its an older post but i am missing my work.
my calm, rhythmic sense of soul ran into rough, disturbing waters floating in and out of the last few days:
the trying of patience, inevitable, if thats what I’m claiming to be.
As portkeeper, I sensed the approach of windy-faced dilemma gathering pace toward my sturdy coordinates. I affixed my blaring spotlight to anything oncoming: a test of my virtue nearly underway.
And though wind might have its glory (the rath whipping against my anchors, my docks, my shore),
I believe in the clarity of agats, the beauty in the remnants of storm.
I can not divulge the content of what ailed me this past Thursday; but I can, through controlled word choice and poetic metaphor depict the scene
I can emphasize the sediment polluting my bay; a gravel interfering with boat engines and the gills of fish.
I can send to you the sense of rest i’ve rescued from despair; confident now, on how I must maintain its livelihood.
I am here to tell you, ladies and gentleman, let me be the first to say (and the first to fall) that to work in a nursing environment you have to – you must already have -accepted everyone for who they are.
this is where most people struggle if they do. what about the gays? the christians? the natives? what about the drunks, how do you accept them? give care to those who refuse, those who lash out at your giving hand?
who has patience for the retarded? for the blind, the deaf, the angry, the old, the baby, the nagger, the bitch, the asshole, the arrogant, the consipirator…
no one, sometimes. believe me when i tell you, i’ve walked floors and found no one with mercy. in a hospital that claims to exemplify God’s love for all; it is every now and then very hard to find the example.
to be the example,
(we are still only that which falls short, the human)
and so I spoke out, which I never do, but my eyes found this action intolerable: blatant mockery and disapproval of one person different from all the rest. Sesame Street had not taught them well and as adults, I found them to be the childest creatures. I could not close my eyes from then; I could not use them to remember; I could not even continue without tear.
And then in one day’s time, I could not longer be silent in its face. These eyes had something to say about all it saw. I could not avert or shrug off the seep of oil muddying my water, spinning sediment into the engine: This is a house of care.
And that, my friends, (that blatant mockery) was a contradiction to care (an insensible jolt of pain in a house designed to ease the nature of such things).
if you can not give good care, do not give care at all. leave this house.
i know i am sensitive, but maybe thats a good thing. because then i have a voice to speak for those in pain? serving as Coast Guard, advocate, ombudsman for my patients, my coworkers even, my friends from unjustified hate.
i know they are insensitive and thats their guard against abuse, mistreatment, the bites of hands that feed…
but if they think no one is worthy of being fed, what good is the food? what does that hate do for anyone?
And though I hated to be loud; appear obnoxious…I could not bare the dysfunction of silence. Nothing will ever stop bad care if it is not stopped by someone with a voice to bring it down.
My voice met challenge this week; the rebuttle of a world much louder. I trembled and I didn’t want to make sound but I closed my eyes and did what I had to do. The water of my soul; the pull of my moon; the arc of the Earth measured by a moment; a graceful surrender to integrity. I felt compelled to be the voice of change. It drummed in me, provactively, until testimony sang out:
there is only one plan of care; good care.
otherwise, it is not care.