A memory of loss

When I was a young teenager, I was flipping through a family bible at my grandparents house one weekend. My grandfather had written in the bible the births of each grandchild. To my surprise, there was an entry for a child with no name. I asked my mother, and she told me that she had lost a baby girl when she was 6 months along. The baby died in utero, and she had to deliver it just as if she had carried it full term. She told me very matter of factly, but added that after the loss of that baby, she and my father had decided to have another baby, my brother. At the time, I had no inkling of the grief that must have accompanied that loss. My mother did not seem emotional as she recounted the story to me. Years later, I became pregnant after I had a tubal ligation. This resulted in a tubal pregnancy that burst. I had no idea I was pregnant until after the baby was already gone. Still I mourned that baby. I didn't speak to anyone at all about my grief. I felt that other people would think I was silly if they knew how I felt. After, all, I could have only been a few weeks pregnant, and I didn't even know I had conceived until it was already over. I didn't even talk to my husband about it. He never spoke of the loss of the child, and I never even thought of trying to find out if he too was keeping those feelings inside. The loss of the baby made me realize the pain my mother must have felt and I felt compassion for her. Still I didn't talk about it with her. I didn't know how. I was uncertain if I could express my feelings without becoming an emotional mess. As a child and young adult I cried so easily that I would burst into tears if someone spoke harshly or looked sternly at me. I was often chastised by my peers, teachers, bus drivers, etc., for crying so much, and it made me feel like I was doing something wrong when I cried. Each time I was upset, I would try so hard not to cry, would be horrified when the tears came anyway, then would be doubly upset because I had cried. As an adult I got to where I didn't talk to anyone about how I felt unless I felt totally safe that they wouldn't judge me as weak because I cried. This left me with 1 constant confidante, my husband. Still I judged myself as weak and believed people other than my husband also saw me as weak. I wanted to be strong like my mom. She got angry, she fought, she brooded, she worked through problems and difficulties, but she rarely cried. Because of all of these mixed up ideas of mine, the baby I lost lived on only in my private thoughts. My grief and wonder at what might have been mine were mine alone. Time has changed much. My mom has told me often that she believes I am a strong woman, and I rarely feel the old fear and shame when I cry these days. I don't cry as often, partially because I have hardened up a bit over the years, but mostly because I was finally diagnosed with anxiety and depression issues and am now on medication that helps me cope. My mom and I talk more openly about many things and I value her opinions. I regret that I didn't give her the chance to support me emotionally through the trauma of losing my baby. I think it would have been a blessing to both of us.

Emmy

Emmy is sick. She doesn't look sick. She looks perfectly healthy. She is a beautiful, sweet 7 month old baby girl, with chubby arms and legs, beautiful skin and eyes, a steady gaze and a smile that melts your heart. She is my granddaughter, and the only child of my daughter and her husband. Today I sat in the hospital with my daughter and her mother-in-law, watching all the nurses and doctors one by one walking away puzzled by Emmy. My daughter is barely holding herself together as she goes through test after test with Emmy, comforting her baby as best she can. I sit quietly, trying not to watch her too much, trying to just be there if she needs me. There is a precious moment when she comes to sit beside me and lays her tired head on my shoulder. She stays for a moment. My baby, letting me comfort her for a few brief moments before she goes back to comforting her own daughter. Emmy had pneumonia at Christmas. Even before the pneumonia she never ate what I would consider well. 1-2 ounces at a time, every 2 or 3 hours, well past the time when she should have been eating more, less often. Since the pneumonia, she has refused, most adamantly, to eat and has gotten worse as each week passes. There have been several days when she has taken in a mere 8 or 9 ounces in an entire day. Erin and Rob have done everything to get her to eat, even feeding her in the night when she is mostly asleep to try to get more liquid into her body. They have been successful in part. She has not lost weight, but she has not gained either. After working with the doctors and going to a pediatric gastrointestinal specialist, Emmy has ended up in the hospital with a feeding tube, and no one has any idea what is causing her problem. We have all had a hard time accepting that something is physically wrong with this beautiful child. At first, it seemed that she was just off her food because of being sick. Then, possibly just some weird little phase she was going through. Now it has been long enough, and the problem has become severe enough, that it has slapped us all in the face. It has been interesting to watch the doctors and nurses go through the same difficulty with grasping that there is a problem with Emmy. One of the specialists that came in to see her today was called in to determine if there was an aversion problem, or some issue with Emmy's mouth. You could see the shock in her face when she realized that she too was going to be unable to get this child to eat. At least 3 different medical professionals stood outside Emmy's crib today, gazed into her face and made a comment about being completely baffled by what was wrong. My hope and prayer is that the source of the problem will be found and that it is something that is easily controlled. I will not allow myself to think of my fears, at least not while I am with my daughter. Instead we will find things to laugh at, play with the baby, talk about what we are going to do tomorrow. Most of all, we will love each other and Emmy through this difficult time.

Reflections on a Day in the Life

In the past, I have written about doctors that I have met in the course of performing my job that have inspired and impressed me with the way they have chosen to live their lives. These women were old by the time I met them, and had become doctors during a time when doctors were expected to be men. One had given her life to serving those in the inner city, not only providing medical care, but a garden open to all in her care. Her patients included the poorest in the city, and she fought for them as if they were her own family. The other had chosen to practice in the country, established a farm, opened a cheese making business and continued to handle all 3 of these enterprises herself well into her 80's. These women and others I have met while training them on software have given me such an appreciation for what a person can become when driven by the need to serve others with excellence. I have also on ocassion come across a doctor that is the antithesis of these women, and I have never written about those experiences. However, I had such an experience recently that I think is worth some reflection. It began with a long trip to chicago. After catching a flight at 5 in the morning, I arrived at the doctors office to find the office locked and no one on the premises. I walked around the building, trying each door. After returning to what appeared to be the main entrance, I tried calling the office but did not receive an answer. As I contemplated how long to wait, a middle aged woman of eastern descent arrived. She apologized for being late and opened the door, showing me into the receptionists' work area. Based on this, I at first thought she was the receptionist. Luckily, before I asked, she told me she was the doctor and that she was running the office by herself to save money. While that was a little unusual, I run into unusual doctors all the time, and so didn't think much of it. We sat down to begin our session. As we began, she began complaining about the government, telling me everything that she felt was wrong with it. She told me that her patients were leaving her because they were afraid of the electronic record keeping and of the government having all their information. I often hear doctors complain about all the new regulations, so this did not surprise me, although I had never heard of patients leaving because of the regulations. I listened, staying as noncommittal as possible, and after she had vented a bit, we began working with the system as I taught her how to meet the requirements the government has set down. She complained here and there, but nothing too out of the ordinary until I got to the requirement to print out some type of clinical information to give to at least 50 percent of her patients. She exploded, her face contorted with hatred, asking, who is going to pay for it? Are you going to pay for it? No???? Everyone looks at people with big houses, and they think they have lots of money and they should pay for other people. They never think how hard someone has to work for those houses. Why should I pay?? I hate your country. Your country gives money to everyone, but it has no money to give. Americans are lazy. They always want someone to do everything for them. They don't want to pay for anything. Everything is supposed to be free. Americans are the stupidest, most illiterate people in the world. They know nothing. You don't want to hear that but it is true. No one believes the same thing. There are so many gods and no one believes in the same god. I tell you I don't believe in Jesus Christ either! (This was said with so much venom she inadvertently spit on me). Well I hate america. It is stupid. I have been here for 30 years. I went to medical school in my country, came here and did my residency. In America everyone wants to do tests. I learned clinical medicine. I base everything on what I observe. The hospital fired me because the nurses don't think I know what I am doing. Are they doctors? No! Everyone thinks they are a doctor. Patients bring me printouts from the internet and tell me see, this is what I have. They don't believe me. I tell you the hospital just wants a white doctor. A young white male doctor. You can't tell the truth in america. Everyone wants to sue you, so you must lie. Everybody wants everything for free, so you can't tell the truth. I should just leave america and go back to my own country. As I sat and listened to her, I went through a range of emotions. A couple of times, I felt a flash of anger, at others a flash of desire to reach out and change her mind on a particular point, some compassion, moments of just feeling tired. I started to interject a couple of times, but she was so angry and speaking so vehemently there was no room to interject. So I listened, and when she ran out of steam, I just directed her back to the task at hand. After we got through as much of the training as I felt she could absorb, and that I could survive teaching, she spoke to me again on a more personal level. She said something about having been told that she should not get so angry with people. I told her that I used to have a terrible problem with controlling my temper when I was young, but it was not a big problem for me now. She commented that it didn't seem possible I would have ever had a problem with my temper. I explained to her that I did not want to take my temper out on my children, and I had realized that was a problem for me when I was a young person. It had taken a lot of work, but now I rarely lose my temper. After leaving her office, I was feeling pretty good about how I handled the situation, and thankful to God for helping me through it. Her harsh judgements and the way she was generalizing was hard to let pass, but my arguing with her would not have helped the situation. She had said enough that I felt I had some insight into her life and I had compassion for her, although I did not like her. When I got to the airport, I was worn out and in one of those moods where I felt the need to isolate myself from my surroundings. I was early for my flight, so I sat out in the ticketing area, playing games on my cell phone, killing time before going through the gate to catch my flight. As I sat, a couple came up and the woman sat in the chair beside me. The husband left to get the car, and the woman began making phone calls. She was some type of real estate agent and was making business calls. I kept my eyes glued to the screen of my phone to avoid contact. The thought of talking to anyone else was really more than I could deal with at the moment. However, I couldn't help but overhear her calls. I was a little annoyed and making judgements myself about what type of person this was, and then she made a call to Nigeria to a loved one. I know it was Nigeria because she asked if the person she was speaking to was in the airport in Nigeria. Then she spoke out loud one of the most beautiful prayers for safety I have ever heard. I will not try to recreate it here, because my memory cannot do it justice. It just really touched me with it's sincerity and beauty. I sat there feeling glad that I had gotten this revealing glimpse into her life as she then continued with her work calls and glad that I had gotten brought up short in my misperception of who this lady was. Then, I heard someone call out, and glancing up, I saw another lady quickly approaching me. She spoke to me like she knew me, and said scootch over, so I have a place to sit. She said you don't have to move over too much, I can just sit on the edge. I thought this was very odd, but I scootched over, and she sat beside me thanking me. I told her it was fine, I didn't mind, and went back to playing my game. In my mind, once again I was a little annoyed, as my bubble of self protection was now very very small. But I also knew how my feet hurt when I have been walking through an airport, and just figured that this lady's feet hurt and she needed some relief. I was also amused and a little impressed she would ask a perfect stranger to "scootch over". A few minutes after this, an airport employee approached me and asked if I was the one who needed the wheel chair. I told her no, and the lady sharing my seat spoke up and said it might be for her. The airport employee asked her name, and indeed, the wheel chair was for her. I was so grateful that I had "scootched over" and understood that the request was made necessary by the lady's physical condition, although that condition was not obvious on the outside. As I continued to wait for my plane, my mind kept returning to the events of the day. In some ways, my reaction to the second two ladies reminds me that I have a lot still to work on in myself. Sometimes social anxiety cripples me to the point that I cannot speak. Both of these ladies lives intersected with mine for only a few brief moments. I will never know what I missed by giving into my need for a respite from human interaction. The story of the doctor reminds me of how far I have come. In my youth, I would have gotten into a shouting match with her, would have probably left feeling self righteous, and most probably have lost my job, accomplishing nothing. If nothing else, my response as an older person helped to calm the doctor down sooner than would have been possible if I had allowed her to get any kind of reaction out of me. While there is part of me that wonders if I should have challenged her on a few of her assertions, it is a very small part. Sometimes, you say more by saying nothing at all.