Too Loud

The sounds grab at all of my senses, making me physically twitch at the incessant grip on my ears. Silence itself seems to struggle for oxygen, drowning in the constant varying of man-made noises of radio, television, cars, hospital alarms, sirens, loudspeakers, and conversation.

Holiness, it is said, speaks when there is silence. There is certainly reverence in being able to discern the breeze, or the magic of a distant insect's buzz, or the quiet rush of water's constant crashing against rocks in the frenzy of a small mountain stream.

I need some holiness. Life is too loud.  

Roles

                My eyes blurred and my concentration began to slowly fall away from the words of the neurosurgeon. The pain in the room was too great, rendering the area too sacred for flippant discussions about interventions that would not be performed. I couldn’t leave the room for care of my very sick patient, but I allowed for a lull in the bustle of a CCU so that the real victims of a horrific accident could grieve for a brief moment at the bedside. I do not try to comfort those people, for my watery condolences would end the fate of drizzle in the mouth of a seething volcano. Instead, I simply tell them “I’m sorry. I know this is a terrible thing to be going through.” I ask each of their names, and remember them, and they are now my patients in a different way, because at the beginning I will be the one to give gentle reminders to eat, or let them know it is okay to touch and talk to their loved ones, or encourage them when they decide to leave for a while to perform other essential family duties. I do that, and they leave knowing their loved one is still with caregiver and companion.

                Such is my role. 

It's a very rainy day, and the road is slick. Rivulets of water scurry down in their miniature pebble-lined creeks, crisscrossing the mountain path that we are driving up. I am afraid to stop for fear of the soil eroding beneath us, as directly to our left we look down hundreds (maybe thousands) of feet into the drizzled Utah valley below. 

I'm afraid to stop, but as we cross the ridge and look at the even sandier road that leads us steeply down the side of the mountain, I'm also afraid to proceed. Better that we should have never started this little outing. We slog ahead in our blue Pilot, using the lowest gear possible to help us stay on track. 

Now, instead of a wet mountain road, I see a hospital. I see a commander who expects me to prioritize my career ahead of everything else in life. I see a future riddled with deployment, politics, and expectations that I honestly do not care to meet. And there is no way back, nowhere to pull over and turn around, because the way back would be just as treacherous as moving forward; and the worst part? The worst part is that I feel like I am not being allowed to succeed how I normally would. Instead, I feel like I'm driving with my left foot, and steering only with my hands crossed.  Growth is meant to come when we are out of our comfort zone, but right now I think the comfort zone would be the only thing between me and potentially serious failure. 

All I can do is hope that the rain will stop, the clouds will clear, and the road will widen. 

Here's to the future.