Tools

I really have no idea what I'm going to write about.  Usually I have an inkling, but today... nothing.

Nothing much to share, nothing profound to expound upon... not even any updates.  I just want to write for the sake of writing.

I think I've only cried at work twice... that I can remember.  The first time was the day my venti cup got stolen.  I didn't cry because of the venti cup but the fact that it happened that same day didn't help much either.  The second time was a few days ago.  I did want to write about it back then but... I had 2 more shifts ahead of me and I didn't have the time to spare.

I think the best times to write are when I'm crying.  It's the surge of emotions that stir up all kinds of somethings... and those somethings need to come out somehow.

I was thinking about the ways that I express myself.  I've spent many hours in front of this screen... asking people how they're doing, responding to questions, writing essays, chatting... looking up stuff... watching youtube videos... listening to music.  And also crying.  Typing and crying.  Crying then typing.  My fingers fall into the grooves of the keys on this keyboard so easily.  They've laid here so often.  Amazing how emotions become words by pressing a few buttons... and how easily this button-pressing can translate back into emotions... to be read by so many people so far, far away.  Communication is magical. 

I watched the Time Traveler's Wife tonight.  It was a cold night.  I was deterred from going to Target to get myself some Cheez-its because the heater got turned on... and my browser told me it was 50 something degrees outside.  I also happened across some of our pictures from Houston earlier today.  Fond memories of very good times with very good friends.

I couldn't help but cry through almost the entire movie.  I think it was buildup from what started many days earlier.

Lately when I think of Anderson... all I see is us in the ICU at M.D. Anderson.  Six years together and what I keep coming back to is the ICU.  And I can't bring myself back to those moments when he was awake and talking... I imagine myself there and he's unconscious and intubated.  And all I can do is stare at him helplessly; trying to memorize every single detail about his face.  The memory's pretty foggy now... a year and a half later.  All I have now are pictures.  It used to scare me that I'd one day forget the sound of his voice... what it felt like to touch him... to hold his hand.  It used to scare me that life would go on without him.

I somehow seem to forget so easily.  Until I'm reminded.

The other day I took care of a patient who reminded me a little bit of Anderson but in a very different way.  Some things were very similar, but some things very different.  I'm not too comfortable talking about the details about the patient but... lying in the hospital bed, being unable to communicate your thoughts, your needs... I was brought back to M.D. Anderson... in the ICU.  I had to do my best to guess what I could do to help.  I tried to be patient and wait until I guessed correctly.  One time while I was waiting... my patient started talking.  Not asking me to get something... he just started talking.

I had no idea what he was saying.  But... from the expressions on his face... the tone of his voice... from the look in his eyes, which were turned away from me... I could tell he was talking for the sake of talking... the same way I write for the sake of writing.  Not necessarily to anyone in particular... but to whoever happens to be there.  And I happened to be there for him.

I imagined my hardest to understand what he was saying.  What I thought I heard him tell me was that he was sad and frustrated at life and at everything that's happened lately.  That one day you could be walking around without a worry in the world, and the next day you're in the hospital, helpless and unable to do the most basic things you took for granted.  That they told him that things would get better, but they haven't.  That the things he loved to do, he couldn't do anymore.  And then that question... "why?"  "why did this happen to me?"  "why to me?"

I couldn't help but to cry.  I didn't want to dab my tears away with paper towels, but I had no choice.  It was handy.  It was dark in the room, but I knew that he was crying too.  I handed him something softer to wipe away his tears.  Before I left work that night... I thought I heard him tell me "you're a good nurse".  I tried my best.  The next night I took care of him, I couldn't keep up with his requests and needs.  I tried really hard, but I couldn't handle it.  Nothing was helping, nothing was working.  I talked to my manager and had my assignment switched for the next day.

I don't know if I made the right decision.  I don't know if I make any right decisions.  I don't know what I'm doing half the time.  I somehow just end up where I am.

In the wake of my trip to China, I think I was going through some kind of identity crisis.  I didn't feel very Chinese.  And even though I'm American... I know I'm not QUITE the quintessential "American" either.  It was quite... unsettling to be in China for me.  Even though I look Chinese... the thoughts I think and the words that come out of my mouth... are not... Chinese.  They're English.  I just didn't feel at home.  And then I come back home to the U.S. and everyone wants to hear about my trip to China.  I'm not quite sure what to tell them other than stuff about the squattie potties and the pushy people.  I almost wished that I didn't have this Chinese face so that people wouldn't assume that I'm Chinese and that going to China was something extraordinarily meaningful for me. I don't really have much pride in China. I know my parents are technically from Hong Kong which is different.  Eh. I don't know. It got all complicated.  I did enjoy my time there, but not so much because of the location but because of the people that I got to spend time with and the food we got to eat together.  I actually think that's more of the main reason why I travel; to see people, eat with them, and spend time with them.  Doesn't really matter where I am.  That's what I enjoy about traveling... it's the people.

So I think I was feeling kind of disgruntled about being born into this Chinese body.  What a weird sentence.  I don't know if I ever imagined myself ever saying that.  Anyway.  Yeah.  Disgruntled.  And then I read about Paul.  He was a Jew, born a Roman citizen, brought up with a family full of Pharisees.  He spoke Greek and Hebrew.  He was of the tribe of Benjamin.  And reading about his life and especially what happened when he went to trial... he used who he was to his advantage.  When speaking to his fellow Jews, he spoke to them in Hebrew.  When in the Sanhedrin, he appealed to the Pharisees.  When traveling, he used his tent-making skills to support himself.  He really embraced everything he was and used it to serve God.  And then it made me think about who I am.

Who am I?  I'm female, born in America to Chinese parents.  I grew up in Southern California.  I grew up in a Chinese Southern Baptist church.  I'm a nurse.  I'm a widow.  I am all these things and yet still me.  Perhaps some Asian person somewhere will feel more comfortable talking to me because they can see my Asian face.  Perhaps some woman somewhere will feel more comfortable talking to me because I'm a woman.  Or some nurse will tell me about some random something because I'm also a nurse.  All of these things... who I am, what I look like, what I've experienced in life, my occupation... they all give me some kind of "in"... some common ground that will allow me to minister to a variety of people... who are similar to me... and also some who aren't.  Paul was a Roman Jew.  I'm an American-born Chinese.  I was meant to be who I am... not for pride, but for service.  They're like my skills... except they're not skills... I was born with some of them and some were forced on me... some I pursued.  Tools maybe.  Tools that I already had... tools that I bought, some tools were given to me, and some just happened to be thrown into my toolbox.  All were designed and meant to be used for a purpose. 

I think I was meant to be there with that man in that hospital room that day.  Not quite sure what he was thinking or what he was saying, but maybe he needed to cry.  Maybe he needed someone to listen.  And maybe because of all the things I've experienced... with Anderson... as a nurse... maybe all those things were meant to create a little pocket in my heart for patients like him.  Maybe those few minutes that I stood there at his side... offering him a tissue... trying my hardest to understand... maybe it meant something to him.  Maybe it didn't.  But it meant something to me. 

To feel trapped by my situation and circumstances... by things that I'm unable to change... is... heartbreaking.  If it were me in there... lying helpless in bed, trying to express myself but not being able to... I would want someone there to at least try to listen to me... try to help... try to meet my needs.

And I was thankful.  So very thankful that I was there for Anderson every single day of our marriage, to love and honor him... as long as we both lived.  I was thankful that I didn't have to work or go to school for those six months.  I was thankful that I had family members to take care of me so I didn't have to worry about "living"... I was simply there for him as his wife.  I had six years to get to know him.  Six years of training... listening to the way he spoke, which words he chose to use, the things he liked and the way he liked things done... his hand motions, the look in his eyes... "studying" to be his wife and his nurse... preparing me for my six months of marriage... to be the helper he needed me to be... to translate when the doctors said stuff that no normal person would understand, or even to be comfortable in the hospital so that I could spend every night there with him... sleeping in a wheelchair... sleeping on a cot... sleeping on the chair... ready and waiting... so I would be there and not miss those moments when he needed me.  Precious, precious moments that I would not trade for anything... not for all the chocolate chex or dole whips in the world. 

So... it is no accident that I was born when I was born... that I grew up where I grew up...  that I went to UCI... that I met my husband there... that I became a nurse.  It's no accident that I speak English and no Chinese.  Who knows if Anderson would have even noticed me if I wasn't Asian.  Who knows if he would have even taken the time to get to know me if we never exchanged AIM screen names, or if we never went bowling or played softball, or if I never roomed with his high school friend.  God knew what was best for the both of us and I'm sure He chose me for Anderson and chose Anderson for me because He knew that we needed each other.

And now... after having fulfilled that purpose for his life... it's just me now. 

And I was laying there... all curled up in bed... thinking about how I felt and also thinking about what I know to be true.  I feel lost and alone... all overcome by emotions and feeling like wallowing.  But I know that I am not alone, I'll never be alone and I never was alone... that just because I don't feel that He is, it doesn't change a thing... Jesus is more than enough.  I couldn't even wallow.  I cried my tears and then they stopped.  Peace.  Comfort.  Security.

I used to need to hear that everything was going to be OK.  Why did I need to hear it?  Maybe it was because I didn't believe that they would be or because I chose to worry instead of rest assured. And now after having experienced that even through experiencing the death of my husband, the death of the future I always though I'd have... that I'm OK... that I'm more than OK... I shouldn't be worrying now... about anything.  The future is certain even if the details are foggy at the moment.  To trust that everything will be OK even if I can't see it right now... is faith.  And something I read today... I know it's kind of out of context but it hit me... "do you have faith? Have it to yourself before God" (Romans 14:22).  And so... it's just me but it's not ONLY me... it's me and God.  I can feel lonely and feel like I need people to rely on or to call or email or text or chat with... but... I don't need it.  When it comes down to it... my relationship with God and what I choose to do every minute of everyday... is all on me. Having other people around totally helps, but I can't rely on it either.  No one can ever truly be there for me the way that God can.  He's been around my whole life... knows me inside and out... knows what I need when I need it and chooses better for me than I could have chosen for myself.  My life is a witness to that.  The Word is a witness to the Israelites and God's faithfulness to them across all time.  And the fact that He meets everyone where they are... on the road to Damascus or in an ICU room in Texas... tells me that He is who He says He is and who He has always been forever and ever.  I love it.  

Hm.  I feel better.  I still don't know what I'm doing or whether or not I'm making the right decisions.  I don't know what other "tools" that I should pursue for my toolbox or if now is not the time to get more tools but to put all my efforts into actually using the ones I already have.  Maybe if I walk by a project, I'll stop to use my tools.  Maybe if I stop by a hardware store and it's open... and some pretty pink tool with flowers all over it speaks to me in ways that tell me that someone designed that one just for me... then I'll stop and buy it and learn how to use it.  I don't know.

I think I'll stop writing now.  I should probably finish cleaning my room.  Or go to bed.

I don't know how sitting down to write about "nothing" can turn into such a long email/blog post.  Oh well.  It is what it is. 

Night!
<3,
Tiff