salt water

it's saturday, which means yesterday was friday, and i saw patients and taught fellows and went to meetings. one of my favorite patients came in- the one who is my age- the one who is dying, and is my age. she looked worse than i'd ever seen her- thin with a giant belly and legs filled with fluid, moving slowly with a new cane- and slightly yellow. i wanted to cry. there is something about caring for someone who is my age and dying that undoes me. i had to tell her it's time for hospice. i had to ask her where she wanted to be when she died. things we'd put off, needed answers. things she'd been thinking about, needed a voice. i hate when people ask me how they are going to die- what they are going to feel- what will happen to their bodies. it makes me feel like a phony. i can tell them what i've read- what i've seen- who knows what it really feels like. i asked her how she felt in her heart. she said OK- she's not scared- she doesn't want to be alone- or have pain. luckily she doesn't need to be alone or have pain. i hated saying goodbye because i won't see her for a month- or maybe never- so i hugged her a little longer and bit my lip. i'm leaving for uganda in 5 days- and will miss three fridays in a row. i'm afraid she won't be here when i get back. i'm afraid i'll miss her ending, and that hurts my heart.

it made my problems seem far smaller than they've seemed in a while.

we'd just got back from the beach at 10:30 the night before. the car trip- including a vomiting kid, a poop accident and a crying infant- and 9 hours in the car with 5 small children wasn't the hardest part. it had been a very up and down week for zoe- and thus the rest of us. it had been a week of me feeling really sorry for myself. of asking a lot of "why" and not saying enough "thank you". a week when i remember that as far as we've come, transitions remain hard for her, and that the beach which is full of sand, and noise and waves and salt and hot, bright sun, and unpredictable games to be played with other children, and sharp shells and birds- is asking a lot of a sensory overloaded kid. and i felt that pang of 'life will never be normal for us so why do we pretend'

so yesterday, i came home and ran- like forest gump -away and farther away- even though it was 100 degrees- and full humidity. i ran out my patient and friend's premature dying- i ran out my beach week with zoe in mild crisis mode- i ran out my inability to deal with my life in the put together way that i imagine i should. i ran until my water bottle was finished and i had nothing left and i couldn't cry because my body needed all the water and salt it had. i ran until i was thankful for the ability to run- for the gift of being able to care for sick people, and for the ocean and sand and salt and that i'm not overloaded by it. until i was thankful for zoe's ability to go into the waves sometimes, and also to know when to leave. and for the fact that life is a mystery and we don't know where it will really lead us next- but the path behind us helps prepare us. and the miracle that in all of it- we can find peace.