Seams, a poem
“She said she wanted a poem about compassion fatigue. She was tired of “walking in someone else’s shoes all the time.”
She was a nurse who visited new mothers' homes. OBGYNs, WICs, or the women themselves referred their clients to the nurse-practitioner partnership.
Visits were supposed to last an hour but could stretch to two hours or more for some women.
During the long visits, these young mothers would pour out their traumas. This nurse felt like she was asked to be a therapist, social worker, and nurse.
Since she visited clients in their residences, she frequently saw women living in environments where they weren’t respected, loved, or safe.
“You see why they are who they are,” she said. “You carry everything.”
Seams
Nights I like to unstich myself
from the day:
knitting, sewing, crocheting,
it doesn’t matter.
Though the signs are everywhere,
saying “Health Care Heroes,”
I don’t feel seen.
I’m alone most days
in my clients’ homes
as part of a nurse family partnership
for young mothers.
There are places no one should have to live,
and there are the people
who have to live there anyway.
I’m an invited stranger.
I’m not there to “fix” them.
They’re not mine to mend.
I listen; I ask questions.
It’s intimate and uncomfortable.
Compassion is a like satchel,
and every suffering, a stone.
When I listen, I offer to hold their stones
in my satchel for awhile,
but there’s only so much I can carry
before my seams rip
and everything falls through me.
