God knows what He is doing! He knew today would be needed more than most.
During my Sabbath days, I turn off electronic devices (excluding television). No access to social media. I spend the day in my pajamas and spend the entire day reading fiction or watching television. My sole goal is to deactivate my brain for one day so that it can recharge. Otherwise, I will fall into old habits of going until my battery runs out. Once the battery runs dry, I crash for at least one week, and nothing gets accomplished.
I wonder how extroverts spend their Sabbaths, if they take a Sabbath. But, anyway, that is off topic.
Today, I am torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to cry. I cannot get into the details of why yesterday was so hard, but it began with the dreams (see blog “That Ain’t No Way to Go”), got messier with Sunday’s sermon which tied in a bit too well with the dream issue, and came to a drastic head at work. The incident at work affected me in a profound way – so much so that I had to call in reinforcements. And, it was not the usual things – death of a patient, family – which took its toll. It was the cumulative whole – how it affected everyone from the housekeeper to the charge doctor.
Someone questioned how I do it. I knew if I tried to speak, I would cry, so I merely pointed my finger toward the ceiling.
When it was all over, I went into the office to take a few minutes to switch gears so that I could resume my rounds. I texted my church’s leadership team for prayer – one of my decompressing techniques. This time, it was not enough. As soon as I sat down, I realized how labored my breathing had become. So, I began my best anti-anxiety routines – a breathing prayer – breathing in the Spirit of God and breathing out the anxiety.
This time, instead of calming, I broke down into uncontrollable sobs. The tears did not last long, but one look in the mirror, and I knew that I could not resume my rounds – not until my bloodshot eyes cleared.
I would debrief with my hospital manager/mentor eventually, but I knew, in this moment, I needed to speak with him now – if for no other reason than to explain why the “numbers” would not add up on my daily report.
By the time he called back, I had collected myself, and intended to resume my rounds. However, when he called back and I began debriefing with him and he asked questions, the tears resumed. He told me to hang tight and promised to call right back. When he did, he told me that another manager would be coming in to help me debrief with the staff and with me.
When all was said and done, I was physically and emotionally exhausted. However, I was afraid of falling asleep. I was afraid of the dreams. I stayed up late binging on Bon Jovi videos and interviews on YouTube – after eating an entire pint of Blue Bell Rocky Road ice cream.
This morning, I woke up at the same time as normal, unable to sleep, the exhaustion remained. I am in a good place spiritually and emotionally, but I am just so dang tired. As my manager told me, I did the right thing in not waiting until today to debrief. I am convinced that I am where I am supposed to be – even and maybe especially – on the hard days. I learned so much by the manager who came in to help me with the aftermath.
What’s funny is that I was starting to feel like I had this job down already, secretly wishing a full-time job would open up and I would be the obvious and natural person to fill it, even though I have barely begun the classroom portion of my education. Can anyone say cocky? This taught me that I still have a lot to learn. But, how very lucky I am to be in this setting to be learning from these people who take great pride in training up chaplains right.
Anyway, back to the story. I am torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to cry. Back to the dreams and the interplay between the dreams, the sermon, and the job.
I have Ellen Degeneres’ comedy, “Relatable,” save to my list on Netflix. I decided to begin with a comedy. My ex used to tease me because Ellen was the only person on the planet who could make me laugh. I remember watching her skit about calling God and just being so tickled. Since then, I have learned to laugh at a lot of things, but she is still one of those who just really gets me going. It’s her whole bit – the kinds of jokes, her expressions, demeanor – all of it.
“Relatable” is a different sort of bit. She has nuggets of heart truth cloaked in comedy. I got teary-eyed a time or two, especially the way she chose to end the special. She told the story of a dream which changed her life. She said, “Before I had that dream, I didn’t realize I was in a cage . . . I had everything I thought was important, but I was hiding a part of myself . . . Everyone has a fear. Everyone is scared of something, but it isn’t until you face that fear head on that you realize your power and that’s when you grow . . . we are all the same and we are all relatable.”
When the special ended, I just had to write. I had to get all this stuff inside of me out. Writing is my thing – my talent – my therapy – my ministry – my way of being relatable.
During the course of the past few month of hospital chaplaincy internship, I was beginning to believe that I was suited so well for this job because I am emotionally stunted, able to disengage my head and my heart. I think I may be wrong. Like the tin man, I think a heart may have been there, beating strong all along. I think it may have simply been dormant. I think this is what my dreams have been about – not about Brad at all, but about me – my heart waking up.
All those years ago, when Brad remarked how Ellen was the only one capable of getting any sort of emotion out of me, he realized that her brand of comedy was able to penetrate a place where no one else had access. Granted, he thought my love for her meant something else, but I now think my love for her was just that – the fact that she was the only one able to inadvertently awaken my heart with her clean comedy.
What has the past eight years been about? What did I realize all those years ago when Brad and I had that exchange about cheating? It has been about giving my heart room to grow and have equal space in my life with my head. Like the Grinch, I think my heart is growing, and what I am experiencing is growing pains.
The night after I wrote my last blog about the scary dreams, the dreams morphed. Now, instead of me trying to get away from someone out to hurt me, I was trying to save someone else. In my dream, a friend who is physically vulnerable was being verbally and physically abused by her big brute of a husband. While he was asleep, I tried to get her out of the house. Once outside, I could not get her to my car fast enough. My legs became like lead and my movements slower than a turtle, as if half of my body were sinking into quicksand.
The brute’s dog, raised to be a killer, was chained, but growling and barking, awakening the brute inside. He rushed out and was coming after his wife. Because of my lead-legs, I was not going to be able to get her to safety. In my dream, I cried out an apology to her, “I’m so sorry I could not save you.” (Cue the scene of Simon from the movie, Simon Birch - based on my favorite book, A Prayer for Owen Meany - Simon cries out "I'm sorry" after accidentally killing his best friend's mother. https://youtu.be/QE6mvTRykmE)
I had another similar dream later the same night.
Yesterday, the hardest part for me was seeing the pain and guilt some of the staff carried and not being able to do anything to help them. My heart broke for them and there was nothing I could do to take away their pain.
Ask me what my deepest, most secret fear is, and I used to say and believe that it was growing old and dying alone. I am not afraid of growing old or dying, but I have always been afraid of doing it alone.
I don’t think that’s a fear anymore – not as long as I have my church family.
I have never even admitted it myself, always choosing to lie to myself each time the thought popped into my head. My head would revert to old habits by telling my heart what to think and how to feel. But the truth is, (take a deep breath, Renee) the truth is that my biggest fear is trusting someone with my heart again. If I should let my heart out of its cage, it might break again.
The dreams – of Brad chasing me – no one ever hurt me as bad as he did. It took a very long time to put those pieces back together (see blog Putting the Pieces Back Together). I don’t even feel comfortable letting others handle the actual broken pot – the piece of pottery. It took me a lot to glue those pieces together. It represents so much more to me than pieces of clay. How much harder would it be to hand over my pieced-back-together-live-beating-fragile-heart? The mere thought of that is making my heart race even as I type this.
The dreams of not being able to protect myself from Brad or a friend from her abusive husband – or in real life, not being able to protect the medical staff – it’s a lack of control. I need to feel in control. I cannot protect my heart if I let it out of its cage where someone could take it and claim it as their own.
Maybe that’s also the explanation for the sweet/loathing thoughts I started having about Valentine’s Day this year. I had this disturbing thought that maybe I don’t like Valentine’s Day (or romance) is because I have never experienced it. I hate the idea that there may be a romantic buried down deep somewhere. Ugh! Then again, I love Hallmark Christmas movies. There’s a sap in me somewhere.
Maybe these conflicting V-Day emotions is a battle between my heart and my head. The heart is growing, becoming too big for its cage, but my head is not taking too kindly to losing some of its control. I can see them with their boxing gloves on, in the ring fighting for the title. The goal is for them to have equal space, but the heart has to fight in order to get the head to give up space. The head is used to being in control. Giving up even a millimeter is asking a lot of it. After all, downsizing is hard, especially for someone who has been hording space for so long.
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