Missing Mike

Death.

It touches everyone, in one way or another. Every person, no matter where or who they are, will be touched by death at least once in their lifetime. Either by losing someone they love, or someone they have known, and will have to go through the process of grieving and coping with the loss, and at some point, in some way move on without that person in their lives. They may know someone who has experienced a loss, and may feel the need to be there for them; to lend their shoulder, to let the mourner talk about the one they lost or how they're feeling, or even just to sit with them until they know the time is right to walk away and let them be alone. They may even experience death personally, directly, by facing a disease, or surviving a tragedy or accident, and may then know what to expect when their time comes.

I have seen death; have been touched by it, in more ways than one. Working in the emergency room brings in all types of patients, all types of cases, and it's not rare for us nurses to have to deal with death, be it by providing resuscitation measures to someone who is dying, or who has died and we are trying to bring them back; taking care of the body, making sure he or she – I could never refer to a body as 'it', that was too degrading to me – was presentable for the family before having them brought down to the morgue; or even dealing with the families of the ones who had passed on, giving them the comfort and the support that they needed before giving them their space, only to watch them walk out of the doors, devastated and broken, while we carried on with our work. Life does go on, after all, whether we want it to or not.

And I've lost; I have lost many, too many. Grandparents, all of which are gone save for one, bless her confused, ailing, loving, ninety-two year old soul. I've lost uncles, who had always been father figures to me and who, to this day, I still wonder what they would tell me when I was upset, or how they would react when I did or said something to embarrass myself. I've lost friends, all of whom I loved dearly and miss to this day, who I think about constantly, and who I have to give large amounts of credit to; Matthan, for teaching me that it's okay to be silly, especially when people are watching because it wouldn't be funny if they weren't; Shane, for always making me feel smart and for his hugs; Gregg, for being the brother that I never had, and for teaching me that it's okay to ask for help, no matter the problem, because trying to get through something alone is too daunting for words; Evan, for his ability to make me laugh no matter what was going on, and his gift of letting me know that, somehow, everything would always turn out the way that it should and, finally, for Shannon, who showed me how strong I really am, and who gave me a new appreciation for stars.

That kind of thing should get easier; the grief, the devastation, the…emptiness. Every time it happens, it should be a little easier than the time before, than the first time but as everyone knows, it's not. In fact, I would say it's harder; harder to take, harder to deal with. The more one loses, the more it hurts; insult to injury, isn't that the saying?

I had a woman ask me once, as she walked out of the room where her husband lie, still attached to the tubes and lines and monitors that we had used to attempt to bring him back with no success – heart attack, the doctor had told her, a severe one that left his poor wife alone to raise their three children, all under the age of ten, alone – how we did it. How did we as nurses see death again and again and still go on with our day of healing those who were sick, without letting it eat at us? How did we move on? How did we deal with death in our own personal lives, when we had seen so much of it in our day to day job?

To be honest, I hadn't had an answer for her. At least, not the one she would have wanted to hear. At work when we deal with death, we go on knowing that we did our best; that we did anything and everything we possibly could to save that person and if it failed, if we failed it was not because we didn't do enough, it was because it was their time; they just weren't meant to survive. We would lean on one another if we needed and, yes, we would cry if we had to but we did go on with our day. It's a hospital, and there are always sick people, always people needing to be treated and stitched. We didn't have a choice. But in my personal life…well, that's another story, and one that I didn't tell her.

Ironically enough, I don't deal well with death, when it's someone that I know. Most people think that because I deal with death at work, I should know how to deal with it altogether, but that's not true. When I lose someone, I freeze before reacting, if only fleetingly. Once the initial shock wears away, I shut myself off; I go cold, and numb. I go through the motions of grieving, but I don't actually feel anything. I make sure everyone else is dealing with it alright, I see to everyone else's needs, I comfort everyone else because that's what I do; I nurture, I coddle, I take care of everyone else before myself. And I'm alright, while I'm still numb. But once the numb, empty, robot feeling begins to fade away and the pain starts…it's all downhill from there.

Like right now.

I wrote this with the intention of turning it into a story, but at the moment I'm not so sure that I'm ready to do that, or even if I want to. So for the moment it will remain a journal entry, and is dedicated to Mike Young, who passed away at the beginning of September and took my heart with him.