Thirty-Six: Arthritic Knees and Potty Trained Babes

36. Thirty-six.

Really it’s so young, and yet I’ve lived so much life already.

My patients ask me how long I’ve been a nurse. “Thirteen years,” I reply.

My peers ask me how long I’ve taught students. “I first started in 2018,” I say.

I feel old.

That thought makes me smile here in the coffee shop, the corners of my lips turning up like the Grinch – my toddlers’ favorite character – the crinkles in the corner of my eyes wrinkling, like my husband’s.

I do feel old, sometimes.

My knees arthritic from years of soccer and basketball, worsened by the toxins in our food in the US. I tell myself my children will play non-contact sports. I tell myself one day we will move back to Europe. I tell myself it will get better.

My heart aches from the sorrows I understand more now as a mother, as a global citizen, as an adult. Deaths that are unexpected and unfair, violence that makes no sense, betrayals that will take decades to heal.

And yet.

Thirty-six also brings about new wisdom. I’m working on boundaries for the first time. I lean into what my heart wants without asking so many questions. I choose career paths that promote balance and satisfaction. I make financial choices that secure future wealth, rather than money today.

Thirty-six also brings me into a new phase of motherhood. My babies are out of diapers. They are becoming more independent. We can leave the house together for a full day, no longer dependent on afternoon home naps. The freedom that comes from even the small act of showering while they play downstairs is astonishing.

I feel my color coming back after years of depletion. We’ve now been state-side for exactly a year and a half. The fog of the international move has lifted; I’m starting to ease into the house, believing it is my home. I have creative ideas for the entryway. We’re painting a mural in the bathroom. I have started to accept that this is my home, really.

I feel a new sense of calm – I have made it through pockets of darkness that felt like they would last for years; some of the darkness has remained, but it’s a faded shade, not an all-encompassing shutter. I never believed I would file for divorce, nor hold my sister’s hand as she mourns the death of her baby, nor become such a faded, colorless version of myself.

And yet I am here. My sister is here. My husband is here. My mother is here. My babies are here.

Thirty six. I am here. We are here.

Next to me sits a book gifted to me by my mother-in-law for my birthday: “Becoming Whole, Letters To The Woman I Am”. It’s written by Lorna Owens, an attorney, former registered nurse and midwife. Her letters are my letters; it’s as if her words know me and were chosen with me in mind. Her letters remind me how much I love to write. They remind me to make time, to come here to this coffee shop, to put my thoughts in writing.

Each Sunday I peel my 2-year-old off me, slipping off the side of the bed, to go write. Before I do, I breathe him in, letting my nose be tickled by his tousled hair. I listen to his breath, filling my head like music, wondering if I should stay. I close my eyes and take it in, instructing my heart and mind to capture this moment so I can replay it ten minutes from now, ten years from now.

I feel the pull of motherhood and the pull of my children. I often picture this literally – one hand being pulled by both toddlers (“Mama! Come march with me! Mama! Come do this puzzle!) and my home, the house, beckoning me to make it cozier, softer, more colorful, more welcoming, more loved. I turn my whole body to this request, my face brightening… and yet.

I am distracted; the other arm being tugged by my career. Nursing fills my heart too, and I often find myself watery-eyed on my way to work as I pray, thanking God for putting this desire in my heart, asking for blessings on the patients and my peers, and wishing my work would serve His people.

I am humbled by the patients and the caregivers. I look at my colleagues – wildly intelligent, driven and kind, each trying tirelessly to fight the burnout that comes from being underpaid and overworked. Each of us hoping to complete our work with enough time to help the other, only to all just tread water long enough to stay afloat.

Yesterday I was humbled again. My eyes filled with tears and compassion as I talked to my Spanish-speaking patient (through the interpreter on the phone). He had refused pain medications all morning until finally admitting his back pain was excruciating. I asked him why, and he said “You work too hard. I don’t want to bother you.”

I held his hand gently and said, “I enjoy taking care of you. I chose this job on purpose.”

The translator spoke, and my patient’s eyes softened. He laughed, agreed to let me know whenever he had pain, and asked for strawberry ice cream.

It reminded me of my patient last week, a gun shot victim, paralyzed since 2022. “Don’t be this nice to everyone,” he laughed, as I said goodbye for the evening. “Hey! She’s the best nurse,” he grinned to the oncoming shift, pointing to me. I smiled, and the staff and I joked about how I wasn’t burned out yet, though it was a reminder to us all of what happens when we don’t have the privilege of taking time away.

A nursing student had asked me a few weeks earlier, at another hospital, “How do you work these long hours??? How do you keep from being burned out??”.

I talked with her about choosing the people surrounding her with care; they should be kind and supportive. I told her to do what she loves outside of work, to keep her hobbies. I told her to care for herself both in and outside of work, nurturing her body with rest and water and nutrition. To take breaks, to eat lunch. I told her to choose a workplace based on her values and to be selective; to find a home workplace with colleagues who work together.

I remind myself to follow my own advice.

As I think about the value of my life, I think about my impact. Have there been wrinkles in time from where I’ve stood? Have I changed the course of lives with my words or my care? Have I made lives better? Am I promoting goodness?

Thirty-six. May this year be less about wondering if I’m doing enough, and more about doing what I love. May I know my impact because I feel it in my bones, in my heart. May my children know my love and let it flood through the hearts into the rest of the world, the people they touch.

A butterfly effect – washing through my home, my work, my city, my country, our world.