Earlier this week I swept the floor, hung a bulletin board on the wall of our house which sits almost two months later in a state of not feeling moved in yet, and I folded a load of laundry I had mananged to dump from the dryer into a heap on the couch three days prior. I stalked the clock until nap time, when I gladly collapsed into a heap in my bedroom once the house was quiet. And I wept. A silent pouring relief of tears plopped dark circles on my pillow and I cried of happiness. Tears because I was so grateful to have been able to do those three things for the first time in…. I don’t know. I realized in those moments that I have been so overwhelmed in the grief of losing myself and my normal, that I have forgotten to be so deeply thankful for the triumphs like these. I know by that evening I was scowling at myself again, because it is ever so easy to compare myself to the old me and measure myself by the things I used to be able to do, and it’s a painfully distant gap. I want to remember these moments of victory though. I want to learn to give myself grace and to be quick to gratefulness even over the wins that seem so small. It is the repeated small victories that give me the motivation to keep pressing on and leaning in; how unfortunate for them to be overlooked. Sweeping, hanging, folding… so small, but still proof of something mighty. What small victories are you celebrating today?
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Lying there in the scratchy, unflattering folds of hospital blue, the crunch of paper stuck to the pain-sweat that slicked down my skin. My eyes were fixed on a wavy, colored light that slowly melted from warm blues and greens to soothing purples and golds, and back again. I was startled by the green scrubs that began chanting at me “We are breathing in together. In through your nose, out through your mouth; nice deep breaths. You’re doing great.”
She was wrong. I’m not doing great. In the deep inhales to distract my mind, I still hear the fear even louder. The blurs of soothing light draw my focus only enough to be jolted back by the cold touch and the sharp jabbing of the unnatural. The tearing raw of my skin during weekly routines, and the endless waking and checking and measuring and eternal dripping of the life-giving liquids feels no longer a hope, but a taunting anchor or what used to be.
I hold tight the salty wet of my eyes until the dark refuge of my quilts, because sets of young bright eyes are looking, watching, being brave for me and hoping to find me brave too. Those faces are what give me war-blood to push back hard; to carve giant chunks of living that are difficult and excruciating, but to them are memories treasured. Today’s sorrow leaves me wondering what I have left to give, but just as the sun relentlessly continues to peer over the treetops to light each dark morning, I know night will bring a small refreshing, a renewing of strength, and a little more fuel to burn for each one more day.
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Hope has been a weighty word for me over the most challenging seasons of my life. I have clung to it, believed it, pressed into it. There is much beyond me that I cannot grasp, and I do not pretend to have the answers. What I’ve come to rest in though, is that whatever we are each hoping in, whether it is something tangible or not, is worth pursuing when it keeps our feet hitting the floor on the most suffocating mornings. Hope is worth clinging to when it gives us the will to keep fighting an impossible battle. Hope is worth reaching for when it magnifies our purpose and causes our love to multiply and reach far beyond our own borders. So until the time comes to lay down your battle, keep finding something that gives you hope. Keep waking up and remembering it each morning, and using it as the fuel that propels you through the thick storms and out into the sunshine of triumph.
What do you do when the day comes that you never scripted for yourself? I always joked that the only way I was going to stop working as a paramedic was when someone dragged a wrinkly, gray little me off of the ambulance, kicking and screaming. Well actually, it wasn’t all in jest, I kind of really meant it. From the day I started my career in EMS, I knew it was what I loved and always wanted to do. I never imagined myself doing anything different from that point forward. I don’t suppose we often take the time to imagine our plan B’s when our plan A is what our hearts are set on.
My plan B is a whole other story, but as I’ve been contemplating that my future may look very different than I imagined, it has made me ponder what, if anything, I am leaving behind on my path through my A plan. I believe every person has the same deep-rooted need to know that they matter and will be remembered in their absence. Maybe most of us never pause to consider until we are faced with it, but I surely have found myself wondering what kind of legacy it is that I am leaving in my wake. If I take off my badge and bury my toes in the sand next to the ocean, will the patients I cared for remember me? And if they do, will it be in a good way, or should I have done things differently? After almost half my lifetime doing this gig, what do I turn to my partner and say on the day that I take my stethoscope from around my neck and pull off my polish-worn boots for the final time?
Admittedly, there is a long list of do’s and don’ts and tips and tricks for a paramedic to pass on to her successors. After all, there is a substantial history of education and experience, and trial and error that surely could give the incoming an edge by surpassing all of the “been there, done that’s.” After so much time of sifting through all of those valuable pearls of wisdom though, it was impressed upon me that anyone can work hard enough and study long enough to become a paramedic. Rather, it was my patients that taught me what I needed to know most about caring for another human being. So, standing at the vestiges of a life-changing career, the last time to turn to my partner, I would say this…
Never give up learning, changing, practicing, updating your skills so that you can provide the best patient care possible. More importantly however, never lose sight of the souls which reside in the people for whom you are caring. You can have the best technique, the greatest training, and the most up-to-date equipment, but if you are lacking in giving your utmost attention to the delicate soul which makes everything else in that body go ‘round, then you have failed. Though you may argue that some of them are not delicate souls, I assure you that every single one of the people you are called for have a soft and vulnerable inner being that is craving compassion, validation, and love. Yes, even the pungent, homeless drunk, and the gruff, arrogant abusive man, and the lonely, obnoxious woman that you’ve run on every shift for as long as you can remember. Do not presume to know their stories. Do not come to your own conclusions about how they got the way they are, because the truth is, they have endured whatever life-length of soul-battering their years have brought them long before you even met. They are still somebody’s daddy, sister, friend, baby girl, regardless of the appearance of the hard shell you see in front of you. Their tender inner voice is still begging to be valued, and to be understood.
The greatest achievements in my career as a paramedic did not come from a high test score, a record-setting scene time, or kudos from successful resuscitations. My most valuable triumph was from the tears that flowed when I stopped to embrace a woman standing alone in the chaos, moments after becoming a widow. It was from the giggles that erupted from beneath a blood-stained blanket because I was willing to make a complete fool of myself to distract a little boy who was having the most terrifying day of his life. It was from the marriage proposal I received from the homeless man whose stench was enough that my partner at the time had begged to drive so that he didn’t have to sit back there with him. It was in the transport that I got ridiculously behind on paperwork because I set it aside for a woman whose husband had died previously at the same hospital she was now headed for, and she simply needed someone to talk with her and speak truth and peace to her paralyzing fears. It was in the frail weight of the woman’s hand I held as we transported her to hospice for her final hours. It was in the grateful faces of the parents we stopped by to check on even though it meant re-living the moments in which I couldn’t do anything to save their toddler, the conversation with the defiant little boy who desperately needed someone to see past his attention-grabbing behavior and just hear him out, and the dancing that happened with a topless drunk woman who just wasn’t going to get on the stretcher until someone had humored her. I got through some of my toughest patients by always having the mindset that I should be caring for people in the same way I would want my own parent, grandparent, sibling, spouse, child, or other family member to be treated. It made a world of difference.
One of the most poignant things I learned was when I was still an EMT, working with a seasoned and soft-spoken paramedic partner. We were on a psych call where law enforcement had already been on scene for quite some time arguing with a combative man and trying to talk some sense into him. He had called for police because for whatever reason, this man believed that his garage was full of people who didn’t like him, and who intended to harm him. He refused to leave his house with all those people there, because he didn’t trust what they would do, and he was very agitated that the officers kept telling him no one was there. The police were visibly irritated by the time we arrived and had the man explain his predicament one more time. We peered into the garage, which was as we anticipated, empty. My partner spoke to the man for a few minutes while I did a few medical checks on him, and the man explained that he would be willing to go to the hospital for an evaluation, but not until the people in his garage were gone. *Cue eyeroll from our poor, exasperated law enforcement friends, * and then my partner did the most ridiculous thing. He walked out into the garage and started yelling at all the “people.” He told them they weren’t welcome there and needed to leave. After a moment, my partner turned back to our patient and asked if the people were gone. He said some had left, but several others were still there. So, we joined forces, my partner and I, and we yelled and shooed and stamped our feet in circles all over that empty garage until a look of relief washed over our guy’s face and he announced they had all gone running. We helped him lock his house up tight, and he then proceeded to very calmly and cooperatively climb aboard the ambulance with us to go to the hospital. I’m not sure the officers on scene said anything else to us, but I do remember their faces; the wide-eyed, bewildered, astonished, half smirk, half “what in the world just happened” looks that grew smaller in our rearview mirrors. That may have been the most pivotal day of my career in revealing to me how little about patient care is actually medicine, and how much of it is about caring for the human condition. Not everyone needs a bone splinted or a medicine given or a dramatic life-saving intervention, but what they all need is to be treated like they have value, every single one of them. The frequent flier you’re tired of seeing, the alcoholic who spits on you and calls you names, the suicidal patient you want to blow the shenanigans whistle on. They are all human souls with hurts and insecurities and fears and needs, just like you and me, and if you as a first responder can learn to care for the unseen just as well as the body, then that might be the most life-saving skill in your kit. Period.
Never lose sight of the privilege that it is for us to be invited into peoples’ lives, homes, communities at their most vulnerable moments. Never forget that taking the time to know their name makes them feel like less of a job and more of a friend. Never be too proud to humble yourself and chase away invisible people if that is what is going to make your patient better. Never forget that we all share the same emotions, and the people you are caring for need your kindness and compassion just the same as you need it from others. And most importantly, never grow so callous that you forget how to be soft.
“May I never see in the patient anything but a fellow creature in pain.”
~Oath of Maimonides
Now go, run, learn, excel, amaze, transform the world all with the fuel of 2 hours sleep, a cup of cheap gas station coffee, and an adrenaline rush like a rip tide. And don’t forget to be human.
You may pick up on the change in the normal flow of my writing…. though I am doing my best to dig back to where the therapeutic pouring of my deepest thoughts come from, I am finding a new struggle in finding the right words. Perhaps C.S. Lewis said it best… “Life is too deep for words. So don’t try to describe it. Just live it.”
It seems like just yesterday we were pillow-fighting among a Christmasy pile of wrapping paper and bubble wrap, the weight of my new fire department badge was hanging proudly against the deep background of my blues, and I was eagerly shifting weight back and forth to carve the smooth edges that were getting me in shape for a new season-long adventure of snowboarding. That’s the thing about blinking; we all have to do it.
This blink, standing on that edge of adventure flashed uncomfortably quickly to the fighting for my life. I know without the lows, the highs would have no context, but I find myself surprised and restless, uncomfortable with the depth of it, and ravenous for another taste of the mountaintops. This valley is broken, so broken.
My little sister and I long ago made a habit of texting each other every day a small although valuable list of what we have found to be thankful for each day. Some days those lists come easily, some days you can tell that it was a harder day than most to find some good in, and some days well, some days when the list is something like, “I’m grateful I have socks,” you send back a whole line of emotion-appropriate emojis and a prayer that tomorrow will be kinder. Nonetheless, I am grateful for this habit she has tried to ingrain in me, because when faced with a trial such as now, there is something in me still trying to make lists of the good. I mean, not always, because it’s much easier for me to fall victim to self-pity, or fear, or anger, but let me put it writing and proclaim to the crowds that in spite of the suffering, there is very much good in my life. Every day. Even when I don’t feel like admitting it.
There have been gifts from friends who know exactly what I need…
There have been hands to hold on the hardest days…
There has been company to uplift me when I’m feeling isolated…
There have been bright and loving reminders of where I came from, to make being away from home more embraceable…
There have been friends who have sacrificed their time, their gifts, their cooking, their families, their sleep, and their tired, cramping hands to sit at my feet and rub them for hours…and never complain.
There has been no shortage of snuggles…. waking…
…or sleeping…
There have been friends who not only haven’t let me quit, but have also quietly let me attempt a few /potentially unreasonable/ things, just so I could feel like a normal person who still had some sense of control in life…
There has been beauty found in surprising places…
There has been laughing…
And laughing…
…and laughing…
For every day that I have met with fearful gasps for breath, or had to cancel my favorite plan because I wouldn’t be walking that day, that ever-cheerful sun has still risen over my brokenness, and found my dearest people continuing to show up for me. Whether I’m digging deep to use all my energy to get out for a bit, or I’m tearfully wedged among pillows, grumbling at my inability to meet the day how I wanted to, they are here, doing their best to meet my needs, make me smile, and help me learn to live with these new broken edges.
I should be counting these gifts all day, every day, but the fear and the pain and the sheer exhaustion pulls at me hard enough sometimes to shake my focus. Help me remember, will you? Whatever the future holds, these stepping stone days of getting there are rich in beauty if I am willing to let it in.
Where do you find beauty in your broken?
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There has been so much staring at ceilings lately, and so much I want to say, need to say, yet perhaps for the first time in, I don’t know,
-ever?- I am finding myself at such a deep loss I don’t know how to begin. The words start to come, gently… bravely, and then a swipe of fear and anger sends the letters swirling again into a meaningless pile. Perhaps I need one of those, what are they named? Where you hand them your disarray of crumpled papers, scribbled on napkins, and mismatched words and they turn it into a beautiful slice of neatly bound literature. Yes, perhaps I must find myself one of those. In the meantime, it’s coming. These emotions I am learning to put words to are braving the sticky ink and the foreboding pages, and they are gaining strength with the hope that someday they could be the mantra to someone else’s impossible. Someday they will be someone’s cherished slice of remembering, so I had best get to writing.
Chances are many of you have already read this, but I’m going to re-post this here so that I may reference it in the near future with a pretty important post I have forthcoming. This was originally an essay I wrote for one of my nursing pre-req classes for school. The assignment was pretty vague; it simply had to be about a learning experience. Many of my friends and family stood witness to the deep shades of gray circles that took up residence beneath my eyes as I battled life, death, and sleepless nights, all for the right to trade my EMT patch in for one that says Paramedic. My learning is never done, but here are some of the initial boot-shaking things I learned about that sparkle patch in my earliest days.
I will never forget the very first call I went on as an EMT Basic student. Only a portion of the way through the semester, that first ride-along was to give me a taste of what I was working toward, and put me to the test to see if I had what it took. There I was, sitting in the back of the ambulance, my pockets stuffed with all the equipment and cheat sheets I thought I would need in order to save lives that day. A quiet voice crackled across the radio, and my life would never be the same. Adrenaline surged through my veins as we flew, sirens screaming, toward the victims of a car accident that had called for help. It was in that moment, trying to reign in my fear and excitement, that I knew this was where I wanted to be. That first call turned out to be a simple scenario that would come to be routine for me in the months and years ahead. but it was the steps in between that changed me and shaped me into the Paramedic I am today.
Becoming a Paramedic seemed a noble feat, a position that was cut and dry; you call for help, I come save your life, we all go home at night. Those tinted glasses of naivety blinded me from some harsh realities and some amazing truths those first few months, but time and experience cleared the lenses, revealing the gray that washes between the black and white. Within a week of testing out of EMT Basic class and receiving my license to practice, I got my first major trauma call. It was the Fourth of July and I was hanging out at the fire station with a bunch of fellow members that were barbecuing and enjoying the holiday. When the tones went out, I was hustled out to one of the responding vehicles and wished enthusiastic “good lucks!” My own pulse thumped louder than the sirens as I went through every mental checklist I could think of, certain I was going to have this one covered.
I took in a sharp breath as we pulled on scene and I took in the horrific sight strewn across the road. First glance told us all this was a bad one, but two things changed me that afternoon. The first was as I walked up behind the car that was being cut apart to free the mangled driver. On the shattered glass of the rear window was a faded Star of Life sticker, clinging to the broken shards. That was when reality whispered that it could happen to anyone, even those you know and love.
The second sight that sent my thoughts reeling was the driver of the other car, standing unscathed on the side of the road, frantically pulling empty beer bottles from his floorboard and smashing them on the side of the road, trying to cover up what he had done. Is this real life? Innocent people crushed by the weight of others’ deliberate poor decisions? Why is it the bad guy makes it out ok, and our young friend is left clinging to life? This was not the heroic glory I was expecting to feel.
As my career progressed, my eyes were opened to the other truths that had been so buried in the myths I believed as a child. My parents taught my siblings and I the value of 911. We learned the dire situations that would require you to dial that number, and held sacred the seriousness of that action. Bleary-eyed and hungry after marathon dashes from call to call though, I learned a surprising practice that was all too common in the real world. 911 was a convenience, not a privilege. People called for us for scraped knees, for cracked calluses, and for feeling anxious. They met us in their driveways with suitcases packed, standing next to the family car that seemed in perfect working order, even in the ER waiting room where they felt the wait was taking too long. We raced through red lights, risking our lives and the others around us to arrive to find patients who had run out of medication and would like a ride to the emergency room; but don’t worry, your tax money will pay for it. This was shocking to me, but as much as we all hate it, there are enough loopholes in the system that this will continue to happen day after day. And we thought it was about saving lives…
In spite of the grueling demands on my body and mind, I continued to further my knowledge by moving on to pursue my EMT Intermediate license, and eventually my ultimate goal of becoming a Paramedic. Years of class and hundreds of hours of clinical time later, I reached the top. My patch sparkled with the golden threads that signified my new standing, and my mind was packed with the maximum ability to perform all the skills and give all the medications I possibly could. This is it I thought. Now I can really help people. That’s what we believe; we learn as children that when there’s an emergency, the firemen and policemen and paramedics come and fix everything for us. That is where the harshest reality brought me to my knees. I was educated and rehearsed to handle every situation. I could perform every life-saving skill in the book. What I had forgotten was that it’s not always up to me. The limp body of a two-year-old boy was hurriedly lifted onto my stretcher. As my ambulance went lurching and squealing off to the hospital, my hands took over as my mind calmed into the rhythmic muscle memory I had practiced so many times . I stabilized, supported, breathed, and provided everything I possibly could for this young life. My prayers surrounded each breath I pumped into his tiny lungs as he clung to life. I watched each miracle flutter of his heart struggling inside his sunken chest, and kept on begging for one more beat, one more beat. Later I stood at his bedside next to his parents, tears blurring the features of the cheesy grin that gleamed back at me from a photo of him taped to the headboard above his breathing tube. He held on for a week, and then he was gone. All the fancy treatments in the world couldn’t save him. I cried. I cried because he was innocent. I cried because the faces of his family were etched deep into my memory. I cried because I, the Paramedic, was supposed to have saved him, and at the pinnacle of my experience and knowledge, there was nothing I could have done.
My road to Paramedic was long and not as straight as I had imagined. It was disappointing on numerous occasions and heartbreaking on more days than I can count. I have learned that there are only few things that are black and white, and people aren’t who they pretend to be. I have learned that innately good people sometimes die, and people hellbent on being hellbent sometimes live. I have learned that no matter how capable I am, there are times when nothing I can do will help. Most importantly, I have learned that where I am willing to change, I will grow. Being weak will make me strong, being wrong will show me right, and being willing to change and learn will keep me from growing hard. There will be call after call that leaves me scowling, but in the midst of them, there will be times when I really do make a difference. And that, my dear friends, is what will keep me coming back for more.
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Ok, I’m a little late over here… my blog is having epic crashes trying to keep up, and it hasn’t wanted to let me put up my Christmas post! Changes coming soon! Anyway…Christmas…
We knew we weren’t going to be able to plan much ahead of time this Christmas, so we didn’t commit to any travel or any visitors or activities. Sounded kind of bland to me, but it turned out to be just the best. It was a quiet and very low-key, snow-dusted day with just my closest people at home. It was a day of playing and resting and soaking up the sounds of the bookend brothers and the middle sisters giggling and singing and thoroughly enjoying making magnificent memories.
We all long to have some confirmation in our lives that what we are doing matters, and that we are on the path we are meant to be on. I am a facts girl, better at analyzing what’s in front of me rather than assuming things based on feelings or expectations. This often finds me in tension, wanting that sure-fire sign that I’m headed in the right direction. I don’t always find the evlidence that I’ve been headed the right way, but here’s a little story that gave me one of those goosebump, teary-eyed, heart-twisting, wide-smile grins that in this great big world of decisions and directions, I was standing right where I should be.
Our journey into foster care and desire for adoption has had some twists and turns that weren’t part of our plan, so as we wait we have continued to look for ways we can make a difference in the lives of the fatherless. About a year and a half ago, we decided we wanted to sponsor a child who needed it. There are several organizations that provide the opportunity where you can choose a child who is orphaned or just living with their family in poverty, and you can help with their food/shelter/education/medical expenses and expectantly make their hardship a little less crushing. Because of our sweet Ellie, we are always looking for ways to be involved with children with special needs, so when we found Morning Star Foundation, an organization who specifically cares for orphaned or impoverished children with serious medical conditions, we knew that was where we wanted to help.
Morning Star’s website has a list of all the children they are caring for that are need of sponsorship. You can read a little biography about each of them and choose a child who you would like your financial support to go to. You are helping pay to feed and clothe them, as well as help them get the medical intervention that all of them are needing. I looked over the list, overwhelmed at the precious small faces of each of these young ones, each with a hard, hard story at such a young age. As I searched through the faces and the stories, there was one tiny face that quickly grabbed my heartstrings. When I stared at her innocent eyes and her delicate, girly features, my heart pulsed with the memories of my own dark-haired little girl. I scanned through the rest of the bios, and while I ached to make a difference for each one of them, none of them captured my attention quite like the little baby named Kate.
I decided not to tell Mark who I picked, and instead just handed him the list pulled up, and told him to look through it and see who he thought we should choose. A few minutes later he said, “This one. She reminds me of Ellie.” He was pointing at the picture of little Kate. “Aha” moment… yes, she’s definitely the one then. So began our relationship with this tiny little miracle a couple of oceans away. We got to help provide for her, and support her through her second open-heart surgery. We enjoyed shopping for her, and sewing a soft blanket that would be the closest we would come to wrapping our arms around her. We were sent frequent updates on how she was doing, and photos of her adorable smile as she grew and thrived.
As much as we would have loved to bring this little sweetling home forever, we were thankful to get to be a part of her story however we could. Not long ago, we received news that she had been matched with an adoptive family. Bittersweet in a way, but overjoyed to know that she would have a home and a family forever to love on her and walk her through the rest of her story.
I opened my last email update about our Kate, a little sad that it would be our last, and wondering what the rest of her journey would hold. I smiled at the picture of her held by her new, forever family, and as I scrolled down, there was that final evidence that she was exactly the little one we were meant to intercede for. There, her new name chosen by her adoptive family: Ellie Kate. Goosebump, teary-eyed, heart-twisting, smile. Yep. Right where we were supposed to be.
Don’t you love it when that happens? So much of the time we are seeking, and using our best judgement, and hoping we are doing the right thing; it’s just so good when you feel that hand on your shoulder, that peace in your soul, confirmation that yes, I can use you, and you are part of a big, big story. Once baby Kate was off to her new adventure, we scanned the list again for a new little life we could be a part of. I’m not even kidding… bright eyes, dark pigtails, meet Ellie Hope.
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Well, the last of the “first day of ___ grade” pictures have ticked through the scrolls of social media. As the breezes begin to carry a slightly cooler tune, the mamas and papas have slipped (slammed?) back into the routines of sack lunches and earlier bedtimes. The tears have been shed over the waving goodbye to all the babies eagerly walking into dorm rooms, bravely walking into high school, timidly walking into first days of kindergarten and middle school. Ready or not, the sun tanned and flip-flopped feet have scooted into the fresh darkness of scuff-less school shoes.
After months of making big decisions and gathering records and researching and weighing options, we were all ready to set sail on a new adventure as each of the kids started at brand new schools. New neighborhood, new district, new schedules, new friends, new parents, new opportunities. After such a process, I found myself mildly unamused when I received a notification from one of the kids’ old schools, informing me that my child had been marked absent for one or more class periods that day. I was quick to see to it that the confusion was corrected, admittedly with an eye roll. It wasn’t until later that the seemingly insignificant miscommunication sunk in.
The beginning of this school year finds me with one starting high school, one starting middle school, and one at an elementary school without an older sibling there for the first time. (Enter, “How did I get so old? How did THEY get so old? Enjoy them while you have them. The days are long and the years are short….etc.”) Yep, a lot of land marks for us this year. Oh, and the one starting kindergarten. That’s a big one. The very first time away from mama for more than a few hours. The very first lunch box. The picking out of the very first school outfit ever. The practicing of writing her name, and pronouncing her teacher’s. Choosing between pigtails or braids for that first day, and learning what number the little hand has to get to before mama will be waiting out front with a big smile and open arms. That is what got forgotten though; I didn’t get a phone call about her missing class. Because nobody missed her.
The words whipped the air right out of my chest, and my eyes stung fierce. That lone elementary student of mine? She shouldn’t be alone; she should be the older sibling this time, holding that nervous little 5 year old’s hand as they walk into school together. But just like the rush of cars in the drop-off line quickly dwindles to silence, the rest of the world has moved on. Her teacher still stands in front of the class and introduces herself with a welcoming smile, and her friends still dash pink-cheeked around the playground looking for one more to join their game of tag, but her teacher will never know she is absent from class, and her friends will not know they are missing her brown pigtails and her easy smile.
There will always be these breathtaking moments in the ebb and flow of grief I suppose; some familiar, some untraveled, and all of them needing to be stared in the face and acknowledged and felt. Each of these hashes on the blank timeline of my life brings the juxtaposition of experiencing wonderful new adventures coupled with wrenching absences that cannot be called in and excused. Never will hurt obscure my ability to seize the joy in these life moments, nor will the presence of great excitement mean that the potency of my empty spaces has diminished. Because I have chosen to open my heart to love, it has also been lain bare to the things which scar. These moments which steal breath and threaten to break souls may leave me grasping for words and understanding, but the dark will always be at my back at I turn my face up to wait for the sun that always comes. Always.
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Choosing Hope 
