RS: How did you get the idea for this essay? Did you know you always wanted to write about this experience? That is, working in a hospital and witnessing tragedy as well as everyday acts of courage.
Aldra Robinson: I was watching a medical drama on TV, and the storyline reminded me of my time working in an intensive care unit. There are so many stories I could tell, but my memory always returns to one family. I turned off the TV and grabbed Real Simple. The first page it opened to noted the essay contest. It was a coincidence that, in hindsight, doesn’t seem like much of a coincidence.
It’s been almost 10 years [since the events that take place in the essay], and I’m still in awe of how that family was able to handle something so horrific with such grace. Whenever I start to feel stressed by some self-created drama or work deadline, I think of that family and remind myself that nothing going on in my world is anything close to tragic, and even in the face of truly difficult circumstances, I can choose how I will respond. I thought it was a lesson worth sharing, and even if it wasn’t chosen, it might do some good to write it.
RS: This essay can be tough to read, given its somber subject matter. Was it equally challenging to write?
AR: I hesitate to say that it was. Obviously, writing about it is nothing compared to living it. Most of my writing is humorous―or it tries to be, anyway―so writing about something that couldn’t be turned into a big joke was intimidating. When I worked in the hospital, at the end of my shift I would sometimes take the stairs instead of the elevator because I didn’t want anyone to see me crying. Writing the essay and sending it to strangers to read was akin to letting the world witness the tears. Oddly enough, it was rather freeing.
More than anything, I wanted to be respectful of the family. It’s easy to become overly sentimental when writing about something so tragic, and I didn’t want to turn their story into some cheesy after-school special or a sermon about the importance of organ donation. I just wanted to lift the family up and show the world how unbelievably powerful love is.
RS: What is your writing process like?
AR: If being neurotic and unrelentingly critical could be considered a process, that would be the one I’d claim. I write grants for a living, so in my nine-to-five universe, I use an outline. But when writing creatively (my internal censor says, “You write creatively?”), I work best when I get out of my way, ignore the incessant inner critic, and just let the words fly. I’m prone to working in spurts because I’m a procrastinator, but when it’s a topic I love, I can lose myself. I edit best after a piece is written, because I would never get anything done if I edited as I wrote. I consider a piece finished when I’ve edited it to the point where I think it is horribly written and should never see the light of day. Then I send it on its way. At some point, surrender is the only option. (I did say neurotic, didn’t I?)
RS: What book are you reading right now?
AR: It’s never just one! I’m currently reading The Green Collar Economy, by Van Jones, and Sleepyhead Assassins, by Mindy Nettifee, and I’m rereading The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver, and Under the Tuscan Sun, by Frances Mayes. I think this is the fourth time I’ve read Under the Tuscan Sun. I want to be Frances Mayes when I grow up!
RS: Do you have any future writing plans you’d like to share?
AR: I’m working on turning my blog, Consciously Frugal (consciouslyfrugal.blogspot.com), into a book proposal about green, frugal living (wish me luck). I am also building a website called the Martyr’s Manual (martyrsmanual.com). The website is basically a tongue-in-cheek guide on how to be a do-gooder. I’ve worked in the nonprofit industry all my life, have been a green consumer long before it was trendy, and was essentially programmed to save the world by my strange and fabulous parents. Obviously I haven’t succeeded yet. But I have gained some really handy tips on how to live well on less and shop in a way that supports communities, and I carry some strong opinions about the importance of letting our little lights shine. Like a gazillion other crazy souls out there, I hope to find an agent and a publisher who share my passion for all things do-gooder and let me ramble on for pages and pages. Who knows? I’d like to hope that anything is possible.
The EssayIt wasn’t the jolt of panic that shot through my spine, exploding into my chest when they wheeled her through the front door. It wasn’t the crushing fear etched on her parents’ faces as they waited, helpless. It wasn’t any moment during her week in the intensive care unit. It happened more than a year later, as I reached for a cup of coffee in the break room and saw a small newspaper clipping tacked inside a brief, handwritten note. It was then that I first understood the true nature of grace.
Lord knows it wasn’t the first time a heartbreakingly tragic tale had taken root in one of the rooms of the intensive care unit in which I spent most of my college years as a unit secretary, chasing after nurses, trying to be of some use. I thought I wouldn’t survive the first few weeks, as families sobbed next to beds filled with silent loved ones breathing with the help of machines. Even several years later, as I look back at my life in Columbia, Missouri, through my window in California, realizing that I gained enough weight while working in the ICU to equal another human being, I wonder how I managed to get through one day. I still feel a sense of awe remembering the nurses who walked those halls for years. It takes a hell of a lot of heart to handle death and disease as a routine part of the job.
She was 15 years old when a vessel ruptured in her head. There were no warning signs. No one could have predicted it or stopped it from happening. She was on a school field trip when it hit, learning about the brilliant blanket of wildflowers the Ozarks shower across the landscape each spring. One minute she was standing, laughing with her friends. The next she was on the ground, unresponsive.
We didn’t get many kids in the unit. Older patients with strokes and middle-aged folks with back surgeries were far more commonplace. Occasionally a traumatic case would come through, but rarely a child. So when a young person did roll through the front doors, everyone’s chest would tighten and a wave of sadness would flow through the corridor before we put aside our fears and went to work. Treatments for bleeding in the brain are fairly standard. But some of them shocked me, despite the fact that I had been raised by two nurses and our dinner-table conversations had often centered on stuff so grotesque, you would have thought we were discussing a Halloween haunted-house display.
By the time the girl reached us, the swelling in her head was severe. To lessen the pressure and therefore the potential damage to her brain, a portion of her skull was removed. When her parents were asked to leave so that one of the nurses could perform a task, I stood at her door and wondered about the white bandage on her head. How was it possible to survive when a portion of the very thing that is supposed to protect you has been removed?
Throughout the course of a week, everyone did what they could. Countless doctors fluttered in and out of her room. Her family clung to one another, fear turning to grief in their furrowed brows. After a barrage of treatments, it became apparent she would not make it. Staff whispered in hushed tones about how sad it was to see someone so young die like this. I asked one of the nurses why the doctors were continuing with treatments when it was obvious that she was gone. She told me that cynics will tell you physicians are simply worried about being sued, so they administer treatments and tests they know will have no effect to give the impression they have done absolutely everything possible. But most often there are circumstances where the family needs more time to come to terms with what is happening. The added activity and its explanations help them to understand the reality of the situation. When I looked into her mom’s and dad’s faces, their crushed hearts breaking through, I knew they understood.
She was from a small town in the Ozarks where community is family. On the day of her funeral, the high school was closed and virtually every student attended her service. Her friends and fellow members of the marching band played a song as all the other people present held hands. Then the service ended, and everyone went home.
A little more than a year later, I wandered into the break room to pour myself a cup of cheap, wretched coffee, the kind only hospitals dare serve, and looked to see what new, absurd jokes were on the bulletin board. (My all-time favorite: If assholes could fly, this place would be an airport.) Next to memos and a recipe for monster cookies contributed by a happy wife whose husband had survived a stroke was a handwritten note that read, “Thank you for all you did.” Tacked inside it was a softly crumpled newspaper clipping containing a poem that opened with a message from her parents: “We miss you so much. Our hearts ache for you every single day.” They had placed a tribute to her in their local paper and sent a copy of it to us.
I don’t remember much about the poem or the message it tried to convey. What I remember was the date on the newspaper clipping. Instead of honoring her on the day of her birth or death, they chose to remember her on the day her organs were transplanted. They chose to honor the day she gave others life. Four people received life-saving organs from that 15-year-old girl. Two others received essential tissues. In all, six people were transformed because those devastated parents decided to honor the giving spirit of their precious child. I do not know if I could have such courage in the face of such unimaginable pain. I could not fathom how they maintained the ability to breathe. To walk. To get out of bed. And then I remembered my grandmother, who had borne her two sons one year apart and buried them some 20 years later, one year apart. How did she endure it not once but twice?
Working in that intensive care unit gave me countless sad tales, and some unfortunate memories are burned into my brain. But it wasn’t some catastrophic moment that taught me one of the most powerful lessons of my life. I learned that unbelievably awful things can and do happen. In truth, they are not such rare, isolated events. Each of us has a story that would break someone’s heart. Despite the grief and the unfairness of it all, we keep going. There are chores to be done. There are people who still need our care. There is a life to be led.
The real lesson was found in the date on that small newspaper clipping. I realized that, regardless of the heartache, we may choose the moments in which we live.
On that day, I learned that love creates a tremendous capacity for grace. And perhaps it is that grace that keeps us moving forward.
Click here to read Parenting a Child With a Disability, the powerful runner-up in the first Life Lessons essay contest.