A Manifesto of Sorts

I sit down to write some days and spend time instead scrolling through pictures of other people's lives; instead of writing, I sit and wish I had what I see on the screen, and I peer into the little squares on my phone, a window into their lives, as I imagine what it must be like to be there.  Little do I know, it's all a facade.  There are filters to make the light look better, and the camera has been angled to hide the piles of dishes and laundry in the background.  Today I found myself tempted by those little squares on my phone, but was somehow drawn to writing instead. It has been so long since I put words on a page, but it feels like coming home again to sit here at 4:30 this morning with a cup of black coffee and a snoring dog bedside me to write these words as I savor the quiet of a morning yet untouched by the world around me.  

I have a hushed reverence for early mornings and that space in between nighttime and when the rest of the world is awake; when I was younger, I used to wake up from sleepovers at friends' houses and call my mom to pick me up well before any of the other girls were awake.  Sometimes I would want to wait until a bit later to call my mom, so I'd go downstairs and read a book in the living room or hang out with early rising parents of my friends while all the other girls slept upstairs (who, in retrospect, probably thought I was insane). Truthfully, I was not a huge fan of sleepovers as a child. As I got to the age of a middle schooler, most of my peers would sleep until 10 or 11 in the morning at sleepovers; I envied them for the ability to do this, but my little brain couldn't stay asleep for that long.  There were so many things on my mind, so many books I wanted to read, and so many things I wanted to accomplish before the rest of the world was awake.

I'm much the same as an adult.  Scott jokes that "sleeping in" for me is waking up at 6 or 7 on a weekend.  Most days I'm awake at 5 and start my routines of brewing coffee in the French press, feeding Doc, opening my Bible for quiet time, and some days, heading out by 5:45 to meet a friend at the gym.  For some reason, Doc has recently been waking me up sometime between 3:30-4:30 (daylight savings, maybe?), and so my mornings have been starting even earlier than before.  I love the quiet of a morning, the promise of possibility that hangs in the air for the day ahead.  I love being able to talk with God about my hopes and fears for the day ahead, about things that are weighing heavily on me and things I need to leave at His feet.  

I went part time this week at work. Technically my status is p.r.n., which is a Latin phrase used in healthcare-- pro re nata-- "as needed." I dreamed up this beautiful jobshare role that would allow me to work three to four days a week with a colleague sharing a patient caseload with me, covering my calls on days off and vice versa.  My boss went with it and helped to facilitate this thing that I had dreamed up for better work/life balance for myself. 

I tell people often that I absolutely love the work I do in palliative care; I love deep diving with people to find out what is important to them when they have a serious illness. I love giving them space to reflect on how they want to spend their days knowing that time may be short.  I love being there in the moments as they come to terms with what their illness means in the context of the things that are important to them.  I love sitting with them as they realize, "this may all end soon."  People talk a lot about the sacredness of bringing life into the world, of delivering babies and breathing life into newborns.  But I think we all too often overlook the sanctity of death, of what a right of passage it is to not only come into this world, but to leave it.  That is where I dwell with the patients I work alongside-- in focusing on writing the end of their book in a way that gives meaning to the other chapters.  

All to say, I love the work I do, but I have not found a way to do it well and maintain my own self, family, marriage, and home.  Those of us who work in healthcare and caregiving roles are no strangers to  this idea of giving up parts of themselves and their home life to facilitate the needs of those they care for.  Some would say I need to learn balance and boundaries, and I would agree with that.  My boss and I joke about how I need to read this book that's been sitting on my shelf for probably years now-- Boundaries. I'd love to work on balance and boundaries, and I hope to soon read that book. But with the pace that my work life was going at before, I could not find a way to create that margin in my day to even read a few pages each night.  

I started to lose parts of myself that were important to me.  I went through seasons of not exercising because I needed to catch up on patient notes, or missing social events with friends because I was so exhausted from work that I couldn't even fathom putting on something other than scrubs or yoga pants and heading out the door.  

I stopped writing.

That was big for me.  I ached to put words down on paper, but at the end of a day writing patient notes and telling their stories, I had no energy left to tell my own.  My dad, always the biggest supporter of my dream to write a book, would gently prod me and say that he missed my writing, or that he hoped that when I had more down time that I'd once again consider writing a book.  It felt like I had no time to feed that part of my life in working full-time in healthcare.  I should say, too, that this has been true in every provider role I've had in healthcare. Some would say that points to a "me" issue, and some would say "that's just healthcare." Whatever it may be, I'm looking for a better way.  A way to do what I love but also be who I am outside of that role.

This is becoming more of a manifesto than I had planned. 

In any case, to get to the final point here, on the day that I went part time, my jobshare colleague also gave her letter of resignation.  Sometimes I think we all know when a thing isn't working, yet it all has to just fall completely apart sometimes before we are willing to say "well that's done." Despite the extra responsibility that this has left with me, and despite the anxiety I feel in trying to piece together what to do now, I feel hopeful that things will come to be as they should.  I feel hopeful that God will take a broken situation and stitch it back together, as I've seen Him do in so many other areas of my life before.  I have wonderful colleagues who have all sent me messages this week offering to help if I need it and offering kind words about this big disappointment.  I think it will all shake it in the end (and if not, I'm of course hanging up more twinkle lights in the meantime, a nod to Kathleen Kelly from You've Got Mail). 

So here is to beginning again. It's not what I thought it would look like, and the rest I had hoped for from part time life seems like it may be something I have to work a bit harder to find, but I do feel hopeful that there is light ahead.  I feel assured when I read these words on pages in my worn Bible, "I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living" (Psalm 27:13).  The next line is one that I always want to skip after I read that-- but it says "Wait for the Lord; be strong and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord." My necklace I wear every day with the words "wait" stamped on it remind me of this-- nothing truly beautiful with any sort of longevity in my life has been granted to me instantaneously. There is beauty to be found in the places where we wait. 

xo