Welcome to this very special edition of Back to School: ICU. I am simply thrilled to be part of what is a collaboration of 13 authors and caregivers, curated by
, who I consider to be not only one of my personal healthcare heroes, also a fierce ally, and Advocate for Caregivers everywhere.There is a very exciting lineup in store, lasting all throughout the month of September! Caregivers from the many corners of Substack will be sharing our diverse Caregiver experiences, along with our own unique perspectives on crying.
Here is the rest of the team—
UGH!! I rarely ever cry so without further ado, here is my piece, There’s No Crying in Baseball?
Sometimes I wish people would refrain from asking me, why I became a nurse, or how I do what is my very tough job,— trust me I know the how and all the why, and I do my job quite well. The problem is I really never know how to answer those questions without sounding like a total shrew. When Victoria asked me to be part of this ❤ collaboration I was thrilled, but much less thrilled when I discovered the topic would be crying.
#FML.
Regardless the baton has now been passed so it’s my turn to share my story. Sometimes you have to swing, forget about missing and welp, here goes nothing. It’s gonna be a long one, but let’s see if can knock it out of the ballpark.
As a long-time Critical-Care Nurse, let’s say I work well under pressure. This personal love story I’m about to share has never fully been told, only etched in my memories, burned on my heart, and has also rattled my cage for decades now. This is also something of a true crime story, love being the only crime, and it’s the fascinating story of how I came to be a Registered Nurse. Coincidentally enough the same story is also the reason I rarely ever cry.
First and foremost, I am a mother, someday I hope to become a grandmother. I was fortunate to have the two most amazing grandmothers in the world. It always makes me feel sad I didn’t have more years with my grandmothers, who by the way were as different as night and day, but I know better than to complain about losing them. Even though I am slightly bitter both women died by the time I was 23, I know some children don’t even get to have a mother, much less a grandmother.
Who am I to dare cry over the loss of my grandmothers, —statement here, this is not a question.
Nanny Shirley always said you get what you get and you don’t get upset. It’s worth mentioning that I wholeheartedly believed Nanny Shirley was my mother until I went to kindergarten. In fact I called her Mom, everyone did, and brought all of my precious school art treasures home, and promptly gave them to Nanny Shirley. Until one day my mother Debbie decided enough, completely lost her marbles over this,— I do remember that much, don’t remember what she said exactly,—only that Debbie made it very clear I was her daughter.
Hi Mom 🖤
Growing up I spent as much time with my other set of grandparents, Rocky and Alice, but it feels like 50 lifetimes have passed since I was a child who lived within shouting distance of them, in what is sometimes a typical Italian-American fashion. Of course I loved them, however I hated to visit their apartment which to me always felt like an ice cold mausoleum.
Yes once upon a time, I was as quiet as a church mouse, a good little girl who loved her family so very much. See when the men and women in my family take their vows…in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, ‘til death do us part.. well they actually mean it. Let’s be clear I’m not saying anything other than I know this to be a possibility, I see it all the time, at the hospital too and dammit, I want this kind of love. Like my dad always says, there’s a big difference between want and need, so my emphasis is on the word want here.
Every day after school I’d head straight to Rocky and Alice’s until Debbie finished work and could pick my little sister and I up. Back then Debbie used to build control panels for missiles, a fun little known fact about my mother there. There would be hell to pay if my mother was delayed for any reason, remember no cell phones, so it happened once, but dinner plates flew and it never happened again. It was very clear that we were not to upset the environment in any way, but the man was my Pop and somehow we all loved him.
There would be two meatballs waiting on the stove in the spoon rest, one for me and one for Alice, and it was my Pop who made the world’s greatest meatballs. In the summer of 1989 Pop did all the cooking because Alice was busy actively dying, not that I knew much about dying at only 13 years old, but I had already lost several close family members from Debbie’s large family. Debbie’s side is sort of like a lower-class version of the Kennedy’s. Tragedies will always abound in large families filled with boys, this is simple statistics,—so put it this way I knew enough about love, death, post-war sequelae and addiction.
I have tried, but always fail, can’t seem to ever come close to replicating Pop’s meatballs. He claimed there was no secret, only vast quantities of black pepper and that tracks because the man was a boxer, I hear he packed quite a punch in his heyday. He divulged this secret ingredient shortly before he ran off to Florida in 2003,— oh he sure as hell knew he was soon about to die of lung cancer, not that he bothered to let anyone know, and well that was Pop. What can I say, the man was larger than life, lived life his way and waited for everyone else to catch up to wherever he was usually way ahead of us all on the highway. I think we all know where I got most of my spirit from, and side note: It was absolutely terrifying to be in the car whenever Pop, a Brooklyn born and NYC-raised driver, got behind the wheel.
Pop died in early 2004, only days after my second daughter was born. Each day and for many days after his death, I sobbed in the shower,—all of 28 years old, now mother to two kids under two, and just about to start Nursing School, —well it was just a perfect hormonal storm raging there inside of me. Frankly I was absolutely furious I didn’t get to see him before he died,— I wanted to tell him how sorry I was, that I wished it hadn’t taken me so long to forgive him for what he did, but I was far too pregnant to board an airplane.
What my Pop did, son of a bitch that he always sort of was, well see I can’t sugar coat this next part at all. Upon the death of my grandmother Alice, his wife of 41 years, Pop pulled a Pop. A day or two after her funeral he swiftly packed up Alice’s belongings, doled them out to us as if they were pieces of cheap candy, including the gold charm bracelet that never left my grandmother’s wrist. When Alice used to walk around the house her bracelet made this sound where it sounded like the delicate clink of champagne flutes coming together to make hundreds of sweet toasts. I had my eye on the turtle and the wishbone charms, fully prepared to someday fight my sister for my favorite ones. Debbie always says she had the best mother in law on the planet, so true and must have been nice for her. See the bracelet went to my mother with the stipulation the charms would someday be divided between me and my sister, but the bracelet is now gone. Oh I know what happened to the bracelet, but nope not going there.
Within a week, Pop donated the rest of Alice’s things to charity. Next he proceeded to parade not one, not two, but three women before his grieving family for introductions,— think the Golden Bachelor except a horror edition and not entertaining at all. With the absolute force that was always Rocky, he married the third, a woman he met in a classified ad roughly, —let’s see I believe it was 4 months after Alice died? I’m not sure, it all happened so fast and the happy couple was outed by someone who didn’t know when to keep their mouth closed. I imagine it was all DWWCM seeks what-the-hell-ever and all truth be told, I personally would have preferred he married the second bachelorette, I actually liked her.
Basically it was as if Alice had never even existed and you know looking back I truly don’t think she did, at least not for those last 41 of her 61 too short years.
Alice always said I had a gift,— when I was 4, I absolutely hated, would not go near the handsome All-Star fiance who would soon go on to jilt my Aunt Jen, got caught cheating right before their nuptials. Sweet Alice did always trust me and what is my innate intuition. Alice was a goddamn saint, sweetest woman that ever lived and her husband was not. Now Pop’s mother, my Great Grandma Francis, I never met her, but they say the woman was a Black Widow. Lost a husband, found a new one,— popped out a kid or two, repeat, repeat. What other choice did a woman have back in those days, straight off the boat from Sicily in early 1900’s New York City?
Back then I did not even know, half of what I do know now, to be some very real facts of this life.
What I do know now— is who I am and to trust what I see— instinctively, intuitively, anecdotally, historically and from what is now the highly educated lens of an extremely experienced woman, and also highly-skilled Registered Nurse.
Facts by the way, and I do not care who all from my family reads this piece, they know to speak directly to me or else forever hold their peace.
Sweet Alice was a lady in every way a woman can be a lady. I wouldn’t know much about being a lady, I sort of deceptively look like a lady, but truly speak, think and act much more like a man, most of the time. This is something that was also true about Florence Nightingale The Lady with the Lamp, —herself often quoted as saying something to this same effect. For years now I’ve studied the woman, but have not ever read anything that even remotely explains why Florence preferred the bloody battlefield over what was her nice safe posh Victorian home.
Although I’m sure there must have been a reason, Nurses don’t just get called up to serve in a war, do they?
More facts, no they do not. Nurses choose to go, at least the civilian ones like me anyway.
Oh no doubt the best parts of me died that fall of 1989,— my innocence, whatever was left of my childhood, and my belief in everlasting love, all torn away from me as if a tsunami had landed on our family tree,— Rocky was the storm who flipped our whole world upside down, smiled then said love you deal with it, and went on a cruise with his new wife.
So all of me, my darkness and what is almost always misperceived as coldness simply serves me, and my patients, rather well these days,— and the Trauma ICU has always been my favorite arena where I like to exhibit and show off what are my own unique survival skills. 💫
When life assaults us, and believe me, life does assault us sometimes, I believe the best thing we can do for ourselves is smile, say thank you for more time and every new lesson, and keep moving on.
Sweet Alice,— hair always done, short hair forever, and…
I will have to come back to this another time in order to give MY grandmother the full space tribute she deserves all the way up to the moon and back. I simply don’t have enough time to honor her here today. It may surprise you to learn that I actually don’t hate my late grandfather, or his lovely third wife at all anymore. Grace was indeed an amazing and vibrant woman who was full of life,— like Pop she was also a native New Yorker, — a woman who wore tons of makeup and perfume. Frankly it pissed me off for years, the way she got to live her life in a manner that my very long suffering, classy and stoic grandmother Alice, never once did.
Alice never wore makeup, only lipstick if she left the house, and in her long drawn out end, the woman rarely left the house. She had the most perfect olive skin ever. Over the course of her last summer we talked a lot and Alice bestowed much of her life wisdom on me. Alice told me not to cover my then perfect skin with makeup, said Pop didn’t like girls who wore makeup, and I don’t believe her one bit. I’m not really sure who Alice was, only know there was much more to her than ever met my childish eyes. Sometimes I wear makeup solely in utter defiance, reject one of her many dying wishes for me by doing so, and I also never wear lipstick.
Oh did I mention Alice warned me never to be like her, never should I settle for any man, and confessed she absolutely regretted, rued the day she married my grandfather?
Pop turned their walk-in closet into this room where he kept 26 boxes of methodically organized and alphabetized coupons, rebates. Sometimes he’d offer me a Maybelline coupon if my Aunt Jen, couldn’t use it to add to her expansive makeup collection, which consisted of a lot of kohl black eyeliner, and excess blue eyeshadow in those days.
It was never Pop who didn’t like girls who wore make-up, it was Alice all along.
Yes I notice every detail, and you’re welcome. I hear this attention to detail is one of those amazing job skills, a must have for any fantastic and diligent Critical-Care Nurse, and damn here again are some more of those straight facts I am professionally rather well known for. Although according to my former husbands, this important job skill made me a very annoying and delusional (thank you intuitive) wife.
Growing up the grandparents I knew were devoted to each other in every way, but sometimes I look back through my adult eyes and I see them as both prisoners, chained to the apartment, held captive by the vows they took in 1952. That’s one way to look at it, sometimes I call what they shared the pure honor, devotion and respect I want, and couldn’t ever quite seem to find in a relationship.
Back then though every day of their lives seemed to be spent waiting for her death,— for the time clock to signal the end, waiting for the buzzer to sound off and signal the end of suffering. Now I’m not entirely sure who suffered more, if it was Sweet Alice who was ill for over 20 years, or perhaps Rocky, the loving man who cared for his devoted wife until their bittersweet end.
Alice was diagnosed with lung cancer that summer, tethered to a nasal cannula and could walk roughly 30 feet in either direction from where an oxygen tank sat parked in the center hall. Each day about an hour before Pop was due to come home from work, she’d prepare the house for his arrival. She’d also remove her oxygen and smoke one cigarette from the pack she kept hidden in a drawer, blow the smoke out the back door. Then she’d clear the air and remind me to blame Aunt Jen if Pop caught wind of the smell; Pop had quit his 5-pack per day unfiltered smoking habit a few years prior, and chewed pink Carefree gum like there was no tomorrow.
Together Alice and I would sit there on the hassock, gaze out at the enormous peach roses blooming off to the side of their slab of concrete patio. We couldn’t even bring them inside,—nor could Alice set foot outdoors without severely compromising her ability to ventilate her lungs,-—exchange oxygen for carbon dioxide at the cellular level.
Again I’m speaking strictly now as a Critical-Care Nurse here, not a granddaughter who spent half the summer watching helplessly as her grandmother gasped for air when she tried to walk to the kitchen.
The beautiful rose bush? Also thanks to the green thumb and enigma that was my Pop Pop Rocky. By the way, The ICU Nurse always sees you all.
If I close my eyes I can still picture the hallway, the single photograph of my great Aunt Rita looming over us. Alice’s little sister Rita died in a tragedy, along with their mother, my great-grandmother Jenny way back in the 1940’s. The car crash occurred one very cold December night, as the trio made their way home from Christmas shopping. Great Grand Pop Angelo at the wheel, Alice no doubt at home minding her other siblings, all brothers.
So no, Christmas cannot and will not ever be ruined for me. I absolutely love Christmas and look forward to celebrating the spirit of the season.
God I wish I never heard Alice tell me her terrible story. Rita’s death at 15, was one of those big tragedies that defined a high school and a town. It’s one I’ve gone onto witness I don’t know how many times since I started working in the Trauma ICU. All the always shocked parents, the still alive high schoolers, all lined up in the hallways to visit their friend, clutching their handmade Get Well Soon posters and smiling photos. Sometimes they come to visit, to say goodbye in their formal prom attire or graduation cap and gowns, and this will knock the wind out of my lungs every single goddamn time I see it. You’d never know it though, not by the look on my resting bitch face.
I do always wish the world would slow down so I don’t have to see it as much anymore.
Of course, Great Grand Pop Angelo tried to save his wife and youngest daughter, their car had gone off into a freezing cold river, but was unsuccessful. He wound up losing most of his hearing on the fateful and soon to be forever silent night. The nurse in me imagines he must have realized he couldn’t save them both, maybe decided it would be best to save himself, maybe thought of their other children at home,— I really can’t say, although I do now have an inkling. I’ve now seen this rude wake up occur in an ICU, across multiple hospitals, and generations, faces, times, and what are these endless life forces and possible mechanisms of injury. Not a month goes by before I see broken humans wake up missing these irreplaceable pieces of their own hearts and souls. There is not a damn thing I can do about reality, but I can take care of those misfortunate souls, let them scream and cry it out, while they’re with me.
Oh and I can always walk out the door at night, grateful for the life, the children, the parents, the sister, all the love in my life, I feel so lucky to have.
Great Grand Pop Angelo would go on to live for many years, I remember his pipe and full head of bushy white hair. I would love to ask him the one burning question always simmering somewhere in the back of my mind. I want to know the secret, I think the answer would help me help my patients—
How, the hell, did he ever manage to smile again after that December?
See in my family, we live, laugh, love and we joke and smile a lot, —I’ll leave the crying over the past to Mother Debbie, that’s her thing though, it’s never been mine.
One day I went to visit Alice in the hospital. After school I could walk the few blocks to the awful place Alice went in and out of, almost constantly, in her final months. The hospital has since been demolished, perfect tiny rows of matching townhouses stand in its place. Yet I still see the building where all three of my children were later born, this same spot where their great grandmother died on October 20, 1989.
My son was due to arrive on the 20th of October, 2007,— believe maybe I willed him to arrive a little early. I did get my wish for him not to be born on one of the darkest days of my life. The stress of working my overnight ICU job greatly helped this wish come true, but I think it was my father’s face when I anxiously told him my due date. He lied, said it would be okay, but I knew it would not be okay for either one of us. My son is one of the absolute brightest lights of my entire life, but October 20th belongs to Alice. There is simply no light bright enough to ever drive out the darkness that settled over her family on the night she left this world.
Anyway focus Kristin, where were we? There taped to the wall of Alice’s hospital room was this full page newspaper clipping of one Don Mattingly, then the glorious and rather sexy first baseman for the New York Yankees. It always tickles me to remember my extremely proper grandmother going completely moon eyes over this ball player, known as “the Hit Man”, and what was his very creepy pornstache.
I laughed and inquired where exactly this makeshift poster came from, thinking maybe Aunt Jen hung it on the wall for her. Alice smiled, she always smiled whenever my little sister and I were around, and informed me it was her Nurse who’d placed the poster on the wall to make her smile.
Sometimes I wonder if Alice collapsed in exhaustion after our brief visits, the way my patients often do after their grandchildren come to visit. I come home and collapse after almost nearly every one of my shifts, —didn’t matter if I was 30 or 40 or now almost 50 years old,— my shifts are pretty much always emotionally exhausting. Well I guess I really don’t really wonder very much at all about anything anymore. Alice never once looked sick to me, not even at the very end of her days and these days I can usually tell when the end is near.
The door opened and her sweet and thoughtful nurse walked in, I wish I could remember her name, but I don’t. As a nurse, I never get overly upset when the patients don’t remember my name, I know full well they always remember how their nurse made them feel.
At that very moment I knew I would someday become a nurse. Oh Jesus Christ I would never work as an oncology nurse, but love, light and please— may God Bless all those incredible Nurses who do, you are my heroes. 🩷
So
asked me to write a piece for her collaboration on caregiver crying, here it is,— I don’t know what to tell you, I rarely ever cry. When I do allow myself to cry, I know it will be hours before I stop and I’m too busy to stop living my life to sit down and cry about it.Do whatever works best for you though, I always do.
So give me your darkness please and I’ll show you my light. Alice loved baseball and holy cannoli, my grandmother loved those Bronx Bombers! All summer we rooted for the Yankees and thus my true love of baseball was born, a love that is still alive and kicking to this very day. It’s been a long time since I donned a NY Yankees cap and I haven’t once visited the “new” Yankee stadium, even though it’s been standing since 2009.
I just don’t always love to think back to the time when I loved that NY team to death, but it might be time now for me to proudly wear a NY hat again and see about catching me a flyball.
🖤 🖤
So you see, there really is no crying in baseball.
⚾ ❤
Thanks Grandma.
P.S. The Phillie’s could use a win.
Think you could help them ring that Liberty Bell tonight for me, pretty please?
September Anthology Index:
Sept 1 Launch article: Caring About Crying. We All Cry. You’re Not Alone By Victoria at Carer Mentor: Empathy and Inspiration
Sept 2 Crying: 'Did you know?' Resource: Tears the science and some art. By Victoria at Carer Mentor: Empathy and Inspiration
Sept 3 'Cry, Baby. Why Our Tears Matter' A Podcast Interview. Dan Harris and Dr Bianca Harris of Ten Percent Happier with Reverend Benjamin Perry. By Victoria at Carer Mentor: Empathy and Inspiration
Sept 4 ‘In Conversation with Rev. Benjamin Perry’. Victoria interviews the Author of 'Cry Baby: Why Our Tears Matter' By Victoria at Carer Mentor: Empathy and Inspiration
Sept 5 Thank you
, it’s been my honor to follow you, it was a tough job and I did love your article, My My stoic mom's parting gift, Making peace with tears Check out more from Sarah Coomer of Sandwich Season ❤Sept 6 Thanks for reading mine, I’m Nurse Kristin and there’s no crying in baseball.
This was truly beautiful to read, and very touching. I love your descriptions of Alice. I come from Sicilians, too. ❤️
Kristin, you are such a good writer. You keep writing, I'll keep reading.