Life is so hard.   So very hard.   Death is hard.   But explaining death to someone who has no concept of “now”  is despairingly hard.  The moments of lucidity break your heart.   The moment you know they know something bad has happened and they don’t understand why.   It is beyond agonizing.  I see your creases of pain and sorrow every time you are “resting.”  I want to take it all away.   I see your struggle when your left foot is trying to keep up with your right and it’s lagging.   I see your tears when you have an accident and you are so embarrassed because you are a lady and you’ve always been independent.   But most of all,  I see your heart.   I see you pushing yourself to walk when you are broken.   Physically and emotionally.   I see your fork touch the bottom of your lip to feed yourself when your arms don’t seem strong enough to reach your mouth.   I see the deep breath you take between your sobs when you realize that you’ll never see your husband,  the man you loved with all of your heart,  again.  I love your heart.   I love your soul.   I love all the memories I have with you.  I love that you quit everything you had to work for a gym to help pay for my gymnastics as a little girl.   I loved that you came to all my meets.   I love that you were the second person I told I was pregnant and you put your arm around me and told me everything would work out.   You told me you’d keep my baby if I was hurting.   I love how you played so many games with me throughout my entire life.   I loved playing games with the baseball game on the TV in the background that Poppy was watching.  I love how you never let me win.  ;)   I love how after your stroke you still played games with me.   I love how you couldn’t write with your dominant hand after and you struggled for months to write again.   And you did it.   I never doubted that you would.   I loved how the doctors said you probably wouldn’t bowl again,  but you knew you would and so did the physical therapist.   I loved the way you would get so low every time you’d throw your bowling ball.   I loved our bowling team.   I loved how you jumped up and down every time you had a good roll.   I love you so much that I will make sure you’re never alone.   I will be by your side until your last moments.   I know you won’t know me,  but I know you.   I know your beautiful,  strong soul.   I know you are braver than any woman I know.   Tonight as I asked you to think about something that brings you joy while you were crying,  you said “I have joy when I know what’s going on.”   I wish I could remind you of who you are.   You are beautiful.   You are so loved.  You are so strong.  You are witty.   You are a child of God.   You are a huge light.   So many people have been touched by your light.  You are my precious grandma.   And I love you.  


I’m angry.  And you know what?  It’s ok.  It’s ok that I’m angry.  I’ve been wrongfully accused and it hurts.  Life hurts.  But when were we ever told that life wouldn’t hurt us?  I’m reaching for that.  But in all actuality I don’t want to find it.  If we were promised that life wouldn’t hurt, then I would like to personally meet this promise giver.   I wouldn’t trust them.  I’d think they are nuts. Either that or I am nuts.  Which honestly, is perfectly possible.   But I digress.  I’m hurt.  And I think it’s perfectly ok to hurt and my hurt is real and my hurt is treatable.  And i can accept the truth that I hurt more when my pride festers.  And it happens often.  I know. I know.  Hard to believe.  ;)  but dang.  I have enough pride to allow for a whole village of 10 people to think their sling shots will kill an army of 10,000.  It’s a good thing when it comes to standing up to rude doctors, or suppressing my pain when I lose a patient.  But is it?  I’m stubborn.   I’m the first person to throw that one out there.  But I grew from pain.  But my pain grew pride.  But my pride was depressed by the grace of God that provided humility.  And I feel bad.  I feel bad for the human being that pushes hurt on other human beings for the sake of inflicting pain.  But if I ever choose to find my identity from these people who seek to destroy then my identity will fail me.  I will lose myself.   And all this circles around to Psalm 34.   Specifically for me, psalm 34:15-18. ” The eyes of the Lord are toward the righteous

And His ears are open to their cry.

The face of the Lord is against evildoers, To cut off the memory of them from the earth.  The righteous cry, and the Lord hears

And delivers them out of all their troubles.  The Lord is near to the brokenhearted And saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

And by gosh,  I will cling to those words.  If we can’t fully cling to the promises of our Savior as believers then what in the world can we possibly cling to???

So I’m hurt.  But in my hurt I’m choosing goodness and seeking righteousness through the Spirit within me.  And through my Lord Jesus Christ, I will prevail.  Thank the LORD above, I. Will. PREVAIL.  And honestly….I feel bad for anyone who fights on the opposite team.

life as i see it today…

Hi.  I’m Jessica.  I’m a nurse.  I like writing out my thoughts, so I started a blog.  Let’s start with a bang.  My grandpa, the man who shaped the meaning of love for me, had his third heart attack today.  Buzz, Buzz, Buzz…Oh crap, my phone went off.  Squinty eyed and it’s still dark outside, my heart flipped in my chest.  You see, our hearts–his and mine, (I’m convinced) are connected.  Buzz, Buzz, Buzz…he’s calling again and this time I’m ready.  “Baby…I need some help.  I don’t feel well and I can’t stay in this house any longer.  Can you take me to the hospital?”  If words do sting those ones were like a swarm of all the favorite killers in a hive with suicidal tendencies.  They stung.  Somehow I found my pants, some mismatched socks, two mints for freshness, and 2.3 minutes later headed out the door while letting out a couple worried sobs.  My grandpa is ok.  I’m ok.  But why does his heart enjoy pulling out it’s swords and raging a battle against the rest of his body.  Come on, heart, how about we work together?  I mean, I get that you are the single most important entity in the body but do you have to boast so loudly?  It’s like when all we want is to be noticed, somehow recognized, because we did something probably every other single person in this entire world has also accomplished but in our own minds WE DID IT BETTER, dangit.  So here I am, sitting in the chair next to his hospital bed at 11 pm.  He’s finally resting.  Not comfortably, I can only imagine.  If two thick prongs were up my nostrils I’d go just about crazy.  But he sleeps.  He doesn’t complain.  A sword fight with his heart is a “simple pain in the chest.”   No complaints.  The walls come down when it’s just me and him in the dark quiet hospital room.  His eyes can’t shake the fear behind them.  Mine can’t stop the wince from coming at every thick cough, or groan I hear upon movement.  Guys, it’s “MY” heart.  It’s the “good morning, babydoll” every single day.  It’s the “go work hard” that pushes my whole being.  It’s the secret exchange of a loan that helps me get by.  It’s the jokes that make a strangers day in his life.  It’s his heart.  It may be in a battle tonight, and I wish I could take over, but it’s a beautiful beating miracle.  It’s been changed and molded and it’s the picture of strength.  A strength that God has used to shape me.  My grandpa is a piece of my life…And my life is blessed.  I don’t always see it and I don’t always feel it, but I’m being shaped.  I want to dig deep into the corners of my dusty soul and find some renewal.  And beyond my own renewal I want to be a straw that stirs someone else’s soul.  (Selfish, I know, I’m only human.)  So maybe writing about my thoughts will aid in my growth? I guess we will find out.  For now, I’ll make sure my grandpa’s head is on his pillow, his oxygen is in his nostrils, and his cover is over his body.  For now, my heart is safe by his.