-drying and curling her hair, to getting ready and wearing little strappy numbers. And heels. Always heels. I could do anything in heels. I could do a four-hour experiment in Physics lab in heels. I could run the entirety of campus in heels. I realize this is not everyone’s college years, but these were mine. And this is the girl my husband got to know 14 years ago.

And today, that person that my husband met is so far from the person I am today. I truly can’t remember the last time I took an hour to get ready. Maybe my best friend’s wedding over the summer? And wasn’t that because we had to figure out how to iron, pin, and drape our saris? I can’t remember the last time I wore heels for more than a short evening out. Which reminds me, I really should get new work sneakers . . . And dresses? Who can live in dresses? Are you insane? The way I am constantly bending down to pick up one kid or the other or squatting to pick up the trail of Cheerios that follows my toddler through life? How would I do this in dresses? My wardrobe of athletic wear and lounge wear run the gamut of colors and seasons and serve me very well on a daily basis . . . and sometimes a two-day-at-a-time basis . . . I think back to that person I was, and can’t imagine how horrified she would be to see me now. Putting on jeans for me on a day off is a good day. Blow-drying my hair? Wow. I MUST have a special event I am going to. It’s not that I don’t take pride in how I present myself, I do try to be healthy, dress appropriately for occasions, and try to stay fit, but today, there are too many stacked priorities to have time for those things that seemed to fill my college days. While getting ready was most certainly once a priority that floated easily in my top five essentials, it has quickly been bumped down by school drop-off, grocery and meal preparation, work meetings and obligations, juggling our schedules, picking up toys and mystery bits of dried food from the floor, days dedicated to my family, laundry, laundry, and laundry.  And laundry.

I think about how relationships and marriages grow. They are ever evolving as our lives change; it fascinates me to think how so many variables can change and one couple still find unity and consistency in one another.  I wonder, does my husband ever think about what happened to that girl he met?  Does he ever wonder if we will ever be those two people who met a decade and a half ago?

Oh. But I already know the answer. There is so much more to what we have now. Right now, we have a family. We have three children with the most beautiful souls. They are kind. They are empathetic. They are considerate. They are full of smiles and happiness and joy. They are well-fed, well-dressed, and well-loved. They love each other and their family. They are these truly wonderful little people because of us.  We have taken the two of us, and have nurtured and entwined ourselves in rich, green ivy, and made it so much better.

I may no longer be that girl in a sundress and heels, but I am so much more. I am the reason we have groceries in our fridge. I am the reason we have healthy prepared meals at dinner time. I am the reason our home is furnished and there is a place for every toy. I am the person that knows where my son left his Batman watch last week. I am the reason that fruit I bought and the leftovers from yesterday will get used in tonight’s meal. I am the reason my daughter will make it to dance class on Thursday on time with her jazz and tap shoes and water bottle. I am the reason my son will start soccer in April. I am the reason our kids have a five-year check-up with their pediatrician tomorrow and the reason their school knows I will be picking them up early to get to that appointment. I am the reason our kids have clothes that fit them and bows that match. I am the reason my kids think women are strong.  I do it far from perfectly, but I am the core of our family. I am the strength, the love, the force.

Do I wonder if he ever truly wonders what happened to that girl he met 14 years ago? No. Not deep down. Because I am still that girl, but I am so much more.  We are so much more.  So, if he passes me again tomorrow morning, and there is no coy, flirty comment made, I know that it is not because anything has changed. It is just that life has evolved. Today, we show our affection in different ways. Did I tell you that last week he let me sleep in and took the kids to school and came back with my usual Starbucks drink order before heading to work? The sheer joy and melt-my-heart ode to our love that hot, steamy caffeinated beverage brought me in my five-hours-of-sleep haze just proved that nothing had truly changed. It just looked different.

My husband and I, we are far from being those college kids we were when we met. We have become an unrelenting team under a mound of responsibilities. This is the season of our lives. And we are the right people for the job. Because underneath it all, we are still two people who love each other deeply and are unwavering in our commitment to our family. We can do this, one day at a time, with a couple short cuts here and there and a couple frantic moments . . .  or daily frantic moments . . . But we will get by, and we will do it with as much respect and love for one another as ever.

 

The Sound of Resiliency

~ cindylw ~ Leave a comment

As Previously Published:  http://www.kevinmd.com/blog/2016/08/laughter-thats-sound-resiliency-hear.html

Sometimes, the loudest sounds I hear in the emergency department are laughter. It may seem irresponsible. It may seem discordant. It may seem callous. To me, it is the sound of survival. It is the sound of resiliency. It is the sound of making it through the day.

My father was at work when he suddenly became cold, clammy, and collapsed to the ground unresponsive. His staff did the right thing and called 9-1-1. He was rushed by ambulance to the Emergency Department. He had vital signs taken, an EKG done, and blood work drawn. It was an experience that shook my family. My dad on the other hand, was exasperated. He minimizes his health and upon arriving to the Emergency Department, was already scheming ways to get himself discharged. He had no such luck, and was ultimately admitted for further monitoring and testing. Today, he is back to his healthy self, and doing well.

I remember speaking with my father while he was in the Emergency Department. He commented, “All these people. Bunch of jokesters. Everything is a joke!” I could tell he appreciated it. He is not one for dramatics, and their sense of humor helped him get through that visit. It helped me too. It made me feel he was in familiar territory, that culture of humor that pervades all emergency departments across the nation.

It may seem like a strange place to hear laughter. But here is the thing. Working in the Emergency Department is more emotionally draining than I could ever have fathomed. No matter how high of spirits you are in when you walk in the door, the day will wear you down. You keep up your coat of armor, you navigate the fires, but inside, you feel yourself being broken down. It comes from all directions. It comes from the deepest sadness of sharing bad news with your patients. It comes from the confrontational situations you never wish you were in to begin with. It comes from the stress of hoping that everything is going to turn out okay in a way that will comfort your patients and their loved ones. It comes from the pressure of working fast, the responsibility of not missing any one thing, juggling too many tasks to count at one time. My words could never give that heavy pit in the stomach that follows us through the day true justice.

And so how do we cope? We laugh. We joke. We check in with one another through everyday banter to ensure that we are all still okay. It is the only lighthearted part of our days, and I assure you, we need it to get through. No day for us is a typical day. We are sharing in some of our patients’ lowest moments. We are here to provide support, to provide comfort, we are here to absorb it all, and ultimately, we find our own ways to release what we put on our shoulders. If we allowed ourselves to be consumed by our stress and our sadness from each moment, we just couldn’t come back and do what we do tomorrow.

So. I ask you. Please forgive us if our loud voices and laughter seem callous. Please know it is the opposite of that. It fuels our resiliency, it allows us to take care of the revolving door of patients coming in and out of our emergency department. It allows us to bounce back, it is our way to decompress and de-stress and face the next challenge of our days with the renewed energy and compassion that we need to get through today in the healthiest way possible.

When The Village Is Not Available

~ cindylw ~ 2 Comments

As Previously Published:  http://www.scarymommy.com/parenting-without-village-worst-days/

Last night was parenting misery at its finest. My husband was out of town, our part-time nanny and our back-up part-time nanny have both recently had changes in their schedules and are no longer available, my in-laws wouldn’t have been able to make it to our house in time, my close friend emergency contact was at an event and unavailable. So there I was. My village unavailable. Three kids. Hit with the worst migraine I can recall having in the last four years. The last time I had a migraine this awful, our previous full-time nanny had changed her dinner plans, come over for the last hour of the kids’ day, to just tuck them in because I was too debilitated to make it another hour. I awoke from that haze of a migraine to see the dishes in the sink washed, the house picked up, the kids in bed, and blissfully clean quietness. If I wasn’t already in love with our nanny before, I certainly fell hard for her at that minute, right then and there.

Well. Now the love of my life has moved to North Dakota (my former nanny—not to be confused with my husband), and there I was. Sharp, stabbing pain coursing through my left eye to the back of my neck, the nausea warning me as to what was to come, the dimmest light making me feel as if I was staring into the core of the freaking sun, barely able to keep my eyes open. I profusely thanked my type A self for pre-prepping dinner for the kids. I plated their food and poured them their drinks, then curled my throbbing, pounding, close-to-vomiting self up on the couch. I called out orders from the couch to my newly promoted baby-sitting five-year-olds. “Is your baby sister done with her food? Is she eating? Can you get her some fruit? Can you make sure she doesn’t stand up in her high chair? Can you make sure she doesn’t stick her fork up her nose?  Can you get her milk?” I had been so proud of my aspiring Martha Stewart self for making the most adorable fruit skewers with peaches, blackberries, grapes, and strawberries. Now I was cursing myself for making those damn fruit skewers, imagining my 21-month-old stabbing her unsupervised eye with a skewer. Thank goodness for my doting son that plucked each piece of fruit off the skewer for her and put them on her high chair tabletop.

It was five o’clock and I was on the verge of breaking down wondering how I was going to shuffle my kids to take a bath, brush their teeth, get in pajamas, and make it to the end of the night. I could barely move. The voices of my boisterous five-year-olds had never sounded so LOUD; they were like splitting daggers hitting me in my left eye. If I moved, I might throw up. If I spoke, this intolerable pain was going to become worse. I could feel her adorable, piercing brown eyes staring quizzically in my direction, wondering why her mama was curled up in the dark on the couch and not eating with her. She just kept saying, “Mama. Mama. Mama.” To which I answered sparingly. My five-year-old baby-sitters finally told me my 21-month-old was done eating. I took a deep breath (mostly to pep talk my stomach contents to stay within the confines of my stomach), mustered up the last drop of energy and cleaned her off. She kept saying, “Nose. Nose, Mama. Nose.” I looked at her nose. Sure enough, she had stuck a corn kernel up her nose. Had she ever done that before? No. Did I have any energy to react? No. I took some tweezers and pulled it out. “Nose. Nose, Mama. Nose.” I looked up further. Ah yes. Another corn kernel jammed up the crevices deep into her left nostril. I thanked myself for choosing to go through the years of schooling and the years of training that made me a master of foreign object removal from toddler noses. If this was the pinnacle of my MD degree, it had made it all worth it. I removed it. Checked one more time. No more corn kernels. I reminded myself that next time I asked my five-year-olds to babysit, to add to the list of sub-standard expectations, “Can you  make sure she doesn’t stick food up her nose?”  I gave her a meek talking to, using half my energy to speak to her and half my energy to keep my nausea at bay. It was 6 o’clock, and she usually goes to bed at 7. But hey, what’s an hour. So she went to bed at 6:15 because I had no more left in me to make it another hour. I was lucky to be able to put her into pajamas, a night-time diaper, and to remove one of her pigtails.

I called down to my five-year-olds to come upstairs, get their pajamas on, and we would reconvene in my bedroom. I announced it was a bath and tooth-brushing national holiday and no one was getting proper hygiene that night. They lounged in bed with me, and watched indulgent amounts of cartoons—My teacher says TV is really bad for your brain. Duly noted, my dear daughter. Thank you for the public service announcement—while I curled up under the covers, and made a cameo appearance only to expel my stomach contents in the bathroom. In never before recorded history, I asked them to please tuck themselves into bed. They rolled with the punches. My son hugged me, kissed me, “tucked me in”, and turned off all the lights, and hushed his sister, “Be quiet. Mommy is sleeping. Stop talking to her.” And without much more fanfare, I heard their doors click closed and silence. I felt so, so thankful that the day was over, even more thankful for the best kids I could ask for, and laid in the dark willing this fierce pain in my head to subside.

The pain did subside, and today, I am back to myself. I remember a colleague saying that a sick child was no excuse for not coming to work. That everyone should have a back-up to their back-up to their back-up. Well, some people are not so blessed with a village to take care of their kids. And while I am that fortunate, sometimes, the stars just do not align. I am so lucky that for me, these moments are fairly rare. I don’t know how you do it, parents out there without a village. But I am in absolute awe of how you make your family work, whatever your family looks like. Keep it up, all you parent warriors. It isn’t easy, but man, if your children are fed, their teeth are brushed most of the time, they take a bath some of the time, then hey, from where I stand, you are killing it.