Dark.

She lay there in the ICU, completely disfigured, on a ventilator, a feeding tube in her nose and her eye lids sealed shut so tightly from the swelling, she could barely open them, even with assistance.  Burned so badly, she didn't need clothing, the bandages entirely covered her body.  And I was leaving her that day.  I was going 700 miles away, back to my home with my family, but she was my family too.  She was my mother and it was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, to leave.  

Over the coming days I would get messages or have conversations with friends and family asking me if I was okay. Telling me how hard it must be, to be split between two places so far away.  The world can feel like a small place, but drive 700 miles one way to visit your mother in critical condition and it starts to feel much much bigger.  My thoughts would turn towards whether I was doing the right thing.  Was leaving her what would be best in the long run?  I had no way of knowing that answer.  And as I started to feel the tug-o-war play out inside of me I came to the realization that this was the ultimate lesson in trust.  Trust in my fellow human beings and trust in God that everything would be okay in the end, regardless of what happened.  That trust, it's not easy and it is certainly not something that has ever come easily to me.  

I was born the eldest of three kids, I am the only girl of the trio.  I was raised (we all were) to be a go get 'er. If something wasn't right, you fixed it yourself.  If things weren't going the way you wanted them to go, you stopped them and changed direction yourself.  If you weren't staying caught up with the work, you worked harder.  But the outcomes, they rested squarely on you.  Faced with something that completely changes your life in a split second, with a parent (who has no next of kin besides her children) badly injured and many hundreds of miles separating you from them - you realize that it's not solely on you.  That reality didn't take long to sink in for me.  I could not work harder to make my mom better.  I had 9 hours of windshield time to digest it.  I knew as I sped towards Missouri, we needed all the support and help that could be given to us.  What I wasn't completely ready for, was how much I would learn to trust people.

A lesson in trust never comes to you when you are anticipating it.  At least, it never does for me.  It happens when you are at your most vulnerable.  When you are faced with circumstances you never dream you would be faced with, and you find yourself swimming through the white water, trying to keep your head above the water.  It has been just over 13 weeks since my mothers accident, a week into it I realized that we needed help.  And the love and support given by our family, friends and community was amazing.  I trusted those people. I knew them, I loved them.  But as I prepared to leave to go back to South Dakota after the first week of her hospitalization, I wasn't just trusting my friends and family.  I was trusting doctors, nurses, environmental services workers, respiratory and occupational therapists, managers and ward clerks to do the very best job.  Without me watching (yes, cue the micro manager jokes here).  I was moving through the darkness of the unknown, the darkness of grief, the darkness of rapid change and the darkness of shock.  That forced me to trust on a level I've never had to do.  I had so many prayers that passed my lips that first week for my mom and her care team, but never was a prayer more fervent then the one to help me trust in the plan and trust in the process and the people involved in that process.  Trusting, with blind faith.  That's what I was going to do and it was hard.  It still is hard.  

“You see, you closed your eyes. That was the difference. Sometimes you cannot believe what you see, you have to believe what you feel. And if you are ever going to have other people trust you, you must feel that you can trust them, too--even when you’re in the dark. Even when you’re falling.”
― Mitch Albom, Tuesdays with Morrie

There is probably a great story buried in here deep, and when I look back on all of this one day I will be able to profoundly tell you the lessons I learned.  I know I didn't give my trust without hesitation.  I know that I had to talk myself into returning to my family in South Dakota.  I also know that I needed to do that.  I needed to lean on others, and trust the hospital staff.  There's no silver bullet for this and I certainly did not slice right to the answer.

Here is what I know for certain: If you work as a care taker, do not ever take your job for granted.  If you've been given the love and trust of a stranger, don't walk away from it nonchalantly.  Please never treat your care taker position as a routine, do not let yourself become numb to the people and families you serve.  If  you clean a room, do it well, you could be keeping infection away from someone who can't afford to get sick, if you are a nurse or a doctor, I know it's easy to become less empathetic.  I know that's hard to avoid, especially in an ICU or ER, where you see tragedy after tragedy come in.  Where you are dealing with some of the sickest patients and most structured order sets.  It's hard to keep your eyes fresh, to remember that the person in the bed and the family surrounding them are all unique.  That they are all people.  It's like the kitchen junk drawer just got dumped, and you have to help sort it all out.  You see the mess strewn about, all the good and all the dirt (like ancient gummy bears stuck in the back corner of the drawer) and the family is trusting you to handle it.  I know we've heard it many times - to treat our patients and families like we would want our parents or loved ones treated.  And still, we forget.  But remember, somewhere, someday someone will need you and they will have to trust you.  Be a keeper of that trust.  You are the light for them, they have been thrust into a situation at blinding speed.  They may not be at all familiar with the health care industry, or they might work in it themselves.  That does not matter, when your loved one is critically ill, you are in the dark and you are holding to the one thing you can and it's the people providing the care. 

The day my mom was discharged from inpatient rehab was a wonderful day, full of smiles and high hopes.  On our way out of town, we swung by the ICU one last time, to show off her progress.  As she stood there, surrounded by nurses who had given my mom care, the wound nurse manager slipped his hand into mine and whispered, "Look at her.  What's it been almost 12 weeks?  She's amazing.  We did it."  Yes we did, thank God I trusted.