We Do Not Beg For Love

I called my mom today and cried to her.

We talked about heartbreak and the feeling of inadequacy. I told her how much the last month had been weighing down on me; how things at work weren’t going well, I was was struggling to sleep because of my depression and PTSD and how every time I did fall asleep I would dream about all the patients I’ve lost, about how I felt isolated and forgotten. And about how I was struggling with my relationship, or lack there of. She told me to calm down, get in my car and drive to her.

I did.

It was 5am by the time I had calm down enough to actually get in my car and make the hour drive to my parents house.

When I arrived, she was standing in the driveway, still in her pajamas and wearing her robe. I didn’t even turn the car off as I flung the door open and ran into her arms. We sank to the ground as I sobbed in her lap, the sun was barely peaking out over the trees and the birds were chirping their morning songs. I felt like my world was falling apart, but the rest of the world was simply moving on. My mom was silent as I cried, she pulled my hair away from my face and rubbed circles on my back while she rocked me. And I realized, no matter how old I was or how old she was, she was always going to be there to hold me.

Once I had calmed down a bit, I sat up and she simply asked me what happened.

I told her about everything in more detail.

I hated my job. I hated how it was becoming less and less about patients and more about the bottom line, more about the money. I was tired of being neglected by administration and supervisors, and being spread so thin to cover jobs that weren’t my responsibility and that were making it dangerous for patients.

I told her about how every time I fell asleep, I was dreaming about the 2 week old baby that I lost and the man that threw himself in front of a semi in order to end his life. I was dreaming about the ten year old who was shot while playing video games in his house, and how when I preformed CPR on him, his blood covered every part of my body and how it congealed and stained my skin. How when I was working in dispatch, a man called 911 and said “Send someone now. I don’t want my kids to see the body” before fatally shooting himself while I was on the phone with him. I still hear that gunshot echoing in my ears. How every traumatic call I had ever responded to was suddenly the only thing that I could think about. And how the weight of that trauma was once again destroying me.

And I told her about my relationship. And how it felt to be so hopelessly in love with someone, and being so uncertain if they loved you back. How hard it was to going through such a rough time and not having anyone to talk to. When she asked why I didn’t call her or my dad sooner, I told her that I didn’t want to be burden to either of them. I didn’t want to rest my trauma on their shoulders.

She systemically pulled apart all my worries.

She told me to call HR immediately and anonymously report what was happening. It wasn’t safe for patients and it wasn’t safe for me. And it wasn’t my responsibility to carry all that weight on my shoulders alone. And she told me that she was going to help me look for another job.

As for my trauma, as soon as she was done talking to me, she called my therapist and told him that I needed to see him today. Immediately. And we talked about going to see my primary care doctor to talk about the medication I was on and how it clearly wasn’t working anymore.

And finally, when it came to my former relationship, she had a lot to say about it. The most important thing she said though?

“It took me nine months to make that heart, don’t you let anyone break it.”

Boy did that hit hard.

I come from a family of generational trauma. My parents fought tooth and nail to make sure my sister and I would never have to go through the things they went through. And my mom, the kindest and sweetest human on the face of the planet, looked like she would kill someone in that moment. I had seen her angry before, I had seen her angry at me. Before our relationship was good, it was bad. But never, not once, had I seen her this mad before. She looked so angry that she looked like she was about to get on a plane (something that gives her immense anxiety) and fly to the country he lived in so she could tell him how she felt about what he did to me. But just as quickly as that anger came, it was gone.

She held me tight, looked me in my eyes and said. “Don’t you ever, ever beg someone to love you. If someone loves you, they will love you unconditionally. They will love you without pause and no matter the distance.”

She told me about the time that my dad was deployed to Japan for a year and a half while my mom was pregnant with me. She told me about all the times she cried herself to sleep because she missed him and how she felt impossibly sad when she went to doctor appointments without him. How she saw me for the first time without him.

“Love is infinite.” She told me. “It’s beyond our understanding. It’s one of the strongest things in the world and you can’t see it, you can’t touch it, but you know it’s there. Distance didn’t matter between me and your father, even when I was carrying you. Love filled the space between us. If this boy really loved you, really truly cared for you and your heart, the distance wouldn’t matter to him either.”

It was a look into their relationship I had never heard before. I knew my dad went to Japan, he had brought me back souvenirs that I still have to this day, but I never knew that he was over there for a majority of my mom’s pregnancy with me. I never knew that my mom had been alone when she first saw me, when she first heard my heartbeat, and when they had decided on my name. They had experience their first child together with more than 6,000 miles between them.

My mom picked me up from the drive way where we had been sitting, took me inside their home, sat me down at the kitchen table and made me a cup of tea. And as the rest of household stirred and readied for the day, I found myself enveloped with love. My dad came in, saw that I was there and greeted me with a smile and a big hug. “It’s always good to see you kiddo.” He sat next to my mom and we talked about how difficult it was for him to be so far away from his family. He told me that my sister and I were like his heart walking around outside his body, and when he had to leave me and my mom, there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t call her. “And it was 1998, so it was pretty hard to make phone calls back home.” He said. “But not one day did I pass up the chance to call your mother.” And it cemented in my mind: if he wanted to, he would have.

My little sister came into the kitchen next, took one look at me and dragged me back to her room where we played “My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” and “The Man” by Taylor Swift. She and I screamed the lyrics for about an hour before we sat on her bed and watched Midnights in Paris, Mean Girls and the Barbie movie. I love my sister for knowing, without me having to say anything, that I had got my heartbroken by a boy. She offered to go outside and set fire to the vinyl that he had bought her, I told her to wait until I paid him back for it because it would make me feel less guilty. She said she didn’t care. If I had to guess, I imagine that she’s probably already torched it. She feels the same way about me that I feel about her: don’t you dare have the audacity to break my sister’s heart.

We laid in her bed and she told me that I was her hero and that when she grew up, she wanted to be as strong as me.

Her words made me realize something important.

I have many accomplishments in my life.

I work as a first responder. I moved to a different city, one of the most effected, during Covid and stayed until people could come out of their homes again. I have brought people back from the precipice of death, when the odds were stacked impossibly against them. I have given families their loved ones back, I have given them the chance to say all the things they wished they said. I have been there to bring new life into the world. I have been the person that handed a newborn baby to their mother and said, “Here’s your baby momma! He/She is perfect!” The pins that I wear on my uniform are a reminder of all the things I have accomplished: getting ROSC back on a patient and having them walk out of the hospital with absolutely no deficits, bringing a baby into the world, receiving both the Medal of Honor and the Medal of Valor for my levelheadedness in times of chaos, receiving the Star of Life for my service during Covid.

I have traveled the world. I have danced in the Paris rain with my sister. I have stood in front of some of the wonders of the world and stared up in awe of what mankind created. I have seen the flowers bloom in London and experienced the quiet nights of the countryside in the UK. I’ve hiked a mountain in Hawaii, standing on what felt like the top of the world with the people I loved by my side.

I have experienced deep loss.

I’ve lost a baby of my own. A child that I will never get to see grow up, laugh, or getting married and find love of their own. The only chance I will get to see that child is when I die and hopefully get to meet in wherever it is we go when we die. I’ve lost almost all members of my family that made an effort to be apart of my life and I’m left with those who only want to take advantage of me and my immediate family. I have lost a grandmother, a woman who helped raise me and who was just as much of a parent to me as my mom and dad. I lost a grandfather, who despite all of his downfalls, loved me and was proud of me for what I was doing. I have lost so many friends and coworkers to suicide due to the depression associated with the trauma and stress of our jobs. So many. I wish it were less.

I have experienced domestic abuse and violence from a partner. I have the scars to prove it.

And through all those things, I am still here. Still alive. Still breathing.

All of my experiences have made stronger, wiser, and more empathic to those around me.

I am accomplished. I am not a person that begs for someone to love me. And this is a reminder that never again will I be the person that begs another human to love me.

I am worthy of love. A love like my parents. A love that can exist with thousands of miles between in. A love that brought two kids into the world and a love that was never doubted that it existed. I deserve a love that makes time for me. A love that will want to spend time with me, who will help me when things go wrong and more than anything, a love that will fight for me.

We all deserve that.

So as a gentle reminder for those that need to hear it:

We do not, under any circumstance, beg for love.