On Pain

Hello all. This post is a departure from my usual ramblings on travel and life. I've been mulling over how to begin writing about my experiences as a PICU nurse for quite some time. Years, to be exact. Recent events, both in my own life and in the world at large, have prompted a great deal of introspection on pain, dark as the subject is, and these events have finally opened an avenue to write about my time as a nurse. As you know, we all feel pain at different times, in different severities. So here you have my thoughts on and experience with the subject. 


Pain. As a PICU nurse, pain was part and parcel of my experience on the job. Physical pain manifested itself in screams, writhing, crying. Emotional pain looked much the same. The pain I witnessed in my seven years as a nurse still haunts me, so much so that I rarely revisit those days, those parents, those patients. It is a special black box of sorts, that if found and opened, brings back such vivid and visceral memories that I can hardly bear it without weeping. Sometimes these memories surprise me in the midst of my daily life--a song, a scene from a movie, a phrase--and suddenly I'm in the midst of that patient's pain all over again. It was pain and the burden of carrying another's that contributed to a professional burnout so severe that I am only now recognizing the breadth and severity of it. Uncontrollable anxiety, a burden of responsibility that often paralyzed me, flashbacks so real that they sent me running to the nearest bathroom for privacy as I sobbed, horrific dreams of dead and dying patients, and emotional fatigue that I could not shake. Even a year after transitioning to another career, I would dream of a patient coding and dying, down to the last vivid, physical detail, when I was stressed about my office job, a move, or my family. 

I'll never forget walking into the unit one day and seeing the ongoing code of a baby who had recently returned from the operating room following open heart surgery. The room was full of people--sharp orders being given, monitor erratically beeping, the surgeon methodically pumping the tiny heart--as each team member attempted to bring the infant back from death. And watching from outside the glass door was the baby's mother. I saw her, standing there in the midst of all the chaos, with such a look of quiet desperation on her face. And she slowly sank into a small heap onto the tile floor. And she laid her head down. And she curled herself into the fetal position. And she watched her baby. And she waited. And to this day, when I think of pain, of the physical embodiment of what pain means and looks like, it is this woman that I see.  

There are many such stories to share. Someday I will share them, because I need to--for myself and in the memory of those who suffered such pain. I need to bury them myself; I need to give my own eulogy. But not today.

Today, I am struck by the persistent nature of pain. Even as the parents of each dying child were only at the beginning of their painful journey, so I realize that pain is not a momentary phenomenon. Each day brings its own iteration of pain. It is a persistent ache, a breath that cannot be caught, a visceral clenching of the heart. It is always present, behind smiles and even joy not faked. It is in tears that surprise me when I thought I was doing just fine. It is in a weariness that makes me want to block out anything but mindless entertainment. It is isolation, because no one else, no matter how much they might try, can understand or experience pain in the way that I am experiencing it. It is a longing for something that will never be, an expectation crushed. It is a journey, one that requires wading through such a quagmire that I wonder if I will ever be able to take a step and be free of its cloying. It comes in waves, so that when the tide is out, I am amazed at how little I hurt, at how well I am doing. And when the tide rolls in, perhaps a day/week/month later, I fear I may drown. 

And yet. 

You see, there is an "and yet." An "and yet" that gave me hope even in the midst of burnout and dying children. An "and yet" that provides a balm in the midst of this pain, rest in the midst of this turmoil, sustenance in the midst of this famine, a long, cool drink as I am parched, and a deep understanding of human pain as I am alone. And the "and yet" is Christ. Because this is not all there is. Because if it were all there is, all this suffering and dying, I could never hope again. If I did not believe in a God who promises to redeem both body and soul from this present death and decay, what futility did I witness in the death and decay of children? Is this all there is? God forbid. In my present pain, I hope in a God who has defeated sin and death through the person of Jesus Christ. A Redeemer who redeems and reconciles. Who looks at decay-- that festering, graying, putrid thing--and makes all things new and alive. Who redeems my soul from the grave and gives me a song to sing. Even in the midst of pain.