Stand by me

During one of my shifts at work last week, my right hand was squeezed so hard that it began to tingle. I allowed this to happen, occasionally wiggling my fingers to assure myself that they still worked, while considering the fact that it would be pretty difficult to do my job if that hand stopped functioning. These thoughts were fleeting as I tried to ignore the pain in my hand and focus on the person who was so intensely squeezing it. A young woman sat on the raised hospital bed in front of me, leaning her head on my shoulder, asking me repeatedly to tell her that she was ok. “You’re ok, “ I kept assuring her. “You are doing great. Keep breathing. Nice, easy breaths. In through your nose, and then blow it away. You can do this…”

This young woman had walked a very different path in her life than the one I had embarked on years ago. For reasons I will never know, she found herself battling addictions and had a rough exterior, as evidenced by her interactions with others and her (often offensive) choice of language. But right before we found ourselves in the midst of this hand-squeezing moment, she had looked at me with tears in her eyes and something in her voice that I knew well. It was fear.

“Please don’t leave me,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere. I will be right here with you the whole time, I promise.” I said firmly. “You can do this,” I reminded her. She looked at me pleadingly and said, “you don’t understand. My anxiety is really severe and I don’t know how to do this. I am scared. I am so scared!” “I am right here,” I told her. “We will do this together.” And I meant that.

This young woman was going to give birth. She was in the midst of a painful labor and yet her fear of getting an epidural was so intense that she didn’t know what to do. She wanted pain relief but the idea of a needle going into her back terrified her. And I get it. Something that she could not control was about to happen. She was in a vulnerable position, trusting the medical staff completely to not harm her, wrestling with her anxiety and trying to allow her logic to guide her decisions. But she felt helpless and afraid. And she didn’t want to be alone.

I stood by her. I allowed her to lean on me, to share her fears, to cry, to squeeze my hand. And I promised that I wouldn’t leave her. Even though I had walked into work that night wishing I was at home, feeling like I wasn’t in a great place mentally or emotionally, and feeling hesitant about my assignment after getting report from the nurse I was taking over for, in that moment, I knew I was exactly where I needed to be. I felt an immense sense of privilege to be with this young woman during the height of her fear. And when the epidural was placed successfully and she started to experience pain relief, she looked at me with tear filled eyes again and thanked me. “You have no idea how much you helped me,” she said kindly. “Thank you so much!”

I stretched out my hand and was relieved that it didn’t seem injured. I assured her that it was my pleasure to help her, and that she ought to be proud of herself for how well she had handled the situation that she was so afraid of.

Several nights per week I get to join women and their partners in some part of their sacred journey of welcoming new life into this world. I feel honored to provide encouragement, guidance, education, and support to people who are experiencing something life-altering, exciting, and scary, whether it is their first or seventh baby.

Something that has struck me recently as a profound truth is that regardless of how it happens, each time a baby gasps for that first breath and cries for the first time, that little person has no control over where that first breath will be taken. That baby has no say about who his or her caregivers will be. We are all simply born into a place that we cannot control. And that truth seems especially relevant to me right now.

For as long as I can remember, the song “Stand by me,” performed and co-written by Ben E. King, has been my favorite. Perhaps part of the reason I love it is wrapped up in my hopeless romanticism, but I think deep down I love the idea of people standing together to battle fear. Somehow even the most terrifying circumstances can be endured a bit more bravely when someone else is there, promising to stand with you.

“Perfect love casts out fear,” is one of the truths that the Bible offers. In my quest to achieve this perfect love (which I fail at every single day, many times over), I have found that one of the most basic things I can do is to stand by those who are afraid. Whether or not we share the same faith or lifestyles, parenting styles, political affiliations, social statuses, ethnic backgrounds, or circle of friends, I want to be someone who will stand by anyone who needs support or encouragement, especially those who are afraid.

I stand by the people whose first breaths were taken in countries different than my own; those who have known fear and turmoil in ways that I can only imagine. I stand by the refugees who are seeking safety for themselves and their loved ones and who are trusting entirely on the goodwill of others to embrace them and take them in during their darkest, most fearful moments. I stand by the immigrants who are pursuing greater opportunities for themselves or for their children whose first breaths were taken in places that didn’t offer the lives they wish for them to have. I stand by the activists who are trying to ensure equal opportunities for all. I stand by those who are afraid – my neighbors who share my zip code and my neighbors on the other side of the world.

No one wants to live in fear, yet right now, it is the reality for so many. I realize that different people are experiencing very different types of fear at this time.  Some are afraid of who will cross our borders, and some are afraid of not being allowed to.  If you find yourself struggling with fear, let’s talk about it. I won’t tell you to calm down or to get over it. But I will ask you to tell me about it. And because I believe this is what my faith requires of me, I will do whatever I can to help to ensure that we move forward together in a way that provides support and hospitality to those who need it, regardless of where their first breaths might have been taken.