Guys, this is a first draft. I'm aware it is unclear and poorly written. But I'm not editing it. Deal. I am. xoxo
As a nurse, my goal is to help people towards wellness.
But sometimes, nothing more can be done.
Some of my favorite nursing experiences were with people who were about to go Home to their Maker. Heaven was so near: the room was always crowded with people I could not see. A hushed anticipation hung in the air as messengers awaited the person's journey home.
As a nurse, I could not cure; I could only comfort. A lot of pressure was taken off. The families loved me for being present when they needed me. They loved me for leaving them alone. And they loved me for treating their family member with dignity.
One lovely elderly woman was brought in by ambulance and came into my care. Her only local son was the only family in the room. I checked with he and his mother often; and finally, it seemed her time to depart was drawing near. The son poked his head into the hallway and asked to speak with me at about three in the morning.
He was a reserved man, nearly silent. But a little boy came out of his roughened, plaid appearance as he expressed concern. He wondered if he should leave. After talking with him, I finally deduced he did not want to be alone as his mother passed away. After he asked me, I told him I would be honored to sit with him. After handing my other patients' care to the charge nurse, this son and I sat together to be with the woman who gave him life in her last moments.
All he wanted to do was sit—not touch, prop, or anything else. He was a little boy—scared of death. But I knew death comes, and that his mother was so unconscious and slow that she would pass peacefully. He was afraid of an episode; I made sure he knew he was safe as he stayed with his mother in her final moments.
I did not point it out, but the woman's face began to flicker, light-dark, light-dark, at irregular intervals. Her face was the only skin we could see, and it reminded me of the glowworm baby dolls with glowing faces that were popular when I was a girl. The woman's breaths grew more and more shallow, less and less regular, and the light would go out for longer and longer stretches of time. I thought she was gone a couple of times, but then the light would glow for just a moment. Meanwhile, her son and I sat, and I let him talk when he wanted to.
Her light finally went out. The room released a breath, and energy was vacuumed like a conduit through the ceiling. "Is she gone?" her son asked. I went to her, removed just enough warm blankets to feel for no pulse, listened through my stethoscope for breath and heart sounds, and told him she had passed away. He let out a breath. He thanked me for helping them both. And he went home to go to bed once he said his goodbyes.
The rest of the work began before the oncoming nurses arrived—calling the doctor, bathing, charting, calling donor services and the mortuary, seeing she was transported safely, and caring for my other patients. She was gone before the next shift arrived.
As a nurse, I guess life and death have been my business. I've spent a lot of myself saving the lives of others—truly. Heavenly Father has allowed me to save or have a hand in saving many. And He has allowed me to be part of others' passing.
Death was always a subject I avoided until a couple years ago. I was a young wife and mother—I needed to live. Then I had to find sense in people passing away after I and a team of others had done our utmost. Then I grew sick to the point I thought I was dying, and I didn't want to. Then I went under the knife a few times. Then I was told by countless that I was fine and to have a nice life, even though I would bid love and farewell to my husband in case I didn't wake in the morning—I felt so close to dying. Then I examined death, read books on near-death experiences, made friends with death, felt no intimidation by death. Then sometimes—often—more days than not—I yearned for death.
Or unconsciousness.
Or not being aware, or existing, or feeling.
Just going home. And though being without a body is a burden, and I looked forward to mortality for—like—ever, and it's groovy to feel stuff and whatever, I want a break sometimes. A big, fat, unconscious break.
Weird that one year you're fighting for everyone else's life, and the next you're wishing you didn't have one.
Today I attended the most beautiful funeral for my husband's sweet uncle, and cancer-dominator for over thirteen years. The talks made me laugh and cry. I felt so much love. I wanted to be a better person.
Then the last few talks hit straight in my heart. In my usual fashion, I cried silently. The impressions that kept hitting me so hard were thoughts on how Jesus Christ succors us, how God allows us to be challenged but supports us, how our test is to endure to the end. All the while, I felt the heaviness of my burdens, the grace that I experience on a day-to-day basis, and the overwhelming emotional fatigue of feeling like I will never succeed well enough even though I am doing the best I possibly can.
And I cried. I cried because I was envious.
Just this morning, as I do often lately, I prayed that if I couldn't have a break from being conscious (hating life one minute, falling asleep, and being awakened to the same life just one second later with no relief between), could I please have an out-of-body or near-death experience so I could achieve some perspective and sit on my Heavenly Parent's laps for just a little while. Oh, how I miss Them. I have always had such a HUGE eternal perspective because of this and that (too sacred for the internets). Death is an awakening, another birth, a reunion. And gosh, I miss my Parents and my Home so much. And mortal life is so much harder than I thought it would be.
So yes, I'm weak. And I cried. And you can judge me.
I hated myself for crying. For being selfish. For envying so hard every person I hear about who has gotten to go Home. Because I've been fighting, and I'm tired, and I wimp out.
Bah. I'm dumb.
There was plenty of reason to be crying for missing our uncle who had left an astounding legacy of love. There were family members an arm's-length away who will ache for him in every thought. And here I was, pitying myself and being ungrateful for a life rich with difficulties.
Yes, I envied him. I wanted to be where he was, to remember what he now knows, to rush to my Heavenly Parents and feel wholeness and safety. I wanted to shed my burdensome body long enough to get some kind of spiritual recharge.
I heard an analogy about death once. It's like the testing center at BYU. You go in, you take your test, and you leave. Sometimes I would walk in with a study buddy, and we'd sit in faraway areas of the room. Always, she—no matter who "she" was—would finish first. She'd know her score before I even went back to the questions I'd skipped.
Life is like that: you go in, and some people finish early, and you see them zip to the exit without looking back. I can't speak for everyone, but it feels unfair to me—makes me do a quick check of what I can do to speed this thing along and get through my problems so I can get out of the freezing air conditioning.
Dumbledore said something about not pitying the dead; instead, pity the living. And I do.
So anyway, my mascara ran a little, and I recalled a part of my patriarchal blessing, which I read carefully just this morning. In it, faith is emphasized. Hard.
Duh! Faith!
A near-death experience would be too easy. Being numb or unconscious would not test me at all. I am meant to be alert, aware, feeling, thinking, struggling. I don't get to hand in my test early. I get to watch the testing center empty out while I work on problems I sometimes hate in a subject that is dang, dang hard.
Leaving life like I've been asking to would be too easy.
A spiritual reminder would be walking by sight instead of by faith.
I can grunge ahead seven days, but no more. Just until sacrament meeting. And sometimes I wish myself invisible until the block ends, but alas, I survive, bottom in my chair. And then it's seven whole days of enduring again. Wishing. Coveting. Regretting. Repenting. And trying to be grateful instead of angry or sad.
It is hard for me to have forgotten home so much. Until I'm in my Parents' laps again, I will never feel whole. There will always be a void. I will always want. Nothing will be quite right.
If I could have chosen, perhaps I would have turned in a subpar, incomplete test awhile ago just to get the agony over with. My brain, riddled with Lyme and other coinfections, likes to suggest this as the only alternative.
But Heavenly Father knows perfectionistic, gritty ol' me. And He knows I will be happier if I stick it out, even if it hurts so bad, even if my test is messy and smudged and has mysterious junk sticking to it from the vending machines downstairs. He knows I can complete it. He knows I'm stubborn enough not to leave bubbles open, even if I have to take a wild guess sometimes. He knows I'll sweat and stress and get the thing done. My essays will barely be legible, but the best I can do.
I'll look like I've been through a war when I hand it in. But hopefully, when Heavenly Father grades my test, and Jesus remediates it…it will be enough.