The Visit

The site of my own fingers as I punch in the entry code catch my eye. My fingers are shaking. Not quite as dramatic as the day before when I sat in the parking lot watching the doorway, watching the visitors arrive and leave. My heart felt like it would explode and then I left that parking lot. I didn't reach for the entry code.  I didn't even get out of my car.

I walk in and head to the elevator, 2nd floor. "This place! It smells awful." The minute the thought reaches my conscious I am shamed. I chastise myself. I am an awful daughter. Down the hall, room #221. I am aware that only a couple of people know that room number, know this hallway. So few people visit and how can I blame them? I don't want to visit. I want to run away and forget.  I push the thoughts away, force a smile. 

She is in bed, I sit at the edge. She rolls over, smiles; she has food on her face. I reach up to brush it away but she won't let me touch her. "Where is he? What did you do?" Uh oh, she hates me today. She continues, accusations, she really doesn't like me. "You locked me up".  Maybe I did? No, I did.  Regardless of my intent to keep her safe, I locked her up. It is this that I live with.

I bring out the yogurt parfait, a moment's reprieve from her tirade. She eats and there is the food on her face. She is still wary, but we walk. This is what we do. Down to the window we walk, look out, head back, over and over. We can't really exchange ideas, words but I talk. I am distracted. Maybe by the food on her face. Not the food, but what it represents. Her loss of dignity and purpose. She is not living but trapped in a building filled with the stench of what used to be. She has no concept of time, over and over in my mind the thought that she never would have wanted this. Who would want this? 

Up and down we walk, I reach for the food at her cheek and she brushes me off. I feel shunned. I imagine the staff looks at me and knows. I suppose they judge me because I do not visit here enough, I'm sure they figure I am too busy. Do they know how it feels to come? To know that this is my mother, with food on her face? It feels like too much, the smell, the food, the guilt.

Gerald walks up and smiles. "Hey, hey Kathleen, how you been girl?" Her eyes light up and she laughs. How that laugh is the same, so familiar, so similar to my own. Suddenly, in that second she is right there. I laugh, too and we are laughing together. I reach up and wipe away the food on her face. We laugh and laugh.

At the exit door, I punch in the code a little easier. I still shake but its better. Alone in my car I think of her, the place, the laugh. I cry and cry.

Really it was only a matter of time before the subject came up. The one thing that never ceases to cause a constant itching on my skin. It seems its always there to remind me. You guessed it, my name. Day in and day out others have, for years, offered their opinion and comment on whether or not its appropriate that I am a girl with the name Shawn. I thought it was time I put my own two cents in. Although, those who really know me will say I've always got two cents to put in.

So, there it is, yes, I am a girl and my name is Shawn. A rare gem. According to an androgynous name website, only 7 percent of the people in the US with the name Shawn are female. Ha! So, my mom had a good sense of humor, maybe she did want a boy? I will never know.

What I do know is that people are astoundingly tireless in their assumption that they are entitled to be shocked or surprised by my moniker. I especially love when they opt to call me some more feminine version like Shawna, Shawnie, Lashawnda, or even Sharon when they don't even know me. Always I am taken aback by those who correct my spelling on a doctor's intake form or when signing up at the video store as they quickly change my "w" to "ro". As if I could be uncertain of the spelling of my own name.

The fact that my last name is Thomas is probably not helpful as I am sure that sight unseen it conjures images of some strapping lad with a goatee; maybe a marine. Nonetheless, it is my name and I am a girl. There isn't much I can do about it at this point. I have always hoped this problem would go away, sadly, it hasn't.

So, to the girl working at the pharmacy counter who asks if I know "Shawn's name, address, and date of birth," and to the countless people that I have cared for who wait in the hospital beds for their nurse "Shawn" and ask have I seen "him". And to the helpful cashier that informed me that I can't use my husband's credit card without him present (yeah, I'm not married) and the kind folks at the local community center who said: "I told you to put your name here, not your son's". I can't forget those kind people at the March of Dimes who send Mr. Shawn Thomas all those free address labels.

To all these people and the others who have yet to weigh in: Yes, I am a girl and my name is Shawn.

M

It seems that it should be vague and undetectable. Like a hint of something on a soft breeze. A faint whisper, an imagined sound. It isn't covert, it doesn't hide. Like a taste of bitter wine, the inhalation of a pungent flower. It is tangible. It is relentless, consuming, and deceiving. I wrap it around me like a cloak. I cannot elude it. My only escape is sleep, a blissful retreat. I drift off and for a time it is powerless. But as I wake, there is my steadfast friend. I miss you, again.

My job isn't like yours

My job isn't like yours. I am a nurse. It occurs to me that many people don't understand what that means.

I care about you. You yell at me, you cough on me, you look to me for help, and I am there. You are rude to me, you smile at me, your condition becomes more serious, and I care for you. You cry, you are afraid, you don't understand, and I teach you. Your family demands unattainable tasks of me, I strive harder. You make the same mistakes again and again, you fail to take care of yourself, I serve you. You bleed, you hurt, I treat you. Your wife, your husband, your children, they are scared they may lose you. I hug them; I teach them. You manipulate me, you lie to me, you tell me your story, and I listen to you. I see you. I care about you.

Each and every time I leave my family to take care of you and yours I return to them altered, I'm changed by you. It's what I do. I am a nurse.

U

It occurs to me that the very act of choosing to be with someone can be a way of choosing who you are even when you are not with them. Isn't it strange? Like two people connecting can emit some kind of a frequency that you get caught up in and before you know it you have built a life on this frequency even if it isn't really the life you wanted. It becomes bigger than you and then you are both living and being this person which is really just a sort of reaction to the person you chose to be with and how they perceive you.

Suddenly, or so it seems, you aren't even you. You aren't even any kind of you that you recognize. And, you definitely aren't proud to be you. Not this you anyway.

It makes me wonder how many different ways I can be. How do you choose? What do you do? Do you keep trying, keep choosing until it "feels right". Yeah, maybe that's it.

I won't forget this

I finally make it down to the water. My legs all rubbery from running the steps from the house to the beach. Everywhere I look is water, beach, rocks, and its beautiful. We have brought fishing poles down to the water for the kids to cast. They are scattered on the sand.

The kids are running around with that excited energy that only kids have. Smiles plastered on their faces. The wind is blowing the trees and the background noise of the leaves rustling in the breeze gives the illusion that we are millions of miles from the daily grind.

The boys are heaving rocks into the water pondering the size of the ripple that each one will create. My boy, his green eyes, not unlike my own. I'm amazed at his beauty, his energy. I'm suddenly impressed with myself, amazed that I had anything to do with this vibrant young person as the gold in his hair is lit up by the evening sun.

The sun is starting to fall from the sky and I can feel it warming me in contrast to the cool breeze.

The girls are climbing the rocks, big and small, slippery from the splash of the lake. There is his girl, her hair wild in the breeze. She is so quietly determined. The sweet smile of a child with wide eyes and inner strength that is unmistakable. She climbs and slips, laughing as her feet fall into the still cold water.

I slip off my shoes letting my feet remember the feel of the sand, cold and grainy. I step back to enjoy the moment. Take a sip of my wine. Its cold and smoky and I can almost imagine the tart and sweet of the grapes it was made from. I smile, I can't help it.

I look over at him. He is untangling a fishing line. His golden girl looking up at him. She is the little star, so confident on stage. But so in need of his attention. She adores him, this I understand. I feel the same way. His hands on the line, moving with a knowing, so capable. He has touched me with those hands so many times. I doubt I will ever tire of it. The feel of his hand in mine.

She casts her newly untangled line. She is proud of herself. He looks down at her and they both smile. I quickly reach for my camera. I snap a shot knowing I won't really be able to capture the moment.

The breeze, the splashing water, the boys. The cacophony is more like a symphony.

To anyone passing by it would seem completely ordinary. Maybe even a nuisance to some with the kids laughing and squealing. I quickly realize that this isn't ordinary; this is something that will be remembered. I get a tingling feeling in my stomach. I can't stop the smile on my face from spreading. This is what happiness is.

Things Lost

There was an accident. That is what they told me. It wasn't my accident but soon I would learn that it would take over my life. It was February 1, and nothing would ever be the same again.

I rushed to the hospital, there in the ER was my mother. It was obvious her situation was bad. I figured out quickly that life was altered, she was altered, things had changed, and things were lost. Lots of things.

I lost the ability to believe that life would all work out. Quickly my world became an exercise in warding off problems as they cropped up. Like playing tennis against those ball machines where the problems get fired at you every 45 seconds. I suck at tennis.

On the second day, I lost a baby. I sat in the hospital at my mothers bedside and began to miscarry. In the days that followed, I shuffled back and forth between my mothers room and the fetal imaging center in the hospital. Each day the heartbeat of the baby I carried slowed. The miscarriage became, in my mind, a metaphor for what was happening in real life. Life was leaving me slowly, minute by minute. I wondered if anyone could tell. I tried not to complain. I didn't want it to be about me. It wasn't.

Eventually, I wasn't pregnant anymore. My mom was still in the hospital. I lost some more things. People were there, they stood by me. They watched. There was nothing they could do. I wondered if they could even understand what it felt like. To lose all these things. Quickly, though, they were lost. Life continued, at least for some.

I lost my hope. No longer did I believe in anything getting better. I lost my faith in community. It became apparent this was a road I was to travel alone. I lost my mother. I lost a baby. I was lost. I lost sleep, how I miss the escape. When I sleep I dream, bad dreams that wake me and take me right back to February 1. I lost safety. I am fearful much of the time. When the phone rings, I panic. A phone call represents a problem, more problems.

I lost a marriage. I don't think it was much of a marriage, anyhow. But still. I lost my youth, my naiveté. I'm certain that if this experience where to leave marks not visible to the naked eye that under black light I would appear scarred and battered. There is no part of me that is untouched by this. No aspect of my life that hasn't lost something. I have lost my sense of connectedness.

Since then I continue to be lost. Not always, but frequently. The problems still come at me daily. Recently I have begun to believe that I have lost my ability to handle them, but I do. They keep coming and I keep swinging my racket.

Not everything is lost, I have family. I have beautiful children. I have a few close friends. Some more willing than others to talk me down when I feel all is lost. One such friend likes to say that she is a "rock and an island". I smile when she says that. I relate to that. Maybe that isn't a bad thing? Rocks are strong, they persevere.

I miss the things that were lost. I miss my mom, my unknown child. I miss feeling carefree. I miss sleep. Many things were lost, and, I miss them all.