Child Nurse

I didn’t know her name until she’d already transitioned. She was the second person to be found in her apartment unresponsive in four months. The first was a ninety-two-year-old man whose death seemed fairer.

She was twenty-five and a psych nurse at Children’s. She obviously knew what it was to feel great pain. To struggle. To want it all to disappear. And sadly, she did.

I am not sure of her struggles, her stresses, her demons, or the pain that plagued her heart and soul–and ultimately took her life. She was in graduate school to become a nurse practitioner. Her friends said she was smart. So did her obituary. I knew nothing of her. But she must’ve had a great heart. She was a nurse. A nurse who worked with children. Children who weren’t much younger than she. Children with whom she had much in common. Children she wanted to help. Children who probably helped her along the way.

When I saw two young women looking around the complex for her, I thought nothing of it. When the police arrived, I realized I was in a place I was already familiar. I didn’t want to be there. And I hope never to be again. It was July 29th when they showed up in search. I was on my balcony with my mother. I offered my help which was declined until dark.

By 10pm, the fire department was beating down her door. They found her barking dog and lifeless body. She’d been gone since early that morning, I read. No one knew.

A week later, her family came to get the last of her life here. I saw her uncle removing her license plate. He looked at me and said hello. I said hello back. My heart ached, and I wanted to say something–anything–but I wasn’t sure what good it would do. I never knew her. And I didn’t want to lead on that I knew what he was doing. What they were all doing. I wasn’t sure of the circumstances of her death–not that it mattered. I was afraid to say something. I was afraid to try to offer comfort.

When I went back upstairs, I passed her father in the hallway. There were two totes of her things. They were clear. One was her clothes. The other was stuffed animals. Stuffed animals. Because she was a damned kid.

I’d like to say what people always say, that she had so much more life to live. But did she? Didn’t God already know what she would do? Were we the last to know? Could anyone have stopped her? Were there any magical words that could have saved her? We will never know. But people will think she had so much more to live for. So much left to experience.

Age doesn’t discriminate. Mental illness is illness. Pain and suffering know no age. Sure. Twenty-five can be young–to a person who’s had an easy life, a great childhood, and no significant struggles or traumas. But to those of us who’ve lived well beyond our years–twenty-five could feel like too much for too long. By the time I was that age, my life was Hell, and I was over it.

M, They just took your car two weeks ago. I thought of you every day until then. I am sorry I never knew you. I’m sorry I wasn’t a friendly neighbor. I was trying to navigate my way through my own hell without drowning in the lies of the enemy.

Just like Billy said, “only the good die young.” I believe she was good. She was certainly young. And her life was a lesson to me.

Death always brings about self-awareness and thoughts of your own mortality. But if you already reside there, it brings more curiosity about the latest victim. Then comes the comparison of your life with theirs. You put their shoes on and go for a walk. Only they’re never coming back for theirs. They’ve passed them on. Just like the pain they escape. It multiplied.

To her family, if you see this, I am sorry for your loss. I’m sorry there are no words to ease that pain, fill that void, or bring her back. I am sorry I never offered her more than a nod, but she was trying to quickly pass with her feisty dog. May God be with you.

In four months, I really learned that you have no idea what goes on behind closed doors, especially ones only five feet away from you. As I walked by, they could have both been taking their last breaths. I hope those transitions were smooth.

I think the reason we hurt when someone passes away is because part of our heart dies with them. But maybe it isn’t so. Perhaps death isn’t the world’s way of taking part of your heart. Maybe it’s saying “here. Take this back. Someone else needs it.” And the true sadness is we don’t know it. And we wouldn’t know what to do with it, anyway.

May God give peace to the lost, comfort to the found, and wisdom to everyone who asks. May He put kind words in our hearts, bravery in our lips, and helping hands at the end of our wrists. May God use us where the angels stop and bless us by blessing others. Amen.