I still don’t know how to answer the question, “How is work?”

I show up to the church courtyard on Sundays the same way anyone else does after a full week. Full of things on my mind, wanting connection, not always sure how to build bridges in brief five-minute conversations with people I love, not sure how much other people want to hear about all the things on my mind, always wanting to be sensitive to giving time and weight to others’ burdens from the week.

In this context, if someone asks me “How is work,” I always keep it short. Even if I know they care, even if I know they’re honestly curious, there’s just no way to summarize how work is in these casual church courtyard exchanges.

I pause in trying to give a genuine answer to the question.

In that pause, my heart swells with everything that lives beneath the surface, and my mind goes back to yesterday’s nonstop shift trying to chase my patient’s extremely labile blood pressures. Would her fresh organ transplant change everything for this miserable teenage girl who has suffered for so long, who has been angry at the world and wanted so little to do with any of us who wanted to help, to cheer, to connect, to comfort, but she would have almost none of it for the months and months she was in and out of our ICU. The organ transplant didn’t get her out of the woods. Her body didn’t yet know what to do with this new foreign object; it had somehow limped along with the old failing one and depended on us to manage her body the old way, not this new way that asked all her body systems to adapt to new ways of regulating electrolytes, toxins, fluids, blood clotting, all of it.

My mind goes to her parents, who come in covered in tattoos. People whom I quite honestly would’ve subconsciously avoided out in the community, judged for being a certain “type,” questioned about whether they were dangerous to me and my children. Here, they were kind, raw, vulnerable, and comforting to their daughter in a way that I could not be as the polished professional. My way of seeing people and being with people is upended at work. I am constantly challenged and humbled and changed in the ways I assume only based on what I see.

My mind goes to the rumbling of activity that went on just outside my patient room. I was barely keeping up with chasing my patient’s up-and-down blood pressures, but I knew what it meant to see colleagues hurriedly roll out the crash cart to the room next door. I catch wind of the charge nurse saying, “There’s a trauma patient coming in. Some kid ran across the street and was hit by a speeding car that took off.”

I continue to chase blood pressures. My patient briefly wakes from her sedation and shakes her head no, a breathing tube silencing her voice and restraints holding her hands down so she won’t yank out the tube. She wants nothing to do with my assurances, but her dad goes to her side and tells her, “Baby, I’m here. The surgery is all done. You need to sleep. You in pain, baby? Just rest. You need to rest.” With her dad’s reassurance, she puts her head down and relaxes for now.

I see three men in police uniforms show up down the hall. They must be here to ask questions about the trauma case. There is more activity as coworkers continue to set up the room and all the emergency equipment. I try to stay calm and composed, but there is so much tension in the air, I have to consciously unclench my jaw.

I hear the wail. That particular sound belongs to the most unlucky. The mom of the trauma patient must have just walked into the unit, waiting for the ED staff to bring her baby to our ICU from the CT scanner.

I tell myself to unclench my jaw again and take two extra deep breaths. I can’t leave my room to help my coworkers. I’m still chasing my patient’s wild blood pressures.

The mom of my patient comes back from the cafeteria with dinner for her and dad. She has that half-smile, marked by exhaustion, hope, nerves, anxiety, and the ever-lingering question, “Is my daughter ok?”

I hope I seem calm. “She’s been ok while you stepped out for food. Her blood pressures are still a bit up and down but we’re working on getting them under control with fluid and medications. She woke up a little bit and I’m glad to see she is still mentally intact under the sedation meds. Dad was able to help her relax and go back to sleep.”

Mom’s shoulders relax slightly, but I see her still bearing all the uncertainty and sadness as she fights to persevere on a mother’s longest journey to who knows where. I think of my healthy daughters at home and how much self-pity I can indulge in sometimes when I find them exhausting. I feel gratitude and a decent dose of shame.

*

I realize that my friend in the church courtyard is still waiting for my response to her question, “How is work?”

“Work is really busy. But it’s not as intense as last year when we had a lot of end-of-life cases and a lot of really angry patient families. So it’s a little better.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah…it’s a little better now.”