Breaking Point

I think all of us have moments when we feel something inside us break. Our perspective of the world changes. And even though we may not know the magnitude of the change with in us at the time, in an instant we know we will never be the same.

My commute to and from work is about 40 minutes. It's 40 minutes I've never complained about. Its a time to get the tears, yelling, whatever else had built up over 12-13 hours at work out before I get home an hug my babies. This is a glimpse at what happens in the worst those 40 minutes. 

 I mentioned maybe I’d tell some COVID stories so here’s one of my most defining COVID moments. Just to note…there’s this thing called HIPPA… so no details for you, don't ask, I wont answer…but also, my patients stories aren’t my stories to tell. I will let them tell their own stories if they wish. But my stories do meld with their stories sometimes so I will spare their details, but not the details of my story.

It was at the height of COVID. I had just finished my twelve hour shift and left with more hope for one of my patients than I had in a long while.

On my commute back home I found my self praying for my patient. As I drove my prayer turned more into a plea, ”God please save this one, I’ve lost all the others, but if there’s one you can save, please let it be them." I then listed all the reasons I felt they needed to live, "Please, save just this one, they’re half way there, I know it would not be hard for you."

 I often pray for patients but to this day I've never that hard for a patient.  I couldn’t even keep the prayer in my heart. It had to be spoken. And so I prayed, out loud, in the dark, behind the steering wheel, the only light was the faint glow of the speedometer and a few tail lights and headlights. It was just me…pleading to God. With full faith that out of all the patients who I had lost, he could heal this one.

The next morning I walked back into work with that same hope. The night nurse was in my patients room when it was time for report. I sat my things in my chair, took a peak in the room, and decided to see if there was anything the nurse needed. I knocked and the nurse came to the door, he opened it and said, “Hey, shits really hitting the fan in here.”

I replied, “Ok, I’ll suit up and be right there.”

The process had become second nature. At this point I had forgotten what it was like to have the freedom to just walk into my patients room. So I walked over to one of the many tables in the hall lined with PAPRS, claimed the one that would be mine for the day, placed a fully charged battery in its placed, hooked the hose to the system, and then hooked my personal hood to the hose (I will always be grateful we had our own personal hoods). On went my belt and then my hood. Half way dressed. Dressing in all the required PPE was quite tedious in an emergency. I grabbed the baggy yellow gown quickly tied it and placed gloves on my hands. I walked in and asked the nurse what was up. He said all was well until about five o’clock, then it all went to hell. The night nurse quickly filled me in on what was going on and I started helping and taking over the cares. He offered to stay but by that time it was already an hour past his shift. I only had him stay a few more minutes so our patient didn’t have to be alone while I called their family and asked them to come to the hospital. After that I sent the night nurse home and I took it from there.

Stat orders came in and I was soon giving my patient emergency meds by myself in a Hail Mary attempt to save their life. It was just my patient and I. Until their family arrived to say their goodbyes.

As the family left, I was asked if it was ok if they gave me a hug. Social distancing was the big thing especially with people outside of your own social circle. No one had asked me for a hug in over six months. At that moment I had to choose between my humanity and “safety”. I chose humanity. And given the chance again…I’d choose humanity a lot more often than I did at that time.

So I gave them a hug. I held back my tears as I held them in theirs. 

After they had left I completed postmortem care and my day went on. I had a half a shift left. 

After my shift was over, I walked to my car completely numb. Called my husband, told him I was on my way home, turned on the music way too loud and just drove. I was half way home when the yelling started. 

"What the HELL! They had every chance, every chance of making it. You couldn't just let them have a chance? You can move mountains, part seas, raise the dead, but why couldn't you just help this one person out? I've never asked you to save a life before. I've asked just this one time! It would have been so easy for you!

"The scriptures say you don't give your children stones when they ask for bread. This sure feels like a stone! Why are you letting all these people suffer! If your so good, why are all these people lying in hell just letting their bodies waste away! How is any of this mercy!?!" 

I'm not even sure I feel shame about this conversation with God. It was all honest questions and raw emotion. At this point I couldn't remember the last time I transferred or discharged a patient. They all stayed, slowly degrading and dying. I was raw, hurt, and broken. But even in my bitterness and anger towards God, He still answered.

In my heart I felt, "You had faith in me before. You believed I had a plan for all my children. I have a plan even for this one, even for all of them. Trust me."

I'm stubborn so I said, "I don't see the mercy or love in your plan. Where's the "bread"? Cause this sure feels like a stone."

"Trust me." It's all I received at the time.

I resolved to trust God. But that didn't make it easier. Seeing such cruelty of life as I did with COVID f
orever changed my perspective of the world, life, and especially of God. The bitterness of life wounded my soul that day. But I never stood still to acknowledge the wound until over a year later. 

Stay tuned for part two.