Be my witness

I’ve had a lot of trouble writing this post. Not because I don’t know what I want to say; the words have been pouring out for days. It’s more that I can’t seem to get them into a coherent order. I’ve been struggling with my work—not my job, but the actual work of being with grief and illness and death. I’ve been thinking for weeks about what it means to witness the suffering of others.

It’s a heavy topic, and I’ve come to imagine it as an actual weight. When I’m with my patients and their families, I take their weight for a little while, to give them a rest. Then I hand it back before I leave the house. I literally leave, which helps separate me from the grief I’ve witnessed. But lately the weight has seemed heavier, not as easy to release when the visit ends. And because this blog has become a key part of my self-care, I’ve got to write it out so I can move on.

The other day, I mentioned to my husband that I had met someone who had lived the life of Job. He had never heard that expression before, which makes me think it’s an old-fashioned one (I have an old soul, you guys) so I will elaborate. Skip this paragraph if you’re familiar with our friend Job of Old Testament fame. Job was some poor soul that God used to prove a point to Satan. (Old Testament God made some upsetting choices, honestly). God not only stripped Job of his earthly possessions and killed off all ten(!) of his children, He also gave the guy a horrid skin disease. This was all to prove to Satan that Job would continue to love God under any circumstances. There are more details, of course, but you get the gist: Job’s suffering was incredible.

I sometimes meet people who have suffered so much that a part of my brain thinks, this cannot possibly be true. Their losses have added up so significantly that it is almost unbelievable that one person could have bad luck like that. There are times that I am faced with such tragedy and pain that it nearly takes my breath away. In those moments, I wish I didn’t choose to be a witness to suffering.

And yet, I did. Or it chose me, whichever. The point is, I am honored that people trust me enough to tell me about their trauma. I feel that it is a gift that I can bear witness to someone else’s pain and briefly hold it for them so they can get a break. I don’t have to live with it, myself (I have my own tragedies to carry). Anything is bearable for a few minutes and I usually can let it go.

But, like I said, lately I’m having trouble releasing the weight. I imagine myself being pushed down, little by little, as I hear sadder and sadder stories. Picture me up to my knees in the ground, carrying something heavy on my shoulders. That’s what it feels like: I’m standing upright but I’m sinking.

It’s hard to admit that. I pride myself on having excellent boundaries and solid self-care. It’s difficult to tell you that my usual stuff is not totally working at the moment. But the best disinfectant is sunlight; it’s better to admit that I’m struggling. So what will I do? In these times, which come along with the territory of the work, I allow myself to feel overburdened. I let my heart feel heavy. I go to church. I look into the beautiful, healthy faces of my daughters and try to be present with them. I read celebrity gossip. I take deep breaths. And I wait, as patiently as I can, for the weight to lift.

There is great tragedy in the world but also great joy. Even Job received his rewards (questionable whether the pain was worth it, but again, Old Testament stories are wild). I can still see the good. It exists in the warmth of strangers, in music, in bright sunsets, in my children’s laughter. It exists in my work, which can be deeply, profoundly sad, but also wildly, touchingly beautiful. It is heavy but I have chosen to carry it. I am still grateful.

Speaking of which, thank you for being my witness today. I hope you find an easy road today. Be well.