Give Us This Day our daily... Pearls

There are four ghosts sitting at my kitchen table, playing poker...

My name is Rose Alexander, and I am a nurse. Most of my ghosts are previous patients. They are my comfort and strength. You as a layperson to medicine may not know this, but patients do not always leave when they die. They may have unfinished healing to do. And after a few years, they start to accumulate.

To me, my ghosts like multiple personalities to a schizophrenic. We squeeze in the bathroom together. Some ride with me in the cab of my truck and some sleep with me. It is difficult getting dressed with them asleep on the floor or in the chairs. My ghosted patients come and go as they please. I enjoy their jokes and their light-hearted company. My head is packed with patient ghost stories.

But, the ghosts laughing in the kitchen are different. These four are the male ghosts from one family. They are my father, son, brother, and brother-in-law. I am the baby of my family, the youngest of five children. Every birthday, holiday, or whenever bored, they visit this spot. They come to cheat at cards, act smart, and tell lies. Why can I not deal with them like my patient ghosts?

Come away, come away, death,
and in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
-William Shakespeare, Twelfth-Night

I have been trained in helping others grieve. It is not the same. It is easy to deal with loss when it belongs to someone else. Perhaps this is why most books on grieving are superficial. Therein lies the rub. Therapists may have not been made deaf to voices of lost loved ones. College courses cannot teach how loss truly feels. Yet, they are telling us how to heal without knowing our disease. If you have ever lost a loved one, you know what horror this entails. You have your own demons as well.

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more, death, thou shalt die
-John Donne, 1572-1631

I hear their male voices laughing into my bedroom. Rain pours down the dark windows. The clock is flashing angry, red 12:00's. The storm must have tripped the electricity somewhere. These ghosts may not be slaves to time anymore, but I am. I work my mortal bones out of bed to shut windows and reset flashing appliances. As I make my rounds, Jim's voice is loud in the kitchen. Jim was married to my sister. He may have drowned at the beach, but he will be forty forever.

"I raise you and I call,” he is excited. ”You're bluffin' again you lying' wuss. Let me see you top these three pretty queens..."

Jim was the father to five living children and to six other miscarried children. He is a younger Jeff Goldblum. One evening, he took four of his children to the beach and drowned in front of them. He could not swim and his kids could not drive themselves home. His oldest son found a quarter in the van and called home from a phone booth.