Go Right at the Lion

Ever since Owen was born and we learned what we were up against, countless friends, family, and even acquaintances new and old (thank you social media) have reached out in one way or another. Offering help, kind words, sending gifts, and since Owen's passing, it hasn't stopped. They've all meant so much to us; none more than the other. If I wrote about each gesture of kindness, I'd write about nothing else so just know that if you are one of those people who have done something for us--anything--we love you.

There have been other things that have happened that go beyond kindness. Things that dance in that magical place between the coincidental and the Devine. This post is about one of those things.

For those who know me more personally or have kept up with me over the more recent years, you know that for the last 2 and a half years or so I've been putting the finishing touches on a dream I've had for over a decade--to become a lactation consultant. I'll spare the whole story of why and how I got there and just say that I had finally found the work that was meaningful to me in a way nothing else has been (and I've been blessed to do some amazing work in my life). When we moved to Germany in fall of 2020, I started pursuing an internship at the base hospital, Landstuhl Regional Medical Center (LRMC). I hit the ground running in the clinic in February of 2021. I worked a few days a week, learning under a seasoned lactation consultant and earning hours to make me eligible for the board exam. I took over for her full time when she left in May and I continued as the only lactation support in the entire hospital. Quickly I became the go to in the military community there as well. I visited families in homes when I wasn't at the clinic, and by the time I left LRMC in October, I had over 260 patient encounters at the hospital alone. And I did the entirety of the work there for free as a volunteer. I loved every second of the work. I loved watching new moms, fragile and unsure, discover their own mothering super powers. I loved helping return long lost knowledge of how to mother through breastfeeding to these women.

When we got to Children's National in DC, we met an amazing nurse named Nora. As it turns out, Nora is good friends with a mom I helped with breastfeeding at LRMC! What are the odds? Well, as it turns out, this particular mama herself is a former CICU nurse at Children's and not only knows Nora, but she knows many of the other wonderful people that were part of Owen's team. She knew the unit. She's probably cared for babies in room 377.

Since Owen passed away, this mama has become sort of a lifeline for me. I don't know her super well but I feel safe talking to her. She knows the sadness of the CICU. She is connected with the community in Germany, specifically the other families who know me through my work at the clinic. She has posted on my behalf, she has organised help, and she has been a safe space to ask the impossible questions.

She texts me photos of beautiful pink sky sunrises and says that she believes the brilliant pinks and oranges radiating as far as the eye can see might be Owen. These sweet things bring me comfort.

And then few days ago, she texted me this:

It took me a few minutes to recognise it. Of course. The lion from the clinic at LRMC! The clinic was like any other, lots of rooms and hallways. Nothing special. Except it was.

The pediatric clinic was a place where I gave so much of myself. Where mothers bared their souls and their breasts, often cracked and bleeding. Where I held the hands those who were struggling, where I hugged them and encouraged them and taught them. Where I looked in fathers' eyes and told them they were amazing for being there to support their wives, where I held babies and silently whispered to them "your mama is a super hero." It's a place where I learned and grew as a person, a mother, and as a lactation consultant. To say this clinic and this job and this hospital meant something to me would be a huge understatement.

My small office was towards the back of the clinic and I always described it as a bit of a "maze." Often I'd walk with the foggy brained parents from the waiting area to my office so they wouldn't get lost (in the months leading up to Owen's birth it was more like a waddle!). The maze back out was no easier. Instead of walking them out (I had a lot of charting to do and a short time to do it!) I would describe the turns. This was a daily thing and I would say to them, go right, then take the first left, and then at the end of the hall, "go right at the lion."

There had been a lion at the end of the hall of the clinic the entire time. And it had been the sign I told parents to follow. I noticed it every day, but I never actually saw it until now.