And no one ever knows how to really say goodbye...

I guess I feel that I can be completely, totally honest with what life has been teaching me...
only here....
here in this silent world of the blog...
late at night...
when I know that few are awake.
Perhaps it's less revealing
when I know people will not read this until after it has lived on the pages of this blog for several hours...
perhaps I think it loses it's raw power,
because really, words never seem to fit what I wanted to describe.

I don't always talk about work. But I am definitely a girl who takes her work home with her. I can seperate it, but I take it with me. I take the deep impressions, the learning; I take the experiences, the pain, the tears of those I work with home with me. Because their grief has taught me more about life and love than any book, any class, any person could. That's the only way I can still live my life knowing God...if I can fit what I see into my understanding or agree not to understand. There is a lot I don't understand...

I love photography, and have been taking photographs for people at work....senior pictures, baby profiles, family pictures, christmas greeting cards, weddings, and so on...If there are ever needs on the unit to take a picture of a baby, or document a certain milestone in a patient's care, the nurses come to me. It is an honor, really.

Yesterday, they said they needed me to print off some pictures (few know how to work with the computer software) for the family whose baby we had just coded and lost. I pulled up the pictures, and realized that there were none of the mother and daughter together, none of the baby's face without all of the tubes, lines, and tape covering her precious face. I winced at the idea of not having these documented memories. The mother walked into the unit to ask if someone would come and sit with her a while, as she held her minature daughter's lifeless body in her arms....trying to say goodbye. I volunteered, and followed her into the hallway, to a private room. Her daughter was still bloody from all of the IV starts that had been unsuccessful in the harrowing attempt to save her life. And so I cleaned her as she lay in my lap...and swaddled her with a blanket. I asked the mother if she wanted a few pictures of her daughter without all of the tubes. She looked worried. I told her I would print them off in black and white so that you could not see her pale blue-colored skin. Her eyebrows fell in relaxation. And so I told her just to hold her baby. I took a few pictures, and then she lifted her daughter up, and kissed her squarely on the mouth, eyes closed and face strong with emotion. That picture was the single-most powerful picture of love and grief I have ever witnessed. And then she started to weep and sob. I pulled her close and this grown woman wept in my arms. I can't even remember what I said, but she wept with thankfulness.

I calmly made my way to the bathroom and clapped my hand over my mouth, leaning hard against the sink, stifling back the sobbing heart within my throat. I can't explain, but I realized at that moment what I do day in and day out with a new sense of awe. I am a part of saving lives. I cried because of the weight of responsibility...I cried because of the beauty and the fear in it.

So sorry, dear reader, for the frequency of emotional postings....