I Dripped Jelly On My Shirt

I just dripped jelly all over my shirt.

If you read the Stephanie Plum novels, you might recall when she talks about how life is like a jelly donut--as you try to keep the jelly from dripping all over you, you take a bite at the dripping spot, and then the jelly shoots out somewhere else. I feel like this applies quite aptly to my life. My reactions never seem spot on at work or at home.

At work, I can run a code on a baby who isn't breathing, manage a gun shot wound to the head of an eight-year-old, counsel a family whose child has been abused, command a resuscitation room, hold hands with a parent whose child was just diagnosed with leukemia, and come home feeling good about my day. I do my best to not cry at work. But inevitably, the outburst comes somewhere else.

Last week, I had an--ahem--eventful night at work. 

It showed up tonight, when I completely lost it at home. 

I’m not sure what made it so hard. I got home, heard about the wonderful day the boys had with the sitter, and then everything just fell apart. My two-year-old is sick, and clingy, and whiny, and into throwing nonstop tantrums over nothing. And my four-year-old is into acting like a two-year-old: whining, throwing tantrums, and generally not helping anything.

I gave in and popped in a movie. I threw something quick in the oven, and was met with more whining. I distracted myself with my phone so I wouldn’t lose my temper and yell. I gave in and let them have treats after dinner just because I couldn’t stand the whining anymore. Add in that mess of a bedtime routine and I.was.done. 

Done.

The youngest needed to be rocked, and as I sat in his dark and cozy room, I felt the tears fall. The constant work of a mother isn’t anything new, and today wasn’t anything particularly rough. So why on earth would I cry now?

I love emergency medicine. I love the reality of my work--that even though I live a comfortable suburban life, I am able to realize some of the realities of the world. I know that terrible things happen every single day, and they happen to good people. I like to think that it gives me a perspective that I otherwise wouldn’t have. No, my house may not be perfectly decorated, but I have a house. I have a job, with job security. I have two beautiful sons, and even on those days when my anxiety has me fearing car accidents and freak infections, I am grateful for how lucky I am.

But.

Some days it isn’t enough. Some days, I think that if I have to do one more load of laundry, I might scream. If I have to google one more homeowner question (What exactly does a sump pump do? How do I keep my front-load washer from growing mold?), I could have a nervous breakdown. And then insert every other stressor that we all face in running a household, managing our children, being spouses, and "overwhelmed" becomes an understatement for me.

How on earth am I supposed to balance the reality of my work with the reality of my home?

At work, I’m able to affect change. I hear thank you, and I see tears, both of fear and of relief. I see people at their most terrified, when they can’t imagine what’s going to happen next, and I do my best to treat every patient and parent like a friend. I tell them what they need to hear, what they want to hear, and sometimes, what they don’t want to hear.

But I also get cussed out. Daily. I hear people treat me and my coworkers with a lack of respect and animosity that I would never have imagined. At work, we shrug it off, we laugh about it, and we move on to the next patient. I’ve learned to acknowledge that people in crisis are never at their best and do my best to move on.

After that crazy night, I worked two more shifts, and  I left both feeling ready to scream. From the social disasters that cannot be solved, to the angry family members who just want to yell, to the administrative BS that cannot be avoided, I found myself wishing to be home with the boys.

And today, here I am, in exactly the situation I was so desperately hoping for, home with my boys. And it isn't the relief I was seeking.

So I sat there crying, rocking my two-year-old, broken-hearted for the families that I could not heal, and wishing desperately to immerse myself in one life or the other. Stepping from the role of competent emergency physician to struggling mama left me satisfied with neither, frustrated with both.

That jelly donut just completely dripped all over the place.

The only thing I could do in that moment was vow that tomorrow would be better. 

-Julia