I have the most important job in the world. Dig it.
Every night, me and the women I work with help mothers give birth. These wee babes grow up to write poetry, serve drinks, start wars, plant flowers, drive cars, buy houses, take steroids, steal iPods, wear leather, eat tempeh & walk their dogs.
The food chain starts here, if you know what I mean.
There are nights that 10, 12, 14 babies are born. There are nights when it's just 1. And sometimes, more than I thought was possible, we have a baby who dies. When my job is good, it's the best. When it's bad, it is truly, truly awful.
The nurses on my floor are our own perfect family. We function as the same person sometimes; anticipating, re-directing, assisting, comforting & scolding one another and one another's needs. You can't do this work if you don't love your team, your family.
Well, the other night, one of us lost her baby. We lost a baby. And I haven't been able to shake it. To stop crying.
The loss is devastating.
We don't know if she'll come back to work. And if that happens... If that happens, our loss will be exponentially greater.