Pull My Trigger.
Tonight is no different. I'm home from a brief visit with one of my daughters to the ER. Her two year old sister threw a rock directly at her face, slamming it squarely on the bridge of her nose. The nurse mom in me assessed and said she was fine but my worried husband and pediatrician's office encouraged timely clinical review. The problem is, I know my triggers, and the local ER is a big one. Not more than four months ago I was wheeled in there on a stretcher, my son dead inside my body and my life spinning out of control around me. I knew I would remember, though I was only semi-conscious at the time, and the quick drive was filling me with dread as I transported my daughter.
It helped that it was quiet, that it was daylight rather than dark, that it was 70 above rather than 20 below...and yet those lights, that hallway, the memories are too easily accessed not to hurt. Tonight's trigger is not the first and will not be the last. Last weekend I worked on the pediatric unit, caring for four small babies throughout my eight hour shift, three of them little boys and all of them in social situations that made me cringe. I frequently find items at home that remind me of my son, of the life we were meant to have with him alive. All these are obvious triggers. They are objects and situations that do not catch me off guard in my Grief because I anticipate their sting and brace for it.
There are a few other times that I have not been able to recognize a trigger though and I find myself frustrated in that moment. The first few times I loaded the dishwasher and stuffed clothes into the washing machine was one. Why would this get me? It's a simple task, done almost every day, and yet it still manages to choke me up each time I do it. Maybe it's that I can breathe now, with an empty and flat belly, no little feet tucked up under my ribs to push my breath out as I bow to put silverware in their slots. Maybe it's that the smell of laundry detergent no longer makes me gag, or that I have no poopy diapers to wash or tiny clothes to fold. It doesn't matter the why, I know it is coming and I let it. I cannot avoid the tears so I will take these little moments of them when I can keep them private.
Tonight's trigger was obvious to me if not those around me. I didn't want to make a scene there, those nurses might not recognize me if I was lucky, and the physician was one I had never met. It was easy to steel myself as I walked through the doors, little girl in hand. Each step squeezed my heart, though, the glare from those lights making me close my eyes more than I wanted, remembering too much for my own comfort. The noises echoing in our room from the hallway, the niceties of the staff and all the bustle were confining. I felt like a loaded gun, life putting pressure on my soul, turning off the safety and aiming me to be fired. I sat waiting after the doctor was through examining my daughter's probably broken but not treatable nose, breathing in and focusing on keeping my cool. I let out slow breaths and willed myself to stay sane, to stay collected while I was playing mom. And tonight I didn't burst. Life pulled my trigger, and though I cried all the way home, cursing the hot tears coursing down my cheeks, I am not broken.
Visiting that hospital is not high on my wishlist. I honestly hope to never go back. But I can say that I did it now and won't have that fear any longer of what it would be like to see the inside of its walls again. I'll take those little victories when I can, be triumphant in the fact that I can hold my tears and let them fill me up in public, then tip them over and pour them out in private. And I'll keep washing dishes and clothes despite the fact that it gets me every time; they always need a pre-rinse and extra stain treating anyway...
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