From week to week, I never really know what to expect when I walk into work. Sometimes it seems that for weeks on end, I witness life and victory and joy. And then there are other times, weeks like this one, where everything seems to be plagued with bad news and heart ache and death.
Last week, I received an email from the family of a little girl I'd taken care of months back. They invited me to come celebrate her birthday and honor her life with them this weekend. I've been meaning to sit down and write them a letter - just to let them know how much their sweet daughter meant to me and allow them see more of what my grieving process looked like after she passed away. I knew this occasion was the perfect time for me to give them this letter - after the intimate time of loss they shared with me, I felt like I owed them this. As I sat down to start, I quickly realized why I've been avoiding it for so long. I have relived so many of the same emotions I felt 6 months ago as she lost her battle with a terrible auto-immune disease. The wound was reopened, and I was reminded that I don't get to tell God when I am healed.
Another family brought gifts and cupcakes up to the unit in honor of their son's birthday. As I watched the kids open trucks and transformers and train sets, I could not help but think about how much that sweet boy would've loved to be there. I thought about the many nights we played trucks on the floor. I thought about his gusto and life and how I watched leukemia steal all of that way from him. His parents' eyes were dark and sunken, they too look like some measure of life had been stolen from them. And once again, I felt a wound reopen. I snuck away to the bathroom cry my tears and pull myself back together.
Then on Monday, I came into work to terrible news about one of my little dudes. The virus that he's been fighting for months is spreading rampantly in his body. Doctors are out of answers, and so am I. I met his mom in the hallway, she grabbed my hand, lead me to his bedside and we knelt there together. We prayed and wept and plead for his very life.
As I sat in my Pediatric Advanced Life Support class yesterday, I could not help but think about the irony of it. There I was, in a classroom learning how to save lives, while at the same time walking with yet another family, another precious child, and am watching him lose his life. This week has been sobering. It's been a good reminder that as nurse, life is really not in my hands. Life belongs to God. The question I'm wrestling with today is this: Do I still believe in a God who intervenes, in a God who cares? Is my hope in a medical prognosis or in Jesus? Do I still believe that he can do miracles? There is a little voice inside that is able to squeak out a small "yes," but I fear that voice is being quieted by the loss and hurt and death I've seen. I fear that the number of times I've dared to hope - and have left disappointed with bitter grief - have started to pile up and harden my heart. And so my cry today is this: God, help me in my unbelief. Give me faith. Give me more of you.
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