Pieces of My Heart

Respiratory therapists are in the business of saving lives. As a student, training to be one of them, I get to experience this first-hand. As I follow my therapists on their rounds, I have opportunities to participate in patient care and deliver the miracle of breath, air, and life-giving oxygen to the sick and the injured. Sometimes our work is gentle and sometimes it is incredibly taxing, but it is never dull.

This week was especially intense. I lay awake at night, my mind on my patients. Their names escape me, but their faces and features leave traces on my heart. With my help, they will walk out of the hospital eventually, well again and unaware of the bond that connects us. It is a one-sided bond, created the instant a life is saved or a treatment is given, a bond of obligation. Interestingly, it is not the patient who carries this obligation, but it is I, the caregiver, who must care beyond the simple act of assistance.

A tiny baby, prematurely born, weighs less than two pounds and waits in an incubator until he is strong enough to be cuddled and nursed. I cannot walk past him without pausing to admire him and to check all his vital signs. Yesterday, he squeaked for me and my heart melted. I don’t even know his name, but he is “my little guy” and I think about him often. Sometimes I worry that he won’t be there when I return.

After her lung surgery, a woman courageously vows never to smoke again. I nod encouragement. I know how hard it is to quit, yet I am confident that she will succeed. Painfully, she shifts and moves around the tubes and wires, but I can see the strength in her eyes. She is on my mind when I leave the unit.

A young man in a private room kindly allows me to administer his treatment. He does not know that, only days ago, I breathed for him for nearly an hour while he lay unconscious. While my hands steadily worked the bag to give him air and life, I wondered what convoluted turns his path had taken to leave him here, motionless in a trauma bed.

When I walk out of the hospital at the end of my day, I leave behind pieces of my heart, scattered throughout the building. Each encounter creates a personal relationship, even if only for moments in time. Anonymously, I participate in my patients’ future and I hope that a bit of warmth follows them as they disappear from my view.

Enveloped in my thoughts, I drive home in a pensive mood. My life seems larger than it did this morning and I feel richer. Meanwhile, my heart re-grows the missing pieces and heals painlessly.

It is a wonderful thing, saving lives, but it is tiring. Perhaps I will sleep all weekend…

Masks

Halloween is only days away and I am fearful, not of the ghosts and goblins, but of the masks. I dislike masks for the same reason I loathe clowns. I sense discrepancy.
What are they hiding behind that mask? Where is the true face under the clown’s painted grin? I shudder when I see it and anger rises within me. Yet, when the rage is spent, I weep for the waste of wonder and the loss of truth.

I am reminded of the man who goes to church smiling every week, but his wretched sinful soul holds captive half of his potential. His face contorts with pleasantry; his voice wavers thinly in the attempt to disguise the undertones of human fallibility, wickedness, and pain. Perhaps you know such a man. I have known many like him. His core does not match his surface. He is a product of fear and denial: an illusion.

Then I remember the man who sits in AA every week, bearing his wicked soul, pouring out the rage and confusion of his flawed existence. Later, this same man consoles another, whose pain seems unbearable, but whose sobs quiet in comforting arms. This man knows himself and faces his demons fearfully, but relentlessly day by day. Every word he speaks rings with the grace of authenticity. Nothing is hollow. He gives from his depth. His core shines through congruently to his surface. He is real.

I wish for water to wash off the clown face, to reach below to the human warmth and vibrant life force. Smile not when your heart hurts! Do not nod agreement when you need to cry with outrage! I look at you, seeking your rawness and heat, and find it, hidden under eye lashes. Clown, you cannot lie. Mask, you shall not disguise. I will find you. Or tear you asunder.

Recipe For A Church Dropout

I found the following recipe to be very effective. Make sure you complete each step carefully. Do not deviate from the instructions.
Time involved: varies, somewhere between six months and two years.

Recipe:

1 church member, faithfully attending and tithing
1 severely disabled child
1 typical congregation
1 average preacher

First, invite the church member to every function, especially fundraisers or committees, which require much time and commitment on her part. Make her feel like part of a large family. Talk a lot about charity and the needy.

When said church member gives birth to a child with severe and profound health problems and her whole world falls apart, back off slightly. Send the preacher to make a routine call.

Later, when said church member becomes overwhelmed with doctor bills, worry, medication costs, and the horrendous lack of sleep, make condescending remarks, such as “God never puts more on you than you can handle.”

When said church member finally comes to the end of her rope and approaches you, desperate for help, listen charitably. Understand that at this point any help would provide relief, preserve a mother’s sanity, and keep a family from financial ruin or complete disintegration.

Now, offer to pray for her.

Years later, when the former church member finds support and understanding from Pagans, Muslims, Hindus, Atheists and Jews, and you hit her up for money for the new church air conditioner or the youth fund, be very surprised when she laughs in your face and says:

“I’ll pray for you.”

The Lemonade Maker

Haven’t we all heard the dumb slogan “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade”?
I’ve always resented that slogan. When I’m neck-deep in financial difficulties, sick children and uncooperative bosses and authorities, I don’t want to hear it. I want life to be easier, to yield according to my will, to give generously. I’m not about to play nice, and I’m deeply suspicious of people who do. Or, I was, until yesterday, when I realized that a lemonade-maker has been in my life all along.

Like me, my father is a realist. He harbors no illusions and there is no Pollyanna trait in his personality. Yet, unlike me, he never gives in to despair or hopelessness. There is always a light in his eyes and he approaches each day with interest and curiosity. He recently turned eighty years old and deals with the usual human frailties of aging, but to me, he is still larger than life.

Dad believes in himself. He radiates a respect-commanding confidence in his own ability to cope with any and all adversities. Though he can be shy and retiring, underneath he is rock-solid. Whatever life throws into his path, he examines, acknowledges and files away. Then he devises a strategy to adjust or overcome the adversity. In all these years, I have never seen him defeated. Irritated perhaps, annoyed, even uncertain at times when he was unsure how to face a new challenge, but never defeated.

Dad has a subtle understanding of “how things work” and often manipulates chance to his advantage. He is an accomplished pianist and plays life like he plays his beloved classical music: with finesse and discernment and a fine ear for details. A former boy scout, he tries to be prepared at all times, one step ahead of his destiny. So when life presents him with lemons, he makes his lemonade, but sometimes surprisingly throws some peaches or oranges into the mix and spices it up with a generous shot of Vodka.

I wish I had his poise and resilience and I strive every day to reach it. And I wish for his talent to take what life hurls at me and alter it enough to make it palatable. While I inherited his satirical sense of humor, I lack his confidence. Of all the people I have met, he is one of the few I consider truly fearless.

I respectfully salute all the courageous masters of reality who rise up to best unusual challenges. I lift my glass with admiration to the confident who never lose their buoyancy or their sense of humor. And I joyfully toast all the lemonade-makers out there…especially the ones who, like my father, add Vodka.