Her name is Kate.
She's the precious lady I had a chance to speak with a couple of nights ago.
Today, when we first saw each other, we both got a little teary. So we hugged instead of saying hello. That said all we needed to say to each other.
She wasn't our nurse today, but she was instrumental in getting our son back to where he should have been last night. . .and she checked on us several times throughout the day, just to make sure we were okay and that we had whatever we needed. She was the only one who did.
On one of her precious breaks, instead of going and hiding in some quiet corner for a brief respite, she came again to our little room and pulled up a chair. It was like looking into the eyes of someone I've known for years.
On Mother's Day, she opened her heart and pain to me.
Tonight, I did that with her.
I'm far from home. . .without my husband or friends or other kids. I'm struggling to advocate for my son with fierce devotion on the one hand, while also quietly grieving that we need to be here in the first place on the other. We're not particularly comfortable, nor paid much attention to, nor any the wiser of when this current nightmare will end and the next phase of it will begin. I'm trying to be as normal as possible with Nath, but things aren't normal. Not even a little bit. And so I'm struggling.
But tonight I had Kate. Kate, whose hand I held and to whom I offered a shoulder and an ear and a huge hug the other night. Tonight, she returned the favor.
Sometimes, pain unites. . .and sometimes we save each other.
(photo courtesy of publicdomainpictures.net and can be found here)