I was stunned to find out that one of my all time favorite nurses died yesterday.
If I had been asked to pick one person from the whole hospital to provide Henry's care, it would have been her. Not a surgeon who might have saved his life or a specialist who might understand his condition better than anyone else, but Cindy. I would have picked her because she knew him. She knew how he reacted to meds and that when he wasn't doing well that turning him onto his left side was trouble. She knew what he needed medically, but she gave him what he needed as a person, as a baby too. She talked to him while she changed him. She smiled at him with her face and her voice. I was able to take a break when she was on because I knew she was on it.
She took great care of my baby, but she took good care of me too. She answered my questions and helped me talk to the right people when she couldn't. She made sure doctors knew I had been waiting to see them. She knew when I was really scared and talked me through it. On the day Henry was getting discharged from the CICU for the second time during our long stay, I was a mess. It was supposed to be a happy day, a step closer to home, a sign he was getting better, but I knew it meant less support, fear of leaving his room, sleeplessness, and of course the last time we were on the floor he coded after a week or so of me saying "Something's not right." She talked me through that anxiety and helped me formulate a plan. We talked about what I knew and when to worry. In the middle of piles of paperwork to move him down the hall from the care of one unit to the next, she sat down and talked to me until I calmed down.
She was one of the nurses who came out to say goodbye the day we were finally discharged. She left a tearful message on our answering machine when he died. She is very much part of Henry's story, and I am sad she is gone.
Showing posts with label other losses. Show all posts
Showing posts with label other losses. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Saturday, August 25, 2012
August
It's been a while. My mind flits here, but I don't quite know what I want to say. Plus I'm busy trying to keep weeds at bay in the garden (just enough to find the plants) and the fruit flies in check. The latter is a two part job—soapy fruit fly traps and doing something with all the produce piling up on the counter.
August is so abundant.
Tomatoes and peppers and cucumbers and beans. Eggplant and basil. Summer squash and zucchini. Onions, carrots. Peaches.
Tomatoes need to be sliced and eaten with basil and mozzarella or slow roasted with garlic and olive oil or pureed and simmered into a base for a later sauce. Peppers get stuffed and chopped for pizza and ground up for sofrito. Cucumbers and beans get pickled and pickled some more with hopes they are almost done. Eggplant gets sliced and roasted and eaten with the roasted tomatoes and good bread or layered on a summer pizza. Summer squash and zucchini get grilled and sliced for pizza and baked in bread and brownies. Onions and carrots (so easy) just get tucked away until needed. Peaches get dipped and peeled and chopped. They drip all over the floor and go into the jam pot or salsa or ice cream or yogurt. They're eaten by the dozen. We have too many. We need more.
This has kept me busy along with the frenzied end-of-summer didn't do yet lists. A little more beach, a trip to Boston and the swan boats, a visit from a friend before she is back to school. . .
And amidst the bustle and the business and the bundles of produce, I'm so aware of what August is (or isn't) for so many friends. I've been sending out a lot of love and fingering the rosemary in Henry's garden and remembering with you.
August is so abundant.
Tomatoes and peppers and cucumbers and beans. Eggplant and basil. Summer squash and zucchini. Onions, carrots. Peaches.
Tomatoes need to be sliced and eaten with basil and mozzarella or slow roasted with garlic and olive oil or pureed and simmered into a base for a later sauce. Peppers get stuffed and chopped for pizza and ground up for sofrito. Cucumbers and beans get pickled and pickled some more with hopes they are almost done. Eggplant gets sliced and roasted and eaten with the roasted tomatoes and good bread or layered on a summer pizza. Summer squash and zucchini get grilled and sliced for pizza and baked in bread and brownies. Onions and carrots (so easy) just get tucked away until needed. Peaches get dipped and peeled and chopped. They drip all over the floor and go into the jam pot or salsa or ice cream or yogurt. They're eaten by the dozen. We have too many. We need more.
This has kept me busy along with the frenzied end-of-summer didn't do yet lists. A little more beach, a trip to Boston and the swan boats, a visit from a friend before she is back to school. . .
And amidst the bustle and the business and the bundles of produce, I'm so aware of what August is (or isn't) for so many friends. I've been sending out a lot of love and fingering the rosemary in Henry's garden and remembering with you.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Today
Today I ran almost three miles
and loved the cool air and the warm sun.
Today I smelled the lilacs, suddenly in bloom
and thought of Charlotte and her mama.
Today I dug in the garden, trading tools with Kathleen
and enjoyed working with her, even if I could have gotten more done alone.
Today I stopped to blow bubbles with Kathleen
and remembered Hudson and her mama and how one year felt.
Today I noticed how big Elizabeth is getting
and how her face is filling out—almost five months!
Today I looked out the window and saw the blue forget-me-nots under Henry's tree
and did not forget and still thought "What a good day."
and loved the cool air and the warm sun.
Today I smelled the lilacs, suddenly in bloom
and thought of Charlotte and her mama.
Today I dug in the garden, trading tools with Kathleen
and enjoyed working with her, even if I could have gotten more done alone.
Today I stopped to blow bubbles with Kathleen
and remembered Hudson and her mama and how one year felt.
Today I noticed how big Elizabeth is getting
and how her face is filling out—almost five months!
Today I looked out the window and saw the blue forget-me-nots under Henry's tree
and did not forget and still thought "What a good day."
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
A New View on an Old Loss
My cousin Peter died 12 years ago today. I've been thinking of him today and of my aunt too.
I was 25 when Peter died. I was shocked by his death, that he could go so suddenly, so young. One minute I was laughing in the hallway at work on the way to my desk to answer the phone. The next minute my brain repeatedly failed to comprehend that Peter, my cousin, was dead. When my mom said there had been an accident and Peter was gone, I ran through every Peter I knew, not understanding why she would call me at work about my landlord, their friends' son, a second cousin I did not know well . . . and then it hit.
I remember the silence in their driveway when we arrived. Silence in spite of the knots of kids that filled it. Silence where it was never quiet. It was a July, very much unlike this July. The heat and humidity were oppressive, the air heavy. To this day, I can't stand the smell of lilies, the thick smell that filled their house where they waked the body. I remember being with my cousins, but I don't remember much of my aunt at that early stage.
I remember though, years later, hearing her laugh, a real laugh that replaced the sometimes brittle sometimes overanimated laugh she had had since Peter died. I don't remember how long that was and it doesn't really matter. But that laugh stands out to me.
***
When Henry almost died in October 2007, when I really wasn't sure he was going to make it and my mom was calling our family and Brian's, I wanted my aunt to come to the hospital. Even as my mom was calling her to go be with my grandmother, I wanted her to come to me. At that moment, I wanted somebody there for me, somebody who would know.
I've been thinking about Peter's death from the perspective of a mother who has also lost a son, thinking of my aunt today on this day that will always bear a special weight. I'm thinking of her, holding her close in my heart.
I was 25 when Peter died. I was shocked by his death, that he could go so suddenly, so young. One minute I was laughing in the hallway at work on the way to my desk to answer the phone. The next minute my brain repeatedly failed to comprehend that Peter, my cousin, was dead. When my mom said there had been an accident and Peter was gone, I ran through every Peter I knew, not understanding why she would call me at work about my landlord, their friends' son, a second cousin I did not know well . . . and then it hit.
I remember the silence in their driveway when we arrived. Silence in spite of the knots of kids that filled it. Silence where it was never quiet. It was a July, very much unlike this July. The heat and humidity were oppressive, the air heavy. To this day, I can't stand the smell of lilies, the thick smell that filled their house where they waked the body. I remember being with my cousins, but I don't remember much of my aunt at that early stage.
I remember though, years later, hearing her laugh, a real laugh that replaced the sometimes brittle sometimes overanimated laugh she had had since Peter died. I don't remember how long that was and it doesn't really matter. But that laugh stands out to me.
***
When Henry almost died in October 2007, when I really wasn't sure he was going to make it and my mom was calling our family and Brian's, I wanted my aunt to come to the hospital. Even as my mom was calling her to go be with my grandmother, I wanted her to come to me. At that moment, I wanted somebody there for me, somebody who would know.
I've been thinking about Peter's death from the perspective of a mother who has also lost a son, thinking of my aunt today on this day that will always bear a special weight. I'm thinking of her, holding her close in my heart.
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