Slowly Sinking In

When I left the Birth Center a few years ago, I was emotionally drained. I had taken on a new role as a clinical coordinator and after a year of trying to appease the masses, I knew in my heart that it was time to leave. The job had become all consuming: a constant stream of telephone calls during the night, multiple resignations and lack of support from my administrator had worn me down. In effect, I'd lost my soul. I had taken a new position in management, but eventually realized that it was the art of nursing and caring for people that was my passion. I loved working in tandem with an expectant couple, encouraging and guiding them through the birthing process, then celebrating their joy at the time of the birth. Each birth was magical, life affirming and special. I viewed my role as empowering women to nurture their family, as well as themselves.

I was ultimately drawn back to the Birth Center after a two year hiatus. I re-connected with old friends, formed new relationships with enthusiastic, young nurses and re-honed my skills. I learned to master the OB Tracevue computerized documentation system, along with juggling patient care. It proved to be the ultimate challenge: focusing on entering data into the computer, clicking here and there, while trying to establish a rapport with the patient and family. A bit of a stretch for my ADD tendency. During the transition back to the Birth Center I can recall a few momentous encounters with patients and their families.

One situation in particular involved a couple, Amy and Ken who were in the throes of losing their 19 week old son, Adam. An ultrasound had revealed that Adam had multiple anomalies. Ultimately, the die was cast when Amy's membranes ruptured and labor ensued. Adam was delivered and I gently wrapped him in a blanket and handed him to his parents. Amy held the baby tightly to her and vocalized how much she had wanted this child. Ken stood quietly by her side, with one hand on the baby and the other on Amy. They asked pertinent questions that I carefully answered. Some questions I was at a loss to answer. Why did this happen? A few misaligned chromosomes is hardly a satisfying answer. I took photographs of the family, then stepped out of the room to allow them some privacy.

The next day I was assigned to care for Amy and Ken: my task was to prepare them for their discharge to home. When Ken stepped out of the room to run some errands, Amy confided in me that it was Ken's birthday and that she wanted to honor his day, in spite of their loss. She wanted to celebrate a new year in the life of her partner and friend. Amy's mother smuggled in a birthday cake and I rounded up a few nurses to wait in the room for Ken's return. He saw me enter her room hurriedly just as he rounded the corner. He later shared with me that his first thought was that Amy had suffered a complication related to the birth. When he opened the door he was startled by a room full of nurses shouting: " Happy Birthday, Ken!", followed by a rendition of the infamouse song, Happy Birthday. Ken was overwhelmed and quietly pleased, knowing that his wife had risen above her grief to support him on his day.

It's time for me to move on again, to leave behind my passion, my community, my calling. I am happy to report that Amy and Ken were waiting for me two years later when I arrived at work one morning. This time they were able to share the happy news of the birth of a daughter. I immediately recognized the name and rushed to room 202, knocked on their door, and asked for permission to enter. "It's Karen", Amy shouted when she saw me. Amy was in her bed and Ken was seated in a chair. I rushed to the bed and hugged Amy, telling her that I was so happy for them. And between them was their beautiful baby daughter asleep in her bassinet. I leaned over and smiled at their precious child. Life had come full circle. I told them that I would be leaving the Birth Center in a month and of my plans to enter the Peace Corps with my husband. I was so grateful to be able to finally see them holding the child they so dearly wanted. I feel the loss of leaving the Birth Center behind, yet again; not un-like the grief that Amy and Ken felt when they lost their son, Adam. I am ever hopeful that my new calling will give birth to a productive, new chapter in my life. After all, isn't feeling hope and giving the gift of hope, really what life is all about!

Diving Into The Unknown

I'm about to dive head first into the unknown. Diving has never been my forte, so to speak. More times than not, I've had to be coaxed into the raging surf, as well as, the placid lake. I remember distinctly one summer evening when I mentioned casually to my husband who was seated by the pool reading the newspaper: " My goal this summer is to learn how to dive." I was busily marking off milestones for my fortieth year " Do you want to try tonight?",he asked. Ah, well OK, I said with a hint of hesitation. ( Dammit, don't you hate it when people take your casual comments literally) I stood resolutely, perched on the edge of the pool, arms outstretched over my head, head bent and fell into the pool. I disturbed the water's glistening surface with a splash, then bobbed to the surface sputtering. Just in time to hear the thundering applause of my diving coach/husband. "Alright, lady", was his response as he enveloped my dripping body with his arms.
As I enter my 57th year, I'm at it again, diving into the unknown:
except this time I'm leaping into a new culture, a new country, and a new job. I'm headed to Jamaica to serve as a midlifer Peace Corps volunteer. Yes, I'm bringing along my diving coach too.

I've been an avid journal keeper for the last 30 years. OK, I'll admit that some years have been more prolific than others. It's not always possible to jot things down while one is totally immersed in the moment, busily engaged in living life. I have been known to take painstaking notes while traveling the world with my husband and children. Yup, that was me at the Mayan ruins on the Yucutan peninsula, notebook in hand scribbling notes while the rest of my family waved to me from the top of a steep staircase. I was so preoccupied with jotting down the facts gleaned from our tour guide's talk that I didn't notice the adolescent Mexican boy standing in front of me. He plaintively asked if I wanted to buy a cheaply carved likeness of a Mayan god. Not only did I buy the useless trinket, I gave him my pen. As I handed the pen to his outstretched hand, unsurprisingly empty after deftly pocketing my money, I said in my sternest voice:"I'll give you the pen if you promise me to work hard in school" It's the little details that are forgotten when memories resurface.

With that in mind, I decided to create a private blog, a diary. A repository of sorts where I can capture stellar moments, reflect on life and no doubt, vent at times. I'm about to leave behind my closest walking friends, my confidants when I depart for Jamaica. Not only is walking the perfect venue for sharing your own day to day frustrations, triumphs and failures, it makes one a better listener too. I love hearing other people's stories, their thought processes while they grapple with minor and major decisions.