It’s Thursday, the evening of my fourth day on service. As I say goodbye to the residents (“we’ve never seen an attending stay this late”) I find myself on the verge of tears for no identifiable reason. I can barely drag myself out of the hospital, across campus to the parking garage, up the stairs to my car. I manage to drive home on autopilot, heat leftovers for dinner, barely respond to my husband and son beyond “I’m sorry; I need to be alone; I’m so depleted.”
I expect to fall asleep immediately once I finally reach the quiet, dark bedroom. But of course my mind jumps from baby to baby, from family to family. The baby whose parents told us through an interpreter today that they’re afraid to return to the hospital closer to home, because “those people wanted us to abort him.” His neighbor whose parents have been arguing with the care team for weeks and making threats on social media alleging “mismanagement” of his complex critical care (based on their internet research). And some twenty-odd more equally compelling patients, in addition to the crowd of wonderful people in different roles all essential to caring for those babies and their families.
I realize I’ve been listening so hard all week, soaking in everyone’s story, and yet I’m just floating on the surface. I might appear to be steering the ship, but is it a large battleship or a white-water adventure with individual kayaks? I want to overflow with Your love; how can I if I’m saturated with others’ needs? Time to transfer the weight of those to You.
I can only take in a fraction of anyone’s story, and I’m trusting You, Divine Author, to perfectly direct the plot - and to shape all of us characters.
