I’m sighing as I walk through the hospital doors.

I smile with my eyes at the random people I pass.

The hospital staff, though – that’s another matter all together.

I pass room after room of Covid patients, PPE in boxes and bags outside the flagged, closed doors.

I see an exhausted housekeeper coming out of a tagged room, and I look at her with sympathy, saying “thank you so much for what you do!” I’m sincere. The housekeeping staff is working so hard, day after day. She says “thank you, ma’am” even as she’s hauling a red bag off to the soiled utility room.

A nurse and respiratory therapist run by, glancing into my eyes for a minute – a knowing glance, and I say a prayer as they whisk past me.

Soon after, a code blue is called.

A resident leans against a wall, eyes closed, shoulders down, dejected. In another time I’d reach out and grab her hand – but that time has passed into what seems is a distant memory. “She looks at me suddenly, the weight of the world in her gaze. “Hang in there,” I say softly. She drops her head and walks away.

I’m weary.

Oh, I’ve worked long days before in my 24 year career as a registered nurse – days where I measured life by the minute, for hours at a time.

Those days were here and there – anomalies. there were victories, too, and they gave me energy and hope.

No more.

Every day, life and death are playing out behind closed doors…and more often than not, death is the victor.

I keep the TV off.

When you are working the front lines, nothing anyone says about it means a damn thing. Not in the face of loss after loss after loss.

I tell my patients to stay out of the halls. I tell loved ones to keep on their masks, wash their hands, and leave out the side door.

That is, when the family is allowed to be with their loved one.

Most of all, I stress, stay away from the ER.

I look up. A helicopter crew walks by.

They are oblivious to the rain they walked though to get inside, and are grim as they pass the nurses station.

Weary.

Every day, the doctors spend all their precious time between patients trying to find higher levels of care for those who are walking the fine line between life and death.

Every bed full.

Every morgue full.

Weary.

Even as I help bring life into the world, I’m breathing through an N-95 mask. I try to express care through my eyes and tone. My gloves hands and hidden face – will they be enough for the faces looking at me, pleading for help?

I know I can pick up and work any day. Any hour. Anywhere.

Everywhere I go, they are desperate for help.

But I’m weary.

Last year was bad, but it turns out it was just a pallid harbinger of things to come.

This year is fierce, relentless, and is going after the young.

I’m not going to fight about it.

Not with what I have to see in the faces of those who are fighting at the front lines of uncertainty. 

The decay was a slow progression, viewed from the outside in.

It started with the landscaping.

In the gated, golf course community, where each yard has its own private service, and lawn equipment is running most daylight hours, this lawn went uncut. The landscaping of flowering bushes went from trimmed and even, to branches reaching up in every direction, unkempt and out of control.

The high end sedan sat on the curved drive day after day, slowly decomposing in the sun. Walking past the house, there seemed to be no signs of life – no kids playing, no humming of lawn mowers, no one splashing in the pool behind the house.

The roof aged, growing moldy, even as the pool turned greener from disuse.

People speculated on what was happening. Illness? Cancer? Death? For surely something had brought blight upon this formerly beautiful home, a perfect example of the American dream.

One day a hand scrawled “for sale by owner” sign appeared. Small and yellow, it was barely noticeable next to the large brick mailbox.

In this market, though, the house was snapped up quickly – “as is, no contingencies”. In a matter of a couple of days, it was sold, cash money, despite how worn down and depressed it looked.

A few days later, an “estate sale” sign was in the yard, again hand written almost apologetically, leaning against the slant of the steep drive.

We pulled in, ready to buy any fine furniture that was to be had, and then we saw that death had come to the house from the inside out.

The owner was scarcely past middle age. The house was frozen in time, as if the stilled grandfather clock marked the moment the internal loss began.

Pictures of high school kids, frozen in their 90’s fashions, hung askew on dated wallpaper. All around were signs of family – quotes about family, a farm style dining room that undoubtedly held many family meals, holiday decorations, and a decidedly feminine touch that had left fading memories in its wake.

Alone, the owner was quickly parted with everything he owned. His face was red, his eyes kind but bloodshot. The tops of his hands were purple. My nursing assessment grew concerned for him, and I met his eyes in honest sympathy. I reached out and told him I’d been praying for him – and I had.

Seeing the obvious loss he had been through, I wished him better.

I asked him where he was going next – he said he didn’t know. He said maybe a camper. The words were spoken matter of fact, but his sudden downward gaze and clipped silence betrayed his attempts to be nonchalant about the inevitability of what was happening.

From a gated community to a camper.

My mind flashed briefly to the times I was barely hanging on financially, living hand to mouth. It certainly wasn’t in a two storied home with dormers.

I gave him cash for the few things I purchased, and felt the heaviness of the house in mourning close in around me.

Days later, the signs were gone from the lawn, and the sedan sat empty against the curb.

My husband and I have both been married before.

We both got divorced due to poor decisions of our ex’s – aka adultery. Yes, we live in a no fault state, but we didn’t marry to get divorced. Our ex’s made that decision for us.

One of the hardest parts of being in a blended family is chopping off branches in the family tree.

My husband went through complete devastation and family implosion, through no fault of his own.

I was cheated on and abandoned, my kids had no dad for most of their lives, through no fault of our own.

My husband and I met 15 years ago, and got married over 13 years ago.

We’ve been together longer than any previous relationship.

And yet… we are cut off from the family tree.

My husband selflessly stayed in one location to provide stability for his kids. If he had chosen to move, he would have climbed quickly up the corporate ladder to great success and income.

He kids came first. He stayed put, but it kept him in one location, which happened to be states away from where his family of origin lives.

God has rewarded him and things have turned for the better – amazing changes after over 20 years of loyal service.

When your child, brother, sister, etc remarries, it seems only natural that you would be happy for them. That you would embrace the wife and kids and happiness that has come into their life.

It’s not what has happened.

I don’t know why – though I have my theory – but my awesome, selfless husband has been cut off from the family tree.

Despite our twice yearly visits, driving a day each way while mom was alive, once she passed, this branch of the family tree fell to the ground with a loud thump. Where we had unconditional love and sweet cards and notes celebrating all the milestones, now we have silence.

My husband has accepted all the kids, and an extra one to boot, as his own. We see the six kids God gave us as one family – warts and all. We love all the kids, and their spouses, and they are all on their journey of acceptance…or not. We love them anyway. It’s part of the blended family journey.

We have a pile of grandkids we adore – Papa and Nana are seen as just that. Family. Period.

It hurts that no one from his family acknowledges our marriage. Our blended family. That biological and original adopted children get presents and attention while the rest of our kids and grandkids are ignored completely. It’s as if we don’t exist.

When I proudly announce new grandkids or celebrate our kids, there is silence. Not even a “like” on the page of their relative’s Facebook.

Blood may be thicker than water, but family is who loves you tangibly – through relationship. Acknowledgement. Acceptance.

We get that through our blended family group at church. Also from our daughter in love’s family, with whom we have formed one big family.

The loss is theirs…but I truly do not understand it.

I’ve been a sky gazer for as long as I can remember.

I thought everyone was like this, but I know it isn’t so because when I’m exclaiming at the beauty of the cloud formations or colors, some just look at me and stare blankly.

I have always loved clouds.

When I was a small child living in Utah, I would lie on my back for what seemed like hours, watching the giant, bright white clouds move and merge across the sky. I felt like I could feel the earth move beneath me – I would almost get vertigo, although at the time I didn’t know to call it that.

In the Philippines, my cloud gazing happened night and day. The night sky was the deepest black sometimes, with no street lights to water down the depth of the darkness. On the horizon, the clouds were like ghosts, standing out in stark relief, like a black and white photo.

The sunsets were a pastel poem, with orange, pink, and lavender accentuating the edges of each ethereal formation. Combined with the tropical scents of plumeria and frequent rain showers, it paints a picture in my memory that fills my senses.

When I lived in Washington state, it was usually a grey sky, even if it wasn’t raining. The clouds were low, hugging the landscape in billowy fog, or just above the earth in a solid, water laden blanket.

When I moved from there to the Midwest, I fell in love with clouds with more intensity, having missed seeing them. Great storms would roll up out of no where, and the thunderous bellows that came from the depths of these giant formations were at the same time beautiful, and terrifying.

Along the gulf coast, the skies remind me of the Pacific – impressionistic palettes that transition into light clouds floating nimbly across the night sky.

Today my mind is troubled, and as I drove through the country to reach my destination, the expanse of sky caught my breath, as it often does.

Shafts of light pierced the platinum clouds, and the scope of it all against the fields left me feeling so small. It matched my hearts cry.

There is comfort there, though.

My memories are happy in this, even in the solitude.

I’m a tiny part of a bigger picture.

I don’t feel good.

I don’t know if it’s the last five nights of night shift, the storms rolling through, or my body throwing out symptoms I don’t want to pay heed to.

It’s day two of my commitment to exercise every day – specifically to walk then run. Every day. From now until November.

Yesterday, I drove home from my travel assignment, unpacked, and fell into bed. By the time I woke up, it was pouring rain, with no end sight.

I was stuck with the dreadmill, because I made a commitment- to myself, first and foremost.

Today I awoke ill…and it was again pouring.

I spent the day resting and plying myself with a myriad of homeopathic treatments. Drinking water. Waiting for the rain to stop.

Finally, just after my dinner of rice and hibachi veggies, it did. Out I went.

I realize how much I’ve grown into this runners mentality…even though I’ve struggled to get back on track since my type 1 diabetes diagnosis.

The humidity is 92%, and that itself would have kept me inside at some point.

I have so many excuses.

Resolve must overcome.

Overcome the night shift/day shift fluctuations that keep me exhausted.

I must push through the Florida heat, humidity, and gnats.

I listen to an audiobook in one ear, and observe my surroundings as I quickly walk my 4.5 miles for the day.

Instead of focusing on the bad, I look for the good.

Mimosa trees, battered by the double deluge of today, with their leaves still folded in, protective.

A grand old crepe myrtle, weighed down with huge clumps of white flowers curved down at lovely angles.

Crossing a bridge and stopping to see the turtles, who rush over in the muddy waters, hoping I’ll throw them a snack.

All these things keep my mind off the humidity I used to curse, and that used to keep me from working out.

No more.

I’ve got goals – long and short term – and I’ll reach them.

One day at a time. I’ve done it before, going from a sedentary life to one where I’ve run 22 half marathons, and many other races, over the course of eight years.

Today I walked. Next week, the running program begins.

I was almost three years into a hell I willingly walked into.

If it looks to good to be true…it might be a sociopath.

I was tender and healing and hopeful.

They were predatory.

Appearances were good…but great evil lurked below.

I set boundaries, which were crashed through with force. And rape.

Committed, I moved forward, and north.

Without a support system, I sought one – and found myself in one as sick as they were.

Behind my back, my children were harmed. In front of my face, they were groomed.

It began the first day of summer.

It ended near the end of summer.

I slept fitfully one day after a night shift. I dreamt of coming and going, in a dreamscape that wasn’t exceptional in any way – except for the narration.

In the background, I intermittently heard the word “misogyny”. The dream would progress, and again, like a skip in a record, “misogyny”.

I awakened puzzled, for though I had a vast vocabulary, I didn’t know what this word meant, or why it was the voice of my dream.

Hatred of women.

My true awakening began.

The nightmare of finding what somewhere deep inside – my darkest fear – was on the verge of happening.

I fled.

Only after did I discover the depth of horrors that occurred under the roof I suffered under.

Summer.

May they rot in hell.

Sunrise made itself known through the triple set of doors.

Even that level of glass couldn’t contain the violet and pink light that was slowly seeping over the sleepy country landscape.

It calls me like the siren song. I have to go see it for myself, and push through the triplicate of exit doors, buzzing myself out the last one, and into…glory.

It’s humid already. I can smell the fresh cut hay, and somewhere nearby, a cow is lowing.

I walk across the tiny parking lot, and onto the damp, dew kissed grass. I need to get out from under artificial light, away from overhead lines.

The sky is a pastel pink and purple song, the light flowing over the trees, and through the fields of hay and corn. It brightens and morphs into new beauty as I watch, as if I was turning a kaleidoscope slowly, and the brighter colors of orange and yellow spread along the horizon.

I breathe in my fill of the morning beauty, and return inside and let my coworker go get hers, too.

A storm is churning out there in the gulf somewhere, and we may not see another sunrise like this for a few days.

Heading home after shift change, I’m sitting in line at a fast food restaurant, waiting for my grits.

Straight ahead, I spot an elderly woman sitting by the side of the road.

She’s between the road and the train tracks, and she’s set up a couple of folding tables right there in the grass.

She spread a sheet on the tables, and there are baskets of peaches, tomatoes, and I think okra peeking up out of a basket. She sits with her head down and her hands clasped in her lap. I see cucumbers and squash, and I figure it’s fresh from her garden. It’s 7:30am.

I make a mental note to look for her again. I want to stop and buy something, but I have neither the cash nor the fridge space here in my travel job motel.

Driving toward my small town away from home, there is a biplane swooping and diving over the fields. The corn is fringed with yellow tassels, a sight I can’t get used to this early in the year, after living for years in the Midwest. Up there, it’s growing blue green and tall still.

Back at the motel, I turn on my electric blanket, toss my key card on the dresser, and sit to eat my grits. It’s my time to wind down. I’ve arranged my room as I do every week, trying to bring a sense of normalcy to my nomadic existence.

After a few minutes, I call my husband, who is just starting his day, and he says good night.

It was.

Last night, as I calmly sat at work at the start of my night shift, I sat straight up in a panic.

Flustered, I opened a colorful zippered pouch to search for the source of my anxiety- I grasped a small, rubber encased vial, pulled it out, and held it up to the light.

Squinting, my pulse increased as I saw what I already knew would be true – I was out of insulin.

I’m a type 1 diabetic, and a working travel nurse far away from home.

It was only 4 years ago that I was diagnosed as a type 1 diabetic – actually LADA. Look it up if you please, but basically my body attacked itself, and now I don’t make insulin.

It’s mid day on a Thursday. I’ve awakened every 2 hours, waiting for my endocrinologist office to open – they are closed tomorrow. If I can’t make this happen, I’ll have to drive back home, get insulin, returning after a missed shift of work.

I speak to the doctors office. I had left a message with the service last night, and an urgent message on the patient portal, but this is too urgent to wait on.

I speak to someone at the doctors office. It takes two people to get the prescription to electronically send to the pharmacy closest to the town I’m working at.

I immediately called the pharmacy, making sure they have all my correct insurance and contact information.

For two hours, I wait. I have another 12 hour shift tonight…but I have to have insulin.

I get a text informing me that my insulin is here. I immediately get in my car, and drive to pick it up.

I’m back at my hotel, and the precious, full vial is now protected by the rubber sleeve – one dropped and shattered bottle of insulin, and I learned never to be without it. It’s tucked into my “pancreas” – the nickname for the colorful bag that contains my continuous glucose monitor receiver, my insulin pump monitor, lancet device, alcohol swabs, and needles.

I went 4 decades without even thinking twice about what I ate or drank, leaving my house with a wallet and a set of keys.

Ten years ago, with an incorrect type 2 diabetes diagnosis, my life suddenly turned into total accountability- counting every single carb I ate or drank.

Eight years ago, I had gone from overweight and sedentary, to regular, purposeful exercise.

Four years ago, and now I have to check myself before I go anywhere. My “pancreas” must be stocked and at my side. I have to have fast acting carbs on my person at all times. I have juice pouches in every vehicle I drive.

All of these things are in place to help me manage this diagnosis the best that I can.

It’s all moot, though, without that little glass bottle.

I have good insurance, and thankfully, today’s emergency prescription fill was only $25 for the vial. I have paid as much as $300 for it – with another insurance carrier.

At ease, I prepare to rest. My mother and close friends call and make sure that I’ve gotten my insulin. I sigh as they do, relieved that this very real worry is assuaged.

Four years.

Seems like a lifetime ago.

In April, the big tree in the middle of the back yard came down.

It was at least 40 years old. The branches spread over most of the back yard, rendering grass growing nearly impossible.

Squirrels nested high in its branches, and used the nearby tree limbs as an overhead highway.

My lawn was covered most of the year with the hard little brown leaves that these oak trees drop year round.

The roots knobbed up all over, tripping me if I wasn’t careful.

It’s sister tree broke in two a couple of year ago. In the dead of night, a huge thundering whoosh outside my window woke me.

Half the tree has cleaved off, fortunately landing away from the house, spanning across the fence and it’s lacing of confederate jasmine.

How that old fence held up, I’ll never know.

Late last year, we spent the afternoon at a nearby friends house, floating in their pool.

It was the beginning of an idea.

Covid sealed the deal.

We love to travel, and do it often. In the 15 years we’ve been together, we’ve gone all over the country…and on many cruises, and trips to Europe.

Grounded for over a year, we decided to get an in ground pool.

I knew this meant an end to the big tree in the middle of the yard.

I spent the days before the excavation looking up at the tree – standing at its trunk, gazing into the lattice of branches and leaves, squinting when the sun peaked through.

I ran my hand over the bark…I took pictures. I told the tree thank you.

I was sad when they took it down. First, the branches were pared off, leaving it barren, as if it had been stripped by a hurricane.

The next day, they dug up the root ball, and pushed the mighty trunk over.

Today, after a few laps in the pool, I floated for a while.

I studied the trees that run along the edges of our fence on two sides. I watched the squirrels come so far – and stop. I followed the birds as they flew overhead, and kept going – no place to stop in the middle. Dragonflies floated over. High, high up, a bird of prey glided easily on unseen wind currents.

Twenty years of my life, I spent time under that tree, and the sister tree whose unseen damage scored it in half one night.

Now, I spend my days floating in my hole in the ground.

And I remember the tree.

lol

Has there ever been a lonelier time to be alive?

I listen to my audiobooks as I drive five hours a week to get to my travel nursing assignment. To and fro, I’m immersed in times past.

These couple of weeks, the novel was set during the dust storm. It was a dire time of famine, hunger, desperation, death, and loss.

They had community. There were no devices to keep them in a fake world – they lived and breathed the world that they woke up to every day.

There were friendships – actual human, face to face conversations. They went to each other’s homes, broke bread, brought fresh produce, checked in on one another.

They went to church where the star was the Bible. They humbly served each other, and were in community.

For over a decade I’ve talked of the great big church, and the abject loneliness therein. The inner circle of country club Christianity- a scourge that gets worse by the year.

I sought connection as a young child, and found it in church. In community. In relationships with like minded people, who walked the walk.

For fifteen years, that has been missing in my life.

My days are spent alone. My phone rarely rings. I speak to my family, and I see my son and his family weekly when I babysit my grandson. The rest of the time, silence. Solitude.

Loneliness.

I’m purposing to spend more time with my loved ones – the ones who live an hour away, and the ones who are states away, I call more frequently.

The vast, vast amounts of my time are spent alone…and yes, lonely. I commute to work for days. I’m home and see my husband when he gets off work, and on weekends I’m home.

I’m tired. Tired of being lonely. Tired of fighting for community. Exhausted in striving to get the Body to do what it should do…but won’t.

Coupled with my depression, the loneliness compounds the negative narrative that tries to insinuate itself into my thoughts. My will to fight for connection wanes when I feel I can’t even get out of bed some days.

My dogs surround me. They bring comfort, as they know I am sad. Again. Still.

It’s not the same as community.

That’s what I need.