I’ve been intending to update for awhile, but haven’t. Sorry.
I’ve been depressed. I’m not talking about the kind of depression where you’re bored and vaguely dissatisfied. I’m talking about the kind where you can’t sleep, where you lose all interest in the things you love, where people you don’t even know can tell something is wrong. The kind where you break down sobbing while buying dinner for your family and the person at the checkout line calls 911 because she doesn’t know what else to do.
I was sleeping a few hours a night–broken, fitful sleep–waking to the same dream over and over. My mind couldn’t lay it down. I was carrying the problem with me everywhere I went.
The problem. It wasn’t a problem. It was a person.
I can’t tell you her name, or even promise the person is a she, because of the privacy restrictions we work under as medical professionals. But I wrote a thing about her, a thing I can’t share yet, and the writing did not have the effect I anticipated.
I thought it would be cathartic. I thought it would be like burning a memory, transferring the hurt to ash to be carried away by the wind. Instead the writing ensured that her name is burned on my heart.
So I don’t give two figs for the concept of preload. I have half an article written on something else and I simply cannot make myself write it. I do not care. The only thing I care about is finding some way to honor her memory. To do right by her and thousands like her.
Her memory haunts me. When I go to bed at night. When I rise in the morning. When I go throughout my day. She’s right there, at my shoulder, as I work and I think and I write and I start IVs. I missed two shifts on different floors because my mind is consumed with her.
If this story resonates with you, please–seek help. Find someone who can understand. Talk to them. Tell them your story. Don’t try to bear it alone. The weight can crush you, and you matter too much for that to happen.