To the Healers…

heal·er /ˈhēlər/
noun: healer; plural noun: healers
a person who claims to be able to cure a disease or injury using special powers; a person or thing that mends or repairs something; something that alleviates a person’s distress or anguish

URBAN DICTIONARY: healer
describes an individual with the ability to cure ails, be they physical or mental; in Role Playing Games, these players are the most vital

I have been struggling with what to write, and what to say. I feel like I am just a tiny voice in the void. Then, I had a friend tell me how much she was missing my voice. And another tell me that she has no idea how to respond to my words, but she needs to hear them. Then, a third friend reached out to see if I was ok, and asked me to help him find some light.

I have spent so much time in the last month talking. And talking. And talking. And I don’t know what else there is to say.

I have many colleagues, friends, and even family members working in hospitals right now. I have seen – for WEEKS – their pain as they try to do their jobs. And maybe it’s time to say something to them…

I see your passion. I see your light. I see that you could not walk away right now, even if that was a choice. I know the hours and years of study and sacrifice you have made to be able to do the work you do. I know the long days, and missed events because you were an intern, on call, or just too tired. I know the fears and worries you battle on a daily basis. I know your baseline level of grief that you carry day in and day out. I have sat in hospital rooms and held your hands during the worst times. I have cried in hallways, and bathroom stalls, and loading docks with you. I have been held by you, and I have held you. We have seen joy, and miracles, and love at a level that astounds. We have also felt the darkest and deepest sadness and despair. I feel it all with you right now.

One of my friends who is deeply entrenched in the current crisis, texted me “Who heals the healers? Will you promise me that you will be here at the end? Because we will need you so hard.”

To my friend, I say, I need you so hard, too. Our work has always been complementary. Our desire for mental, physical, and spiritual health has always been aligned. We have studied diagnoses and lab tests together, and combined our knowledge to create plans for healing. We have laughed and cried together. Your medicine is also mine. And my medicine is also yours.

I cannot do large portions of my work right now. I do not have the credentials to be in the hospital at large. I cannot do hands-on work even in a private setting under current conditions. I also do not think my hands-on work is the medicine needed under these circumstances and at this time. I miss it. And I feel useless knowing my family, colleagues, and friends are working non-stop in terrifying conditions.

And then I get the calls…. “What can I take with me to eat? … Is there something I can say over and over in my head to keep me centered? … What’s that thing you do to help people sleep? …. Can I tell you about my day because I have to share it somewhere and it’s too much for my wife?”

And I answer the calls. And I listen. I offer what tools I have. And you listen. And then you share with your family, colleagues, and friends. And maybe it makes a difference, even if no one is clicking “like” or sharing it on Facebook.

And then I cry a little. And take a nap. Because, yes, I want to be here at the end. I want to hold you physically close, and create safe boundaries for your fatigue, and grief. I want to be there to help restore health after long illnesses for your patients, and community. I want us all to breathe together, and widen the circle of love and healing. I want it all. I want you to be here to have it all.

I extend the utmost Gratitude, Love, and Light to all of the medical personnel, hospital staff, paramedics, and other healers putting their lives on the line.

                           Thank you.

                               Grazie.

                                     Ahéhee’

                                              Miigweech