Rejoicing and Weeping

A repost of my Feb/March update.

One of my flaws as a nurse, or in relationships—ok, really just as a human being—is that I continually slip toward the tendency to "do people." I've been aware of this tendency since my college days, when a wise mentor pointed out that in my role as an RA, I tended to consider relationships to be another task on my to-do list. While this at times worked out, often times it made relationships a bit sterile and cold.

I have further noticed that the busier I become, the more I want to relegate people to my to-do list—visited him, check; saw her today, check; wrote them an email, check.

The same feeling of relief and accomplishment that comes from crossing off items on the to-do list gets applied to your relationships. This system is almost encouraged by American culture. Unfortunately, this surface level gratification covers over the widening gap that actually threatens to destroy the very relationships you think you are "accomplishing."

The problem is that friendships/relationships—or really any human connections—are incredibly messy, and not easily confined to the tidiness of a to-do list. They are not projects that can be finished, and they know no time bounds. They demand great deals of emotional energy and a great deal of self-sacrifice. There is a reason Paul uses the phrase "bear with one another" in his encouragement in Ephesians 4. Relationships are anything but an easy check box, and frankly, all their requirements are rapidly falling out of favor.

Nursing is one of those weird fields that pay you to be emotionally invested in other people to one degree or another. However, there are options that are light on such necessities—ER nursing and adult intensive care (which is, of course, where I worked before coming here). So I've always really admired some of my classmates who graduated and went into areas of nursing that require a high level of emotional involvement—pediatrics, oncology, and hospice.

Yet, in God's not-so-subtle way of remaking me, He has brought me to Africa, where relationships reign supreme, and He has plunged me into the middle of a hospital where my work demands high levels of relational involvement. Wound care, oncology, pediatrics, and even hospice are all daily experiences. (Obviously, not a solo job… my coworkers are also heavily involved, and often I'm playing a lesser role in certain of these areas.)

Furthermore, my office sits in the middle of the pediatric wing of the hospital, so we've got a constant stream of kids coming in to visit, to get coloring books, or just to be held. One such patient is 4-year-old Alou. He has been at our hospital for a couple months now being treated for childhood leukemia (ALL). I've been less involved in his treatment, but he is a frequent visitor in my office. It started back when he was first under treatment and was doing well. I found out that he had a great laugh, so I would often go visit him, to toss him in the air or to tickle him. If I happened to pass by while he was eating, he often held a handful of slimy sauce toward me, encouraging me to come take a bite.

Unfortunately, Alou's treatment course has not been going well. His cancer is not responding well. His mouth has filled with huge, painful sores—the result of chemotherapy and subsequent infections. He has lost significant weight and has very little energy. Most of the time, he just wants to sleep or be held. Last week, I came back to my office after surgery. I saw him sitting on the ground a few doors down, so I said his name and waved, but entered my office and sat down at my desk. A few minutes later, he came through the door, half-crawling, half-dragging himself. Exhausted from the effort, he sat in the door way, and put his hands up. How could you resist that?

So I'm learning to enter into his little world and to offer comfort that comes only with time and messy emotional connection—trying to pretend that I'd rather be doing my other, "more pressing" projects. I'm learning to artfully dodge his copious drool, and I've got ideas of how to avoid being pooped on again. (Oh that diarrhea, it'll get you every time) And most importantly, I'm trying to learn what Paul meant in Romans when he says, "Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep."

Please pray for Alou and his family. We'll continue his treatment until his infections clear up. Then we have to test his bone marrow one last time. If no significant improvement has taken place, he will be placed on hospice. Brett, Sheri, Jessica, and I will be walking with the family through this difficult time. Pray that the Lord grants us great wisdom and compassion. Pray that I—that we—rejoice and weep well, in all that we do here.