EM doc writer

I could say choosing you was the easiest decision I ever made. I could argue you’re my best choice. But the truth is, the choice was never mine to make. God put you in my path, and made sure I knew His love. Through you, every day, I feel God’s love for me. I feel His grace in your presence. I feel his forgiveness when I say “I’m sorry” and you chuckle saying “babe…”. If I ever doubted His existence, I would be an idiot. You, my love, are daily proof that there is a God up there, watching over me. You are also clear evidence supporting my theory that I’m one of His favorite children. Because, undeserving as I am, He still gave me you. I can’t understand why. I’ll never fully comprehend His reasons. But I thank Him every day for the grace of being yours, and only yours.

I read something today about the ghosts we collect in medicine. And I couldn’t help but think about my own. The 34 day-old baby that I couldn’t save. I still hear that mother’s gut-wrenching scream of pure agony. The girl whose mom had plans to go shoe shopping with the following weekend. I still visit the restaurant she worked at, and think of her every single time. The old gentleman who didn’t get his COVID vaccine, whose heart I watched stop on ultrasound. Each patient that I lost, each patient I couldn’t save. I carry them with me, every day. Some days, it feels light. I carry the lessons learned, the smiles, the saves. Some days, all I can think of are the losses. And I can’t force myself to forget them. Because it doesn’t feel fair. I feel like someone should remember them, someone who didn’t even know them. I should remember them, name them, and take them with me. Because they taught me so much. All I can hope for is that I’ve learned enough to save the next one.

Of the simple things he does. I’m sure he doesn’t even remember this one. We were at church, when a couple and their 4 daughters sat in front of us. I looked at him and said “oh my, that dad has his hands full with 4 girls”. He looked at me without missing a beat and simply said “five”. If it was even possible, I fell more in love with that man right then and there

Honestly, nothing I could ever do would be good enough to deserve you, yet God loves me enough to make me yours anyway. I don’t understand it. But endless is a good way to begin to describe my love for you. Though I know for a fact it can’t be measured in earthly units. There is a lot more than a slight touch of heaven in our relationship. In the way we found each other and the way we love each other. Nothing on earth could make this much sense.

How do you grieve someone you didn’t know? I never played catch with him; never helped with his homework; never cooked his favorite food. I don’t even know his favorite color. How is it my place to grieve for him? For his parents? For his unborn sibling he might not even get to meet? I really don’t know. But I can’t not do it. I can’t not cry. I can’t not grieve. So I do it in silence. In the silence of my heart, in the slow trickle of the tears I hide. In my boyfriend’s arms, yes. I hope he never has to feel this. But I know he does, because I do. I grieve in his arms, and allow myself to break down. The other option is not doing it at all. And I know where that gets me. So here I lay, here I cry, here I grieve. I’ve done hard things, but holding a smile in place as he showed me the car he drew is definitely on the list of hardest ones yet. I grieve in silence hoping God hears it, and hoping my pain atones for some of theirs. I don’t know, maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s my cross. I just know that unjustified grief can sometimes be harder.

If I had to do life all over again, I’d still choose you. In every lifetime, in every eternity. I hope God would choose you for me, too. Your arms are the warmest and safest place on earth. Your voice sounds like comfort and your hands feel like home. I love you more than I can say.

To the medic that’s wondering how they could have done better, gotten a different result. To the nurse that can’t sleep, because every time you close your eyes, all you can see is their face. To the tech that can still feel the ribs cracking under your weight. To all the healthcare workers that can still hear the heartbreaking, ear-piercing scream of a mother who just lost her child. To the ones who replay the conversations that made a family member cry. Be kind to yourself. Most people will never witness an ounce of what you do daily. Even if it doesn’t feel like it, these things add up. These things weigh on you. It’s an invisible weight, but boy is it heavy. It’s okay to share. It’s okay to find your own way to set the load down for a bit. I know you’ll pick it up again, because that’s who you are. But set it down. Sit, breathe, pee. Drink some water. Cry a little. Eat. Pray. Do something different before you pick it back up. Those people need you. But your family needs you more. Make sure you know what comes first

There’s something peaceful about hospitals at night. When all the bustling of the day is gone. When everyone who works 9-5 is already asleep. When it’s just the night shift. And the sick. The stairwells are quiet. The hallways are empty. You walk around and you can hear your own footsteps. Even the ill are asleep, resting. Very few are truly awake. There’s an inherent peace in that. Something that calms my heart, and brings joy to my soul. To be the one awake. Like a guardian, of sorts. Sometimes, even those I’m guarding aren’t alert. Sometimes, it feels like it’s just me and God. Talking. Playing cards. Actually, playing chess. God is on my side. Death is against us. Death is inevitable, but so is God’s timing. I’m just an instrument of His will. That’s probably why nights are peaceful. Because when you take away all the noise; when management is home, and all distractions fade, only one thing is left: God. And God’s will. It’s as close to perfect as the day can get. It’s as close to perfection as I’ll ever get. And I continue to be baffled by it.

91 years ago today my favorite human was born. And even though 1614 days ago you left us, today is still a good day. A happy one. Earth was blessed by your presence for 86 years. I was blessed with your love for 23 years. I didn’t deserve it, and never will. Your love was so kind, I never heard you utter a single bad thing. Your heart was so fun of joy that it overflowed with laughter, and rhymes, and hugs, and nicknames. My favorite one was “my little Saint”. I still smile every time I think about that. Yeah, maybe I smile with tears in my eyes, but still. My love for you, somehow, continues to grow. I didn’t know it was possible. But it appears it is. I also find it interesting that I have a pattern at work. Ever since you died, on your birthday week and on the week of the anniversary of your death, I always deal with difficult situations at work. I either have a death of an elderly person, a palliative care case that ends up passing on my watch, or I diagnose someone with cancer. The first year of residency was the hardest. Because I extubated her myself, and watched her take her last breaths. On your birthday last year I had to tell someone a patient died. She was his granddaughter. Not crying on that day was hard. I also had my COVID patient last year. And the brain cancer patient. Yesterday, it was a case of metastatic colon cancer that is all over his abdomen. Of course he was a great person, and so kind. I don’t know why that happens. Maybe it’s so I can feel closer to you. Maybe it’s God giving me the opportunity to be a vessel for His love in someone else’s life. Maybe it’s so I can pay it forward, because your doctor was so kind to us. Maybe it’s you, knowing that I’ll always give my everything to make sure that the bad news comes in a kind way. Maybe it’s so I can show the world how kind you were and how much I love you. Either way, whatever the reason is, I embrace it. I’ll take every single opportunity to feel closer to you. I’d much prefer to be able to hug you and talk to you directly. But I hope you can read between the lines when I talk. I hope both you and the patient or the family can feel my love for you in my every word, and in every silent moment. I just want to thank you for continuing to make me a better human. Even from the other side of eternal life. Happy birthday, grandpa. There’s nothing I love more than you. Well, other than God, of course. I miss you more than I could ever put into words

Whenever my feelings become overwhelming, I come back here to vent. And to put it on “paper”. I guess it’s my way of processing everything. Point being, I’m scared. I guess that’s on way to put it. I’m also excited. Thing is he’s a great guy. But I’m not sure I’m worthy of him, to be fair. I’m not sure that’s the true problem. I don’t exactly know what’s wrong. We had an awesome day. Then at the end he was like “we’ll chat when you get back” and hasn’t texted me anything since. I’ll eat the pie and tell him my thoughts. But I’m scared. My thoughts are all jumbled and I need to talk it out. But Bev and Deb are busy. So I’m here. But I’m so jumbled I can’t even write. I’ll try on true paper and see what happens

When COVID was the worst; when we had to give 8 death notifications in 24 hours; when we didn’t have enough vents for everyone; when we had to choose who to intubate; when we knew that it would be a last goodbye: we dreamed of this. We sat in the doctors’ lounge, shared all kinds of unhealthy foods, and talked about being here. We talked about Disney World, and looking at the castle. The prospect of better days were somewhat tied together by vaccines and Mickey Mouse. The light at the end of the tunnel looked surprisingly like fireworks and Tinker Bell. Thank God for better days and great friends.