When a Seventeen Second Miracle turns into a personal nightmare...

So...remember when I told you about the conversation with a stranger that I had a couple days ago?

Turns out, while we were standing there talking, I was basically a mosquito buffet- a free buffet, at that.  I have fourteen (yes, FOURTEEN bites on my legs- two of which are on my right foot; heel and instep, thank you very much) and one on my left arm.  I have been itching for two days! 

And while last night at work, all the sweating I was doing in the ridiculous heat kind of kept them from itching too badly, last night in bed, I was manic.  The ones on my feet actually hurt they itch so badly.
I'm just grateful there aren't more of them.

Cool shower and an oatmeal wash (no, I mean body wash, thank you, not soaking in oatmeal) helped for a couple hours last night, so I'm going to try that again today.
After the anti-itch cream wears off and the silly dog stops barking at the empty tree (and yes, it is empty.  I prodded every branch with a stick and nothing fell out except the crab-cherries).

Isn't summer over yet?

Little PSA

I don't care how 'good' a friend you are, telling a depressed person, "But you have so much going for you" or "You should be thankful" or "You have so much to be grateful for, how could you be depressed?" is NOT helpful, good, or kind.

In fact, if you've said any of those or similar things to a depressed- or heaven forbid, a suicidal- person, you are not only guilty of cruelty, you may also be guilty of making it worse.

Watch your mouth.  Stop trying to 'figure it out'.  Be glad you're not depressed if you must, but don't project your limited experience onto those who challenge it.  Depression is real, it is debilitating, and it is an illness.
If it's not something you suffer from, that's a blessing for you.  That doesn't make it any less real for those who do.

Seventeen Second Miracle: Conversation with a Stranger

It started with a comment about a purse.

It ended an hour later.

There was nothing profound in it.  I didn't make a lifelong friend.  I honestly had to struggle to even remember her name.  We talked about her conflicts with her manager at work and about our similar outlook on men and faith and sex.  We didn't exchange numbers or email addresses, and if I ever see her again, maybe neither of us will recognize the other.

But for that hour, she and I connected in a very human way.  We related.  A conversation has the potential to be an intimate, spiritual experience.  Not because all we talk about is God.  But because the spirit inside the two people involved connect in a significant way.

So today, that was my Seventeen Second Miracle.

Because I wasn't the one who commented on the purse.  She didn't even have one.  In fact, I was trying to keep my head down and avoid small talk (I hate making small talk).  But her efforts at engaging me in conversation made for an enjoyable hour spent being social- an opportunity someone like me doesn't often get.

Tears as prayers

As some of you may know, last week, I lost my full time client.  I've taken care of her for a year an a half- first two days a week, then three, and for the past five months, four days a week (literally, I lived with her four days a week.  I spent more time with her than without her).

Her passing wasn't dramatic- there was no earthquake or crash of thunder.  I'm sure the angels celebrated, and I have this vision of her raising her cocktail glass in heaven.  She simply...stopped breathing.

I was trying to read the book of Acts to her, but my tears kept getting in the way, so I just held her hand.  Her loss is felt, definitely, but it didn't break me.  Not with God holding me up this past week.

Not many people realized what happened.  This is one of the costs of being a loner, I get that.  But I'm finally ready to talk about it.  I'll keep her in my heart- because that's where you keep family.

I've spent the past week cleaning and praying and thinking.  Some crying, but not as much of it as I thought.  I can't cry.  She's where she belongs, and someday I'll see her again.  We'll have a drink when I get home. :)

Now that's an image I know she'd like.

But tears or no, losing her has left a huge hole in my life and my heart.  I'll always miss her, and whenever that missing hits me, I'll cry.  That's what you do when you lose someone you love.

God knows.

Don't tell me how to do my job

I'm so tired. 

Tired of worrying.  Tired of working.  Tired of watching people I love die.

I haven't been sleeping well.  My apartment is a mess.  I haven't been to church in more than a month.  I feel too much and yet nothing at the same time.

End of life care is not for the faint of heart.  Trust me, I speak from experience.  It is grueling, heart-breaking, soul-piercing work.

I've had people say to me, "How can you be so tired all the time?  I work nine hour days lifting and hauling, and I'm never as tired as you say you are."  I've had people say to me, "Try being on your feet eight hours straight and then tell me how tired you are!"  I've even had people tell me, "You've got it so easy!  You get to sit around and play with old people all day!"

I can pretty much guarantee that every single one of those people is 100% ignorant of what it is that I, and so many like me, actually do.

So here's a basic idea of things I'm trained to do:

• empty catheter and colostomy bags
• light housekeeping: vacuuming, dusting, sweeping, mopping, scrubbing toilets/commodes, cleaning sinks and showers, laundry, washing dishes
• cooking
• changing bed linens
• transferring non-ambulatory clients from chair to wheelchair to bed to toilet; sometimes, we use a tool called a gait belt, if our clients allow it.  Other times, there's a lot of pulling and lifting involved.
• if a client is bed-bound, we change diapers, give bed baths, lift and roll, sometimes while the client is actively resisting our efforts.
• personal cares, such as brushing teeth and hair, assisting with showers, sponge baths
• pushing wheelchairs if clients want to go for a "walk"

(I'm also CPR certified, and I not only know how to empty a colostomy bag, once upon a time, I learned how to change them, too.)

These are just things I've had actual training to do.  Here are some of the things I do that I was never trained to do:

• spend more than 50% of my week at another person's house, where I sleep on a couch if I sleep at all
• get up multiple times in a night when my client has trouble sleeping or is in pain
• invest my time, energy, and heart into someone who is not related to me by blood
• spend my free time thinking of ways to engage my clients' interest
• make sure the family is kept informed; usually doing this myself, since the office I work for isn't into the daily details so much as the bigger picture of service.

So the next time you want to hang out and I beg off because I'm too tired, don't ask me how I can be so tired.  Just let me take my nap and ask me again later.  Or better yet, come to work with me, and I'll show you how I can be so tired.

Because I can

These arts are brought to you by Brooke Clayton (aka Tsuzukikun) who is one of my very favorite artists.

 

Her renditions of my character, Sweetbreeze. 

No, you don't have to get it.  The point is, I love them.

It's been on my mind lately.

Dealing with the anticipation of grief is almost as difficult as dealing with the grief itself once it comes.

Some people might read that and think ‘why anticipate grief if you know it’s coming anyway?’ 

Can you really help it?  Yes, maybe it seems like you’re compounding the grief unnecessarily- it brings to mind the argument that worrying about something doesn’t make it come any faster, but it can give you ulcers.

I’m a caregiver.  It’s more than just my job.  According to my mother, I’m patient and compassionate and it’s a good fit for me.  I think she sees me as being better than I actually am, but I’m not complaining.  It’s nice when people think you’re better than you are.  At least with me, it makes me want to be better than I am.

Unfortunately, being a caregiver comes with certain risks.  Not the risks you might think.  Aside from the occasional injury from trying to lift too much at odd angles, most of the risks of my job are emotional and mental.  It’s almost impossible to avoid developing close relationships with clients, especially when you spend all your time at work with only one or two clients.  Since I work long shifts with the same client, I can’t stop myself from falling in love.

The first time I had a client pass away, it devastated me.  I was useless for two days afterwards (I literally slept all day following her death at my parents’ house and then finally made it home- my mother demanded I call her when I got there just to make sure I was okay), and almost numb for the following week (I couldn’t even go to the funeral by myself; my parents came with me and we stayed a grand total of seven minutes- long enough to hug my client’s ‘girl’ and deliver my condolences to the children).

I remember how much that hurt.  I remember how it felt, to lose someone who had been almost completely the center of my life for more than a year.  My life went on- it couldn’t not, even I know that.  But I still miss her.  On the anniversary of her death, I was a wreck.  I still miss her, still think about her.

Now, I’m observing her later condition in a client I have now, and the memory of those feelings comes rushing back to me, prodding me with the dread of what will happen when she passes.  When you go through something like that once, it’s painful enough.  I’m not even thirty, and this is what I’ve chosen to do with my life.  I have my life to look forward to repeating this experience of loss over and over again.

I’ve been wondering lately if I might be something of a masochist.  After all, there has to be something wrong with someone who actually chooses to experience such deep emotional pain over and over throughout their life.

But the thing is…I really wouldn’t trade the good times, the relationships I form with my clients- and even, by extension, my clients’ families- for anything, not even the pain of loss and grief.