Sometimes Death Gets Personal

I work in the field of pediatric intensive care.  No, not neonatal intensive care where they take care of preemies.  Pediatric intensive care, where kids fall into the category of "pediatric" from the day they are born until they are 18 (and sometimes even older).  This means that I care for a widely diverse population with problems ranging from minor to life-threatening.  We do trauma, we do illness, we do surgery, we do those horrible child abuse cases where out-of-control grown-ups shake tiny babies until they die. Yes.  Die.  We see kids die far more often than I care to admit.  I've had my share of joining parents and families at those very intimate moments at the end of a life.  We really do see the best and the worst of people in our profession.  And even though it may sounds callous, I've somehow come to a place of accepting the frequent presence of death around me.  Not to say that the tears and emotions don't well up when I hear a mother cry for her child.  I hope I never get used to that.  I want my heart to stay soft somehow - I want to let Jesus work through my heart because He is strong enough to comfort others and walk them through grief when my own heart would have to form a thick, hard shell to be able to do it myself time after time.  And in my struggle to find this balance, suddenly death reached right into my life.  From the vantage point of almost a year later, I can see that this is one BIG tool the Lord has used to keep my heart soft.  When you have walked the same walk and you really KNOW what "it" feels like, you are much better equipped to care for others.  I am thankful for that.
So, the story.  Last year, death got more personal and reared its ugly head in my own living room.  My own mother had been re-diagnosed with breast cancer after having kicked it a few years back.  This time it had spread and her doctor had run out of treatment options.  When he finally suggested calling hospice, she asked to move into our home to live out her days.  We said yes, of course, and began shuffling around our home to make room for her and my teenage sister.  Our toddler's crib ended up in our closet, and a hospital bed soon moved into our living room. I even took a leave of absence from work to pick up the extra burden (read: privilege) of caring for my mom, who quickly deteriorated physically to a very dependent state.
I can't even begin to relate the gratitude I have for the many family and friends who supported us during that time.  We had financial support, errand-runners, shoulders to cry on, a motor home parked in our driveway to offer extra sleeping and living space, and more food brought over than we knew what to do with. We even had dear friends who came over repeatedly to join us around the piano singing hymns just for fun.  My mom sure loved that.  Even after she could no longer offer her own requests verbally, we did it anyway, because she loved it.  It reminds me how important presence can be in the emotionally unbelievable, surreal moments of life.  It's hard to step into those super-intimate moments in a person's life where they really need someone, but you don't necessarily have to talk.  Sometimes (most times) presence is more than enough to soothe a tired, weary, burned-out, saddened heart.
Anyway, yesterday was Mother's Day.  It was the first Mother's Day since my own mom went home to Jesus.  I now have two boys of my own.  This is J's first Mother's Day.  He has no idea what's going on and just grins at me with that adorable chubby, toothless face when the tears start to roll.  Only a couple people during the day had even mentioned my mom.  I know people don't know what to say, and I can't blame them.  It's a tough subject.  Lots of people probably think that by bringing it up they're going to make me sad.  Here's the thing: I am thinking of her whether anyone else mentions her or not.  It reaches into my own grief and touches my soul when someone joins me in remembering her.  It reminds me that she is not forgotten by the rest of the world. There is comfort in that, even if talking about her leads to a few tears. These are the moments when presence + words = a little comfort.  Anyway, here's what I wrote in therapeutic fervor last night, after managing to make it through Mother's Day without breaking down, in my sudden need to do a lot of remembering all at once.

"Today, I miss my mom. Not many have thought or dared to mention her today. But the thoughts of her absence are a near-constant ache and a barely held-back tear today (now considerably less held-back). I think of our sweet little Jack, who she knew of but never met. I think of how she would have soaked up all his little smiles and coos like so many shining rays of sun! I think about how many words Roy is saying now and how cute each one sounds coming out of his mouth - intelligible now, but just not quite right in that adorable not-quite-rightness that only a toddler can manage. I think about those less-than-stellar moments when I lose it and how she would have just stayed quiet and let me lose it, all the while working to make it better by cleaning up my clutter or entertaining a baby or joining me at Starbucks to sit for a while. I miss having "Once Upon a Time" parties in our living room, eating ice cream and kettle corn. I miss her kettle corn that she made in her Whirly-Pop on my stove because she knew I loved it. I miss her knack for burning things and then saying that she liked them burned. I miss pump-wumps with too many chocolate chips, because that's how many you're supposed to put in.  I miss her weird addiction to Taco Bell hot sauce.  I miss the sound of her voice. I miss how she'd always sign cards and notes with "YMLY" followed by a couple hearts for good measure. I really miss watching her enjoy my own child. Man, how she loved that kid! I miss watching her enjoy my husband and hearing her say, yet again, how long she prayed for my husband long before any of us knew who he was. I miss watching her enjoy my goofy, giant dog - squishing her jowls and letting her sniff her face. I miss playing hymns for her by request. I miss rolling my eyes at her the way only an oldest child can roll their eyes at a parent. And as weird as it sounds, even to me, I miss that stupid hospital bed that sat next to my couch last year. Now in that space there sits a bassinet. Its contents are certainly cuter, I suppose, but no less beautiful, than my mother so close to her home-going. 
Don't get me wrong. I don't want her back. I would never wish a return to this earth on anyone who has tasted the glory of Heaven and the presence of our Father. And I really can't wait until we all get to join her. That's gonna be one big, stinkin' party! I don't miss my mom without Hope for the future. I know I'll see her again, thanks to a Savior who loves us ABSOLUTELY beyond measure. But for today, sitting here still on this earth, I miss my mom."

Anyway, here it is for some sort of safekeeping, I guess. I don't really care if anyone else reads this stuff.  It's my own way of working through life and work - death, life, and everything in between.  Why does writing help with processing?  I don't know.  Another one of those gifts that God gives us.  He is always good.  I wish more people knew that.  I wish more people had eyes to see that.  The thing is, it's the "bad" things that have the potential to open our eyes if we'll let them.  Bad things happen to everyone.  God is good.  You just have to open your eyes.