libsloves

[libsloves]

An Angsty Kind of Monday

It’s normal to be choking back tears while in the Starbucks drive-thru, right? Or, feel the need to ugly cry when a handful of songs come on your Pandora stations? There’s a Sara Bareilles lyric that goes, “I learned to cry, and I’m better for it,” and I feel like I’ve been learning that for the past 5 years or so. When you come from a family whose unofficial family motto is “suck it up and deal,” and you choose a career as a pediatric oncology nurse. . .I think you’re bound to end up ugly crying at inopportune things (like fictional characters who love each other so much yet keep hurting one another). Or, you start writing emotional, heavy tumblr posts instead of working on the 2 assignments you have due in less than 2 hours. This is the thing about grief--it often hits you when you least expect it, and it often hits you harder than you thought it would because it’s been years, and you thought you were over it. . well, never completely over it, but at least a little more healed than you actually are.

I think, working as a nurse, and specifically a nurse to cancer kiddos, creates a unique set of barriers when dealing with grief. For example, if you lose a patient while working your shift, you can’t find a quiet corner, curl up in a ball, and cry until you have no tears left. You have 3 other patients to take care of, a grieving family to love on, and post-mortem care to complete. When you go home, you’re exhausted and just want to sleep, then you’re back the next night with a new patient in the same room where you lost a kiddo not 12 hours before. Then, there’s the issue of closure.  I’ve always said that it’s an honor and a privilege to take care of patients and families during such a difficult time--when you’ve exhausted all of your options, and death is inevitable--and I still firmly believe that. The problem comes with closure. You see, you’ve walked a journey with this family that many of their own family members haven’t. You’ve become close, but you’re not a family member. It’s not your place to grieve beside the family at the visitation and the funeral and afterward. But, who do you grieve with and how? Maybe it’s your coworkers; maybe it’s something you do on your own. I don’t know. . .I’ve never really figured it out. I’ve gone to visitations, and they helped some. I’ve kept in touch with families after their child passed away, and that helped some.

I think, maybe, some wounds just never heal. I’m always going to think of Josh when I hear Ed Sheeran’s “I See Fire” from the Hobbit film because he loved the Lord of the Rings, and it was his dream to visit New Zealand and the hobbit village. I’m going to remember providing him with silly string to catch his incoming day shift nurse unawares because that was his fun-loving personality. And, every time I hear Birdy’s “What About Angels?” I’m going to think of Kristen and our many talks about The Fault in Our Stars. Then, I’m going to go re-read the note tacked on my fridge, the one she wrote me her last day on our bone marrow transplant unit. Later, I’ll probably cry as I drive down the road. Not for me, though. I cry for her, for all the things she lost, that she never got to experience. For the 16-yr old girl who cried for 2 hours every time her boyfriend left the hospital. For the girl who never got to experience prom or deciding what college to go to. Then, I’ll probably get a little quiet and solemn when my 2-year old watches Peppa Pig because I’ll remember sweet Meli and how she used to watch Peppa in both English and Portuguese, how she used to run up to me and say, “Nurse Libby, Nurse Libby” before dancing around her room and singing silly songs.

A multitude of other memories flit through my mind, and I feel like I could reminisce about patients and moments of bittersweet happiness with them for pages and pages. But, it all just kind of sits there, ya know? It leaves a dull ache and a lump in my throat. Perhaps that’s why I’ve never written it all out or started and stopped a multitude of times. Where do you go from here? What do you do with your grief and your bittersweet memories? I still don’t know. . .I guess you cry in Starbucks lines and sniffle over the songs your Pandora station generates. . .

[libsloves]

To Papa, with Love

My grandfather passed away today. He was 86, but it was still unexpected. I was trying to remember the last time I saw him. . .I’m pretty sure it was last Easter. We’re not a family of showing or processing emotions; we move straight into the doing and the taking care of things, but that discussion is for another day. Right now, I think the main thing I feel is regret. . .regret that I allowed my aversion to talking on the phone to prevent me from reaching out, regret that I didn’t go over to his house more when we were living in Georgia, regret for all the things left unsaid because I always thought “there’d be time.” I, of all people, should know what a farce that idea is, yet I chose to allow myself to believe it because it was easier. So, Papa, here are some things I wish I had told you. . . .it really all goes back to two simple words, thank you. 

Papa, thank you. . .

-for always letting me know you were proud of me--and not in a cliche way, in a genuine, deep-felt way.

-for always kissing me on top of my head, even though I always told you not to because it would make me bald like you.

-for the spending money you gave me every time I was home from college. Mom said you remembered what it was like to be at college with no money, and you always wanted to make sure I didn’t have the same experience.

-for raising my Mom to know people should never be defined or limited by the color of their skin, an impressive feat in the South during the Civil Rights Era.

-for not just being a hunter, but a conservationist as well, taking steps to establish a chapter of Ducks Unlimited in Athens.

-for having a good reputation in Athens for being a kind and generous businessman.

-for making it a priority to come to the hospital when Tegan was born, so you could see her and congratulate me, your only granddaughter.

-for giving some of the biggest and best hugs.

-for calling Mom at least weekly to check on us, to know how we were doing in Texas and what “Miss Tegan, the most beautiful baby you’d ever seen” was up to. 

-for your Christmas tradition of hosting the family breakfast and giving all the grandchildren $25 and all the adults a duck you hand-carved.

-for carving Tegan her own duck, once you saw her carrying one of ours around and petting it. 

I love you, Papa. I’m sorry I didn’t say it enough. I know you probably felt like your grandkids went on with their lives and forgot about you, and I’m sorry that I further solidified that. I’m grateful for the role you played in my life. I’m so thankful for the great memories I have of you and that Tegan got to meet you. I’m so happy you’re with MeMaMa now--I’m guessing you’re pretty happy about that too. I wish I could’ve said “goodbye.” Going back to Athens to visit the family just won’t be the same without you. . .

[libsloves]

What’s in a Decade?

10 years. It’s like the amount of time needed for something to move from “brand new” to “classic,” from “top of the charts” to “greatest hits compilation.” Today, Mike and I celebrate ten years of marriage, and, that’s just kinda weird (romance may not be my strong suit). Why, weird? Probably because I never thought I’d get married. I just didn’t see the point--people cheat, people leave. It’s just easier to be on your own--pursue your own dreams, do your own thing (cynical and independent, much? Yep!). Beyond all that, I was just a big scaredy cat. I couldn’t imagine opening myself up to someone like that, being vulnerable, putting myself in a position where they could hurt me. And, I may have allowed my fear to have a little (read: alot) more control than I should have, as in I may have learned new ways to walk to class if someone was interested in me in college, all so I wouldn’t run into them. Yeah. . . .until Mike came along (cheesy, but true). I wasn’t scared of him--he was just the cute guy playing bass guitar in the band, the one I could spend hours talking to about any and everything--our mutual love for the UK, our analysis of great literary works (Harry Potter, duh), what we saw ourselves doing in the future. . .he was just easy to talk to. Over time, I realized that sometimes people don’t hurt you---sometimes, they stand by you and support you in this crazy thing called life. They don’t keep you from reaching your dreams, they hold your hand and push you to keep going when you want to quit. And, ya know what, it’s actually kinda fun and special to be that person for someone else-- the person they want to tell all about their day, the person they want to go on adventures with, the person that pushes them to be the best version of themselves. If I’ve learned anything in the past ten years, it’s that the heart of marriage is a deep and abiding friendship, a security that someone knows you completely and loves all of you (the good and the bad). It’s also a partnership--a mutual understanding that the seasons of life bring change, but you’ll face them together. Sometimes one of you carries more of the load than the other, but that’s okay--the important part is you don’t leave each other behind. And, when I think about marriage like that--friendship and partnership, then it’s not so big and scary and unappealing. Then, it becomes one of the things in my life that brings me the greatest peace and joy (and sometimes heartbreak and angst, because that’s life), and it’s worth it. Mike Rosonet, you’re worth it. Thanks for being my person. Looking forward to multiple volumes for our greatest hits compilation ;) (was that an innuendo? I’ll let you decide!)

5 years later. . .(still #Nerds4Life)

. . .and, 10 years later. .we have no pictures together (Whoops!)

[libsloves]

Reflections on the Meaning of a Day

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. . .I have mixed feelings. As an adult, I’ve developed an increasing aversion to the “special” days, like Mother’s Day and Father’s Day because. . .they can make others feel like crap at best and bring immeasurable grief at worst.  I don’t need to celebrate a day like that. I’m a Mother. It’s part of who I am. I don’t need an entire day to celebrate that. . .it would be like having a “Libby Day.” I don’t need that either. There are so many women out there who will hold back tears tomorrow, avoid social media, and opt to stay indoors and away from others. Why? because they desperately want to be mothers, but they aren’t. They aren’t because they haven’t had children yet. . .because they can’t have children. . .because they’ve lost children (they’re STILL a mom, but there’s no one to celebrate them with a homemade card and a sweet little voice, butchering the words “Happy Mother’s Day!”). Others, men and women, had a Mother, the best Mother. . .the one with the golden laugh, the smiling eyes, and the best cuddles that could make anything feel better. The one who believed in them no matter what, would always drop whatever they were doing to be helpful, and provided a calm in the midst of a storm. But, they’re gone now, and that hole is so deep and so raw, and there’s not enough scar tissue on Earth to help them not feel ripped open, exposed, and hurting while rifling through the multitude of “ ‘I Love My Mother’ here’s 90 pics of us together” posts on Instagram. Still others, don’t know what the word Mother really means because they didn’t really ever have one. . .instead that word means disappointment, disapproval, absence, feelings of unworthiness, memories that breed self-doubt and guilt.

If you fit in any of these categories, please, please know that you matter; you are enough; you are NOT LESS THAN because this day makes you feel like an outsider, looking in on a world you so desperately wish you could understand, could participate in, could feel a part of. . .I think, perhaps we could all agree, that the hallmark of the day is love, so, really, if you are capable of giving love. . .well, then, really you are a Mother after all. So, it’s your day too, and you should be celebrated. So, Happy Mother’s Day to you. . .the world wouldn’t be the same without you. . .you are a participant that we desperately need. . .may you feel loved and celebrated.

And, to all the Mama’s out there celebrating this day, I mean you no ill will. Enjoy your day being loved on by the people who you love most and who deeply love you in return and who want to take a moment to show you with their words and actions how much you mean to them. Just, maybe, think about the others in your life that don’t have the happiest feelings associated with this day and celebrate them too :)

[libsloves]

Reflections on a Year Without Hair

1 year ago today I learned that taking off 15 inches of hair could actually mean taking on so much more. Shaving my head to raise money for pediatric oncology research through St. Baldrick’s had been on my mind for 2 years. My precious kiddos only get 4% of our national research budget, and we’ve only had 2 new cancer drugs for pediatrics in the last 25 years.  Who was I to hold on to a few inches of hair when I could use them to help fund research instead? It seemed a no brainer.  But, more than that, I thought it would be a great way to connect with my patients, to honor ones gone far too soon.  I thought I would realize what it was like to have people look at me with a mixture of pity and unease, what it felt like to be the embodiment of someone’s worst fears.  And, there were moments like that, for sure. There were times, walking the Katy Trail with my infant daughter, where I saw people furtively glance in my direction, eyes filled with sympathy and discomfort. Yet, the prevailing discomfort I felt came from myself.  I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the person staring back at me.  I was embarrassed by my shaved head and spent entirely too much time trying to find hats that were somehow flattering. I fussed over my clothing, trying to make sure it looked “girly” enough.  Normally comfortable in athletic pants and baggy t-shirts, I suddenly felt the urge to spend more time on my makeup and wardrobe to compensate for my shaved head.  It was absurd and eye-opening at the same time.   Instead of reconciling myself with the feelings evoked from people’s response to my perceived “condition,” I found myself having to work through my own issues over the “death” of my identity.  When did my perceived femininity and beauty come from having hair? It seemed ridiculous to me, yet, I’d never felt so self-conscious in my life. I didn’t want to go out in public, never wanted to be without a hat, and avoided taking pictures.  If I was in a situation that warranted going without a hat, I would catch myself muttering, “This is not me. I just don’t feel like myself,” repeatedly.  

I wish I could say that now, a year later, I’ve moved beyond those feelings, but I was never much for the “happily ever after” endings.  I still dream of the day I can put my hair in a ponytail again, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it brings tears to my eyes. You can think me absurd and ridiculous if you’d like, I won’t say the thought hasn’t crossed my mind a multitude of times. But, what I have gained in the past year is a new perspective on my patients. The idea that shaving my head would somehow help me empathize with them having cancer is naïve and honestly, rather insulting.  Receiving a cancer diagnosis is so much more than simply losing one’s hair; it’s nuanced in a host of emotions and physical challenges.  The only way to truly understand that is to experience it.  What I can say, however, is that I do, on some level, understand what it’s like to not feel like yourself, to recognize that the person others see does not truly represent you.  And, I’ve come to recognize that it’s not something you “fix” about yourself; it’s something you embrace and reflect on, which is not easy for a nurse who relishes the idea of making things “all better.” Maybe our precious teenage girls will always hate the fact that they lost their long, beautiful hair. I can’t say that I blame them, and I wouldn’t try to change their mind. Maybe, instead of telling them that they’ll save time getting ready in the morning and money on shampoo, we commiserate with them on how much it stinks to be a “baldie.” We let them embrace the crappiness of their situation. Do I want them to be defined by their disease? No, they are always more than their diagnosis, but I can’t force them to see that for themselves any more than my husband can convince me that my buzzed look is attractive.  What I can do is listen to them, let them vent, and help them navigate their seemingly ever-changing identity during this tumultuous time. We provide our patients with what we hope are life-saving medications and reassure them in times of anxiety and sorrow, but it’s also our honor and privilege to help them develop a new understanding of themselves.

My current hair length. . .