Mountains

9dp5dt. Beta is tomorrow morning, 7:30am.

I am sick with anticipation. I just want the answer. I need the answer. I need to move forward. I have to be doing the next thing. No more waiting. I'm moving up or moving on.


In my last semester of my Master's Degree program, I completed 500 clinical hours with a Trauma Clinical Nurse Specialist, who just so now happens to be a dear friend. Many people might imagine the day of a Trauma Specialist to be filled with adrenaline, blood and gore...but you would imagine wrong. Yes, there are occasional trauma pages that are filled with a few minutes of action, but the typical day is filled with a horror far worse than what you may imagine.

Many hours of the day were spent with the families and loved ones of those 'gory' patients, whose stories were always far more tragic than what you heard during the first 5 minutes. What was initially just a gnarly motorcycle wreck with a leg amputation becomes a promising college graduate who got into a fight with his girlfriend and sped away in anger, not knowing it was the last time he would ever ride his bike. The rollover car crash with a diffuse head injury becomes a sixteen year old who had just met his Dad for a sushi dinner to celebrate his excellent report card. Even the 'gunshot wound to the chest' becomes more than a 'criminal involved in a gun fight'. He becomes someone's son, someone's father, someone's grandchild.

As you see these families and their loved ones day in and day out, you begin to celebrate their small miracles, and sympathize with their suffering. An accomplishment such as a brain injured patient following a command, getting out of bed, or coming off the ventilator is encouraged on with genuine claps and cheers. Likewise, setbacks or complications may often be met with tears and disappointment.

In dealing with traumatic injuries, especially traumatic brain injuries, it is impossible to know what the final outcome will be in every case. Every patient is different and every injury is different. There is no way to predict from day one whether some people will wake up to a full recovery, or be left in a state in which they can no longer care for themselves. There is a true limbo of 'not knowing' that some families must remain in for weeks or even months. There are patients I never thought would survive who return two, six or even twelve months later almost as good as new. There are also those who leave in stretchers who will never come back.

I watched my friend as she interacted with these families. Her role was to facilitate communication and understanding. How could you possibly prepare someone for the unknown, much less an unknown that involved life and death? How do you make a person understand that their son may never wake up, that he may wake up and be normal, or that he may only draw in coloring books the rest of his life? I cannot even fathom what it is to face such a decree.

She started from day one. She continued to repeat a phrase to them, and she would start and end every conversation with it. It is important to repeat simple phrases to people when they are under so much stress, because the reality is they are not always able to process everything that is being said to them. For this reason, she continued to repeat the phrase, because she wanted them in a mindset where they could hold on to hope, yet still be ready to face reality.

We have to hope for the best, and prepare for the worst.

She prepared them for the possibility of rehabilitation centers and home care. She helped them contemplate the logistics of visiting nursing homes and placing hospital beds in living rooms. She taught them how to care for a tracheostomy, to give a bed bath, to provide physical stimulation day in and day out. She painted a picture of what the road ahead may consist of, complete with bumps and cracks and long dusty stretches.

We have to hope for the best, and prepare for the worst.

All the while she would repeat her mantra. By the end of the first few days, some would even start to repeat it back to her. They remembered it. They held it close. I held it close. It is still a phrase that helps me through even my darkest hour. Even when I would prefer to close my eyes tight and only imagine a road ahead of me filled with sugar plums, rainbows and babies; I am forced to remember that the road ahead may also be a pot-hole filled dead-end.

The outcome of my pregnancy test pales in comparison to what some people experience in this life. Nonetheless, this is my pain. I have no doubt my infertility is a molehill in the mountains of suffering in this world. Still, this is my mountain. This is my hurt. I don't know what beauty or ugliness still lies before me.

Even when I think I can't face one more day, I will continue to repeat the words I have heard so many times before.

We have to hope for the best, and prepare for the worst.

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Tomorrow is upon me...and I am hoping for the best, but I am also prepared for the worst.