I slept in that day, because I had forgotten to set my alarm. Had I set it, I would have woken up to NPR coverage of the planes crashing into the World Trade Center (I was living in CO at the time, and was 2 hours behind the east coast). But instead I woke up, rolled over to see the time, panicked, and raced into the shower. When I got out of the shower and was walking back to my room to get dressed, I checked my cell phone and saw that I had missed multiple phone calls from my co-worker. I called her back as I picked out my outfit.
"What's up?" I asked casually.
"Have you turned on your TV today?"
"No - I forgot to set my alarm, and now I'm racing around trying to..."
"We're under attack."
"What? What do you mean?"
"The World Trade Center got hit by a plane... and then another plane... turn on your TV."
*pause*
"Oh my God."
"I talked with [Executive Director] and we agreed that we will all still work today. We have to decide if we still want to go through with our event on Friday."
"Wow... yes... of course."
"So come in when you can. There's a TV in the office downstairs so we can keep tabs on what's going on."
Standing there, watching in disbelief, I saw the South Tower fall. And just before I left for work, I saw the North Tower fall as well.
Ten years later as I see the video footage of that day, I am brought back to my basement apartment in Colorado. Standing in my towel, wet hair dripping on the carpet, watching an unfathomably horrible tragedy play out on my television screen.
Today I pray for peace for the victims and their families - on this anniversary and every day. I pray for the people of the United States of America, that this anniversary might remind us all of our interconnectedness - that we might all be encouraged to reach out to our fellow human beings, just as we did in the days following the attacks, rather than focusing on our differences.
I came across this today. It is a letter written by Ian Adelman to his friends and family the afternoon of September 11, 2001.
"On one hand, it is amazing to see people looking out for one another as everything appears to fall apart around them, but it is deeply saddening to think that it takes this kind of catastrophe to get people to overlook petty concerns and just be kind to those around them. The saddest thing is that while we'll all remember the physical event-- most of us won't be able to remember the way we felt. If only people could hang on to that feeling of common ground with nearby strangers that such a disaster instills. If we could somehow keep that in our emotional memory, we'd be better equipped to move forward--whether in the context of a local community, a nation, or a planet."
And because I am never one to miss an opportunity to reference The West Wing, here are some incredibly poignant words spoken by President Bartlet, regarding an attack on a college campus:
"We did not seek nor did we provoke an assault on our freedom and our way of life. We did not expect nor did we invite a confrontation with evil. Yet the true measure of a people's strength is how they rise to master that moment when it does arrive. 44 people were killed a couple of hours ago at Kennison State University. Three swimmers from the men's team were killed and two others are in critical condition. When, after having heard the explosion from their practice facility, they ran into the fire to help get people out. Ran *in* to the fire. The streets of heaven are too crowded with angels tonight. They're our students and our teachers and our parents and our friends. The streets of heaven are too crowded with angels, but every time we think we have measured our capacity to meet a challenge, we look up and we're reminded that that capacity may well be limitless. This is a time for American heroes. We will do what is hard. We will achieve what is great. This is a time for American heroes and we reach for the stars. God bless their memory, God bless you and God bless the United States of America. Thank you."
God bless the memory of all those lost on 9/11. And God bless the United States of America.
Showing posts with label in memory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label in memory. Show all posts
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Monday, February 07, 2011
Upside-Down Again
It was after the Super Bowl. I was sitting on my bed, watching Glee and reading status updates on Facebook when I decided to check my work email. I usually check work email on Sunday nights, just so I know what to expect when I come in on Monday.
I saw an email from our nurse manager with the title of “P’s Services”. I was distracted as I clicked on the email, turning my head to watch the Thriller/Heads Will Roll mashup and then glancing back to my laptop screen.
“As most of you have heard by now, P passed away unexpectedly this weekend,” was how the email began.
I quite literally gasped, as I realized that my friend and colleague P was dead.
*********
P started working as a nurse in my ICU years before I was born. About the time I was graduating from high school, P transitioned from the ICU to work in the new family resource center at the hospital. The Center provides housing for families from far away, parking assistance for inpatient families who can’t afford it, computers and internet so families can stay connected, and a library of books, movies, and games to keep patients and their families entertained during lengthy stays. They also help to coordinate a parent-to-parent support network, and run two annual events that the hospital hosts for bereaved families – events that P took the lead in coordinating.
I don’t remember the first time I met P. I think perhaps the person whose job I was taking over made a point of introducing us. “P used to work on our unit – she’s one of us. Go to her anytime you need anything – she’ll take care of you.” I was told.
Indeed. When I needed the go-ahead to reserve a room for a family that couldn’t make it home, P was there. When a family needed parking assistance and was only a few hundred dollars over-income from qualifying, P approved them so they wouldn’t have to go one day without the assistance they needed. I knew P had my back, and would often go to the Center to ask a favor. She’d see me coming and say, “You again! Uh oh – what do YOU want?!” with a twinkle in her eye, and I’d plead my case.
P had an incredible combination of compassion, enthusiasm, and determination that drew me (and many others) to her. She greeted everyone with a wave and a smile, and always made time to talk. Of all aspects of her job, the two annual bereavement events were the ones about which she was most passionate, and I was fortunate enough to serve on the planning committees for both events.
But it was our nightly check-ins that really grew our friendship. I’d leave work each night at 6:30, and P would work the front desk at the Center until 7. To leave the building after exiting my office, I had to walk by the Center. I’d look for P on my way out each night, and if she was there I’d drop in and chat for a while.
It was through these conversations that I learned more about P’s life outside of the hospital, and that she learned more about mine. She shared stories about her family and I told her stories about bad dates and the perils of single life. And when I was having a rough day, I’d go to her, She’d ask how I was doing, and I’d shrug and give her a look that said, “If I talk about how hard this work is right now, I’ll probably start crying”. And she’d give me a look back that would say, “I understand, and I’m here for you if you need anything.” And then she’d make me laugh with a story about families breaking the rules in the sleep space.
*********
It has been over twelve years since my world was turned upside-down when my friend Christine died suddenly. She was just a few days shy of 20 years old. One minute she was singing with us and laughing, and the next, she was gone.
I had forgotten what it felt like… this strange, surreal feeling as though I’m in a dream, but with regular horrible, gut-wrenching realizations that I am not. That a person I have loved and cared about is suddenly and unexpectedly gone, and I am left going through the motions and trying to make sense of a life ended too soon.
I deal with death on a regular basis at work, but P’s passing has hit me hard. In an ICU, I feel prepared for death. I know that it is part of what happens in such a critical setting, and that it is my job to support the families and help prepare them for that which they can never truly be prepared. The larger hospital setting outside the ICU is my safe zone. It’s where I go to escape the intensity of the ICU. The Center was my safe zone. P was my safe zone.
Once again, I find my world turned upside-down. The Center is where I have always gone to take a break from the intensity of my work. Now it is a reminder of a dear friend who is gone and a trigger for the deep pain of a sudden and unexpected loss.
My heart breaks for P’s daughter who is my age, her husband who is not much younger than my father, her parents who have already grieved the loss of another child, and her co-workers in the Center who must be reminded every day of her absence by an empty chair at a desk full of task lists not yet completed.
My heart breaks for all of those people, and it also breaks for me. P was my colleague, my mentor, and my friend. Last week, we laughed and swapped stories of our experiences working in the ICU. Tonight I left my office at 6:30 as usual, and passed the Center on my way out. I willed myself not to turn my head, not to expect to see P smiling and waving me in to talk. But my brain still can’t believe she’s gone, and so I glanced in. And then I turned away as tears pricked my eyes and a lump rose in my throat.
I miss her so much already.
Colleagues from the NICU and the Center wrote some words about P that were shared with the hospital staff today when her passing was publicly announced:
Today we grieve the loss of our dear friend and colleague. P was loved by all who knew her. She extended her warmth, knowledge, caring and support to patients, families, staff and all who were blessed to know her.
P had a long list of admirable attributes. She was the "core" of the hospital; thoughtful, kind, compassionate, and endearing. She was a mentor to all who worked with her regardless of age, position, and experience. She was never easily flustered, and intimately understood the depth and chaos of working with families in crisis. She had a refreshing sense of humor, including the ability to laugh at herself. Her humility balanced with invaluable wisdom made her an innate mentor for colleagues at all levels who would frequently seek out her advice, support and her tidbits of invaluable guidance. Caring for others sustained P and we've all had the privilege of benefiting from her warmth and love.
Each one of us has our unique memories of P and our individual beliefs about where she may be now, looking out upon us. The one thing we're certain of is that she would embrace us and tell us not to worry for her. Her stressors are now a thing of the past. She would definitely want us to carry on in our work in caring for each other and the patients and families whom we serve. That is something that we all must do, in honor of our dearly loved and respected colleague.
P, I miss you so much already. None of this makes sense to me, but I trust that somehow this is what was supposed to happen, even if I may never know why. Thank you for your support, guidance, humor, and caring over the past 2 1/2 years. There is no doubt in my mind that I am a better person for having known you. Rest in peace, my friend.
I saw an email from our nurse manager with the title of “P’s Services”. I was distracted as I clicked on the email, turning my head to watch the Thriller/Heads Will Roll mashup and then glancing back to my laptop screen.
“As most of you have heard by now, P passed away unexpectedly this weekend,” was how the email began.
I quite literally gasped, as I realized that my friend and colleague P was dead.
*********
P started working as a nurse in my ICU years before I was born. About the time I was graduating from high school, P transitioned from the ICU to work in the new family resource center at the hospital. The Center provides housing for families from far away, parking assistance for inpatient families who can’t afford it, computers and internet so families can stay connected, and a library of books, movies, and games to keep patients and their families entertained during lengthy stays. They also help to coordinate a parent-to-parent support network, and run two annual events that the hospital hosts for bereaved families – events that P took the lead in coordinating.
I don’t remember the first time I met P. I think perhaps the person whose job I was taking over made a point of introducing us. “P used to work on our unit – she’s one of us. Go to her anytime you need anything – she’ll take care of you.” I was told.
Indeed. When I needed the go-ahead to reserve a room for a family that couldn’t make it home, P was there. When a family needed parking assistance and was only a few hundred dollars over-income from qualifying, P approved them so they wouldn’t have to go one day without the assistance they needed. I knew P had my back, and would often go to the Center to ask a favor. She’d see me coming and say, “You again! Uh oh – what do YOU want?!” with a twinkle in her eye, and I’d plead my case.
P had an incredible combination of compassion, enthusiasm, and determination that drew me (and many others) to her. She greeted everyone with a wave and a smile, and always made time to talk. Of all aspects of her job, the two annual bereavement events were the ones about which she was most passionate, and I was fortunate enough to serve on the planning committees for both events.
But it was our nightly check-ins that really grew our friendship. I’d leave work each night at 6:30, and P would work the front desk at the Center until 7. To leave the building after exiting my office, I had to walk by the Center. I’d look for P on my way out each night, and if she was there I’d drop in and chat for a while.
It was through these conversations that I learned more about P’s life outside of the hospital, and that she learned more about mine. She shared stories about her family and I told her stories about bad dates and the perils of single life. And when I was having a rough day, I’d go to her, She’d ask how I was doing, and I’d shrug and give her a look that said, “If I talk about how hard this work is right now, I’ll probably start crying”. And she’d give me a look back that would say, “I understand, and I’m here for you if you need anything.” And then she’d make me laugh with a story about families breaking the rules in the sleep space.
*********
It has been over twelve years since my world was turned upside-down when my friend Christine died suddenly. She was just a few days shy of 20 years old. One minute she was singing with us and laughing, and the next, she was gone.
I had forgotten what it felt like… this strange, surreal feeling as though I’m in a dream, but with regular horrible, gut-wrenching realizations that I am not. That a person I have loved and cared about is suddenly and unexpectedly gone, and I am left going through the motions and trying to make sense of a life ended too soon.
I deal with death on a regular basis at work, but P’s passing has hit me hard. In an ICU, I feel prepared for death. I know that it is part of what happens in such a critical setting, and that it is my job to support the families and help prepare them for that which they can never truly be prepared. The larger hospital setting outside the ICU is my safe zone. It’s where I go to escape the intensity of the ICU. The Center was my safe zone. P was my safe zone.
Once again, I find my world turned upside-down. The Center is where I have always gone to take a break from the intensity of my work. Now it is a reminder of a dear friend who is gone and a trigger for the deep pain of a sudden and unexpected loss.
My heart breaks for P’s daughter who is my age, her husband who is not much younger than my father, her parents who have already grieved the loss of another child, and her co-workers in the Center who must be reminded every day of her absence by an empty chair at a desk full of task lists not yet completed.
My heart breaks for all of those people, and it also breaks for me. P was my colleague, my mentor, and my friend. Last week, we laughed and swapped stories of our experiences working in the ICU. Tonight I left my office at 6:30 as usual, and passed the Center on my way out. I willed myself not to turn my head, not to expect to see P smiling and waving me in to talk. But my brain still can’t believe she’s gone, and so I glanced in. And then I turned away as tears pricked my eyes and a lump rose in my throat.
I miss her so much already.
Colleagues from the NICU and the Center wrote some words about P that were shared with the hospital staff today when her passing was publicly announced:
Today we grieve the loss of our dear friend and colleague. P was loved by all who knew her. She extended her warmth, knowledge, caring and support to patients, families, staff and all who were blessed to know her.
P had a long list of admirable attributes. She was the "core" of the hospital; thoughtful, kind, compassionate, and endearing. She was a mentor to all who worked with her regardless of age, position, and experience. She was never easily flustered, and intimately understood the depth and chaos of working with families in crisis. She had a refreshing sense of humor, including the ability to laugh at herself. Her humility balanced with invaluable wisdom made her an innate mentor for colleagues at all levels who would frequently seek out her advice, support and her tidbits of invaluable guidance. Caring for others sustained P and we've all had the privilege of benefiting from her warmth and love.
Each one of us has our unique memories of P and our individual beliefs about where she may be now, looking out upon us. The one thing we're certain of is that she would embrace us and tell us not to worry for her. Her stressors are now a thing of the past. She would definitely want us to carry on in our work in caring for each other and the patients and families whom we serve. That is something that we all must do, in honor of our dearly loved and respected colleague.
P, I miss you so much already. None of this makes sense to me, but I trust that somehow this is what was supposed to happen, even if I may never know why. Thank you for your support, guidance, humor, and caring over the past 2 1/2 years. There is no doubt in my mind that I am a better person for having known you. Rest in peace, my friend.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
I held him.
Disclaimer: Sometimes my job is unbearably sad. This was one of those times.
After the crowd dispersed and the room was still, I held him.
After the monitors were turned off and the bright lights dimmed, I held him.
After the controlled chaos turned to silence, I held him.
After I shared tears over the phone with a mother who couldn't be there, I held him.
After I helped to bathe and swaddle him, then make footprints of his tiny hands and feet, I held him.
After we prayed around his bedside - for him, for his family, for ourselves - I held him.
I held him in a rocking chair, and as we rocked together I stroked his downy hair and sang to him.
He was not alone.
I held him.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
She Said
"It's been five months last week," she said.
I couldn't believe how much time had passed.
"It's been a tough week," she said.
My phone call had made her cry.
"People tell me I visit his grave too often," she said.
I told her they were wrong.
"I often wonder what might have been," she said. "Did we make the right choices? Did we do what was best for him?" and then an urgent plea - "Please tell me that we did."
I comfort her and reassure her as best as I can, because I was witness to his final days and I know that he was loved beyond measure.
And as she remembers, so do I.
And for a moment, there is no talking. Just silent tears between us.
***********
I was witness. I sometimes forget what an incredible honor and responsibility that is. And I sometimes forget how important it is to remain connected to these families. To remember with them. To talk about their angels when no one else knows what to say.
More often than not, I don't know what to say. I get overwhelmed by the idea of picking up the phone to make that call, so I put if off until "later", though of course I have no clear plan as to when "later" might be.
But on my brave days, I pick up the receiver and dial the number. And on those days I am rewarded with a raw and most pure form of human connection. Those days remind me more than any others why I do the work I do.
I want to be brave more often, because it feels good to listen. It feels good to talk. And it feels good to remember the angels.
I couldn't believe how much time had passed.
"It's been a tough week," she said.
My phone call had made her cry.
"People tell me I visit his grave too often," she said.
I told her they were wrong.
"I often wonder what might have been," she said. "Did we make the right choices? Did we do what was best for him?" and then an urgent plea - "Please tell me that we did."
I comfort her and reassure her as best as I can, because I was witness to his final days and I know that he was loved beyond measure.
And as she remembers, so do I.
And for a moment, there is no talking. Just silent tears between us.
***********
I was witness. I sometimes forget what an incredible honor and responsibility that is. And I sometimes forget how important it is to remain connected to these families. To remember with them. To talk about their angels when no one else knows what to say.
More often than not, I don't know what to say. I get overwhelmed by the idea of picking up the phone to make that call, so I put if off until "later", though of course I have no clear plan as to when "later" might be.
But on my brave days, I pick up the receiver and dial the number. And on those days I am rewarded with a raw and most pure form of human connection. Those days remind me more than any others why I do the work I do.
I want to be brave more often, because it feels good to listen. It feels good to talk. And it feels good to remember the angels.
Friday, December 04, 2009
Letter to an Angel
Dear Christine -
There is another little angel flying around up there tonight. Please find him and look over him. You two share an anniversary - the kind of anniversary that people your ages should never have. And just as I will never forget that night 11 years ago, I will also never forget today.
I thought of you all morning. And as I stood with the family during his last moments, I sent a silent plea to you to take care of him up there as lovingly as his parents have taken care of him here on earth.
I miss you, Christine. I wish that you were still here to talk to and spend time with. But it's also so reassuring to me each time a patient dies to know that you'll be up there to greet them and look after them. If you can keep up that end of the bargain, I'll stay down here and look after the ones they leave behind.
Ever loving and ever grateful for your presence in my life both then and now,
Fibby
Thursday, November 12, 2009
She
She asked me with tears streaming down her face why this had to happen to her and I had no answer.
She told me the story of how it had come to this and I listened.
She shared secret truths with me her own family didn't know and I kept them as my own secrets.
She held him and wept as he took his last breaths and I held her arm and wept with her.
She is strength and beauty and fear and calm and sadness and hope and I will never forget her.
She told me the story of how it had come to this and I listened.
She shared secret truths with me her own family didn't know and I kept them as my own secrets.
She held him and wept as he took his last breaths and I held her arm and wept with her.
She is strength and beauty and fear and calm and sadness and hope and I will never forget her.
Friday, April 10, 2009
At the End of the Day
There are some days when I leave work feeling energized and elated, and there are some days when I leave work feeling as though I've been punched in the gut. Particularly difficult are the nights I leave work not knowing if patients who were in critical condition when I left will still be there when I return.
In professions that deal regularly with matters of life and death, there is a significant amount of self-care that practitioners must do in order to keep from burning out. People often think of self-care as being something extravagant like getting a massage. But actually, self-care can be as simple as turning one's pager off and leaving work on time.
At the end of days like today, I have a lot of ambivalence about leaving my work behind. I know that the only way I can continue to do my job well is to take time away from it and all of the intensity and stress it brings, but I get so invested in the patients and families that it's difficult for me to leave them when I know they are struggling. Can they get by without my support? Of course. But if I can relieve their stress or ease their sorrow or help in any way, I want to do so, and it's difficult for me to walk away. But in order to have the energy and strength to return to work each morning, I must leave work at night and try to put out of my mind the scary and sad realities that these families are facing 24/7, with no option to escape.
It has taken some time and practice, but most of the time I can do it. However, some days I find that my walk home at the end of the day has not cleared my head, and I am still weighted down with the reality of what I see every day.
Last night, after a difficult day at work, I returned home and checked blog updates before I went to sleep. I clicked on flotsamblog - one of my favorites - only to find this post. It was a punch-in-the-gut reminder to me that even when babies survive through prematurity and families bring them home from the hospital - even when they are many months and even years out from having been in a hospital - they are still fragile, and there are no guarantees.
When I returned to work this morning that reminder weighed heavily on me. And as I saw my patients struggle with their individual battles, I said silent prayers for each of them that they might leave our hospital healthy and never return.
I never knew Maddie Spohr or her parents, but from what I have read, there was a lot to love. The online community of Maddie's friends and supporters has raised over $22,000 in her honor for the March of Dimes as well as additional funds through PayPal to support her parents during this unthinkably difficult time. I am moved to tears when I think of the loss of such a small and joyful little life - and then moved to tears again to see the widespread reaction and incredible outpouring of support and love within the blogging world.
Last night my work and my outside life collided, and at the end of today I am left still reeling from the impact.
"The streets of heaven are too crowded with angels tonight... but every time we think we've measured our capacity to meet a challenge, we look up and we're reminded that that capacity may well be limitless." -TWW
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Ten Years
The night of December 3rd, 1998, an all-female college a cappella group stood singing in a small dorm room in Vermont. They sang a song called “Heaven” and then stepped out into the hallway. Moments later, one of the girls collapsed for no apparent reason. The energy in the tiny hallway went from joy to panic as the women realized that their friend was in trouble. Hours later, after the young woman had been taken to the hospital and the rest of the group sat waiting in the chapel for word on her condition, the news arrived: she had died.I was in that a cappella group, and it was my friend Christine who died. And that night changed my life forever.
Tonight marks the 10th anniversary of the night Christine died. It is a reminder to me that each of us has a limited time on this planet, and what we do with that time is what defines us. Christine filled her life with laughter and light. At her memorial service, a friend told a story about going on a road trip with her when her car started making a "ding" noise that could not be silenced. Rather than get annoyed, Christine discovered that Madonna songs had the same beat as the dinging sound, and so the two road trippers happily blasted Madonna the whole way home.
In her life and after her death, Christine taught me the importance of living life with joy and a healthy sense of humor. She also taught me the importance of surrounding myself with people who love and support me and who I can love and support in return. She taught me that as cliche as it might sound, life can be short, and the choices I make every day about how I spend my time and who I spend it with are important.
I know that I would not be where I am today if it weren't for Christine. The hours, days, weeks and months following her death taught me about the incredible support professionals can add to the grief and healing process, and pointed me towards my career in social work. Today I am fortunate to be able to provide support to others going through challenging times, and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't feel Christine's presence in all that I do.
Next week we will share in a celebration of her life with family and friends. But tonight I light a candle and give thanks for Christine and the lasting impact of her short life.
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