Author: Shari Brauner

From ‘Fake Nurse’ to Hero

“Are you sure she’s a real nurse?” It was hard not to notice that my neighbor Christy, the operating-room nurse who saw many of the worst traumas imaginable, often seemed challenged by the simplest every-day medical predicaments. Tylenol or Advil? Does this wound need stitches? Do you have a Band-Aid? We would soon discover that our neighbor, whom we’d jokingly dubbed “the fake nurse,” had a much more impressive area of expertise.

My first glimpse of Christy in action occurred the day my daughter underwent a tonsillectomy. Christy never left my side during the surgery. She kept me distracted and displayed the kind of compassion that a nervous young mother never forgets.

After taking a 10-year professional detour, Christy returned to the OR in 2019. Life was good until COVID-19 hit Bergen County, New Jersey, like a nuclear bomb. As floors of Hackensack Hospital were converted to COVID units, all nurses were reassigned. Christy found herself on the front lines of a virus from which the rest of us were running scared. She jumped in wholeheartedly, once again witnessing horrific medical nightmares, but this time on a scale that no one had ever seen.

“She jumped in wholeheartedly, once again witnessing horrific medical nightmares, but this time on a scale that no one had ever seen.”

Somehow, in the middle of her long and challenging days, Christy took on the role of community angel. She began posting on local Facebook pages, imploring people to self-quarantine and follow the imposed guidelines. Responses quickly filled the pages, ranging from questions to supportive words that warmed my heart. Our community needed a face of hope, but this was not a one-sided endeavor.

Living next door, I started seeing people leaving things on Christy’s doorstep. Masks, hand sanitizer, and immunity-boosting supplements seemed to arrive daily. I made her homemade chicken soup, but nothing seemed like enough. Christy began offering to visit loved ones suffering alone in their hospital beds. She also volunteered to shop for vulnerable members of the community. I don’t know where she found the hours or the strength, but she rose to the occasion like a superhero.

As the weeks passed, Christy began posting numbers of patients being discharged or coming off ventilators. Her small glimmer of hope created much-needed optimism. Eventually, the online community rejoiced when she returned to her OR job and again when she was recognized as a superstar first responder on a local radio station. Always humble, Christy takes no credit, but the facts speak for themselves. She is a true hero.

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Empty Nest: Party of Two

Empty nest. Two words have never terrified me more in my life. In my alternate reality, it wasn’t something I ever needed to worry about. I had three kids who consistently stuck to me like glue. Playdates were usually at my house, sleepovers were incredibly rare, and the suggestion of overnight camp was met with horror. Even when my older son went off to college, my daughter brought home a best friend who needed a family, so we basically took him in. I became convinced that our family model would work exactly that way: Kids would shuffle in and out but someone would always be home.

Cut to the summer of 2019, when my self-created delusion was in final-countdown mode. My family of five had already dwindled down to three. My older son had ensconced himself in independence in New York City a few years prior, and my younger son was home, looking forward to heading back to college in Florida at the end of August. My daughter had spent the past year living at home, applying to graduate school and taking years off my life. And yet her September departure was rocking me in ways I’d never experienced. How was I going to function inside an empty nest? 

My internal turmoil spewed out of my mouth at anyone who would listen. Some tried to console me while others just scoffed at how ridiculous I sounded. I had fear and dread written all over my face to the point that even the spirits noticed. My mother dragged me to a medium reading one night, where my deceased grandfather called out to me, “What are you so afraid of?!” 

Mother Nature gave me a small reprieve when Hurricane Dorian closed down the state of Florida at the beginning of September. My younger son flew home, which meant I still had someone living with me for a few extra days after the dreaded grad school drop-off. I savored his company and tried not to suffocate him, especially when we hugged goodbye at Newark Airport. 

Thanks to some creative planning on my husband’s part, the song playing when I got back into the car was “Just the Two of Us,” our new theme, whether we liked it or not. We stopped for lunch on the way home and it felt almost like a date. However, pulling into the driveway was startling for both of us. The house I would often see looking perfect on the outside yet filled with kid-centric clutter on the inside was completely empty and quiet. Quiet. Another cringe-worthy word in my vocabulary.

“I liked my husband better without the kids around — shocking, in part, because I think a large chunk of my fear centered around the worry that I would hate him.”

By the next day, the space-time continuum had sent us back to 1991, the year we got married. I prepared dinner for two, we talked without interruption, and we enjoyed watching TV together. The house was peaceful and I didn’t feel like I wanted to jump out of my own skin, but of course, I knew that wouldn’t last. We were still in the novelty phase.

An Empty Nest Can Be a Happy Nest

As the days passed, two big revelations slowly hit me. The first was that I liked my husband better without the kids around — shocking, in part, because I think a large chunk of my fear centered around the worry that I would hate him. Second, I was beginning to reconnect with myself. I was no longer somebody’s mom 24/7. All of their energy was out of the house, which meant I could get reacquainted with my own. I used to be a fun and busy person, and I still had a lot of strong interests worth pursuing. Having lunch with friends was no longer enough to give me purpose, so I started to fill my days with things for me. I made sure to get to the gym, I pursued a new level of my spirituality, and I joined a writer’s group. My family had kept me distracted from finishing a novel I started writing 12 years ago, but that excuse was no longer valid. I controlled all of my own time and it began to feel not only great, but empowering.

A striking realization came two nights before Thanksgiving: The kids were on their way home and I felt like I was on the cusp of an invasion. I sat on the couch, taking in the final moments of serenity, acknowledging that I actually liked the peace and quiet. Of course, I love my family and I treasure the rare times we are all together now, but I’m just as okay without them in my daily space. In fact, I prefer it. Getting reacquainted with myself has been the biggest benefit of my empty nest. Now my only fear is them coming back!

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Coping with the Death of a Friend

I’ll never forget that dreary fall day. Gray faces mirrored the dark sky as the news made its way around our tight-knit neighborhood. One of my closest friends had breast cancer. How could that be? Robin was as devoted to her faith as she was to her three young girls. We had only begun to share the experience of raising our kids together. It was impossible to wrap my head around what was happening.

To describe my friend Robin as a warrior would only scratch the surface of her strength. From that day forward, she refused to let cancer define her. Through a 10-year battle, her illness sat on the back burner of her world. After each crushing blow of disease progression, she kept her worst moments private, always focusing on teaching her girls invaluable lessons on limited time. She was an inspiration, yet at the same time, a mischievous spirit who enjoyed being an unpredictable troublemaker. We bonded in fits of laughter, doing our best to take life a little less seriously, whenever we could.

As the treatments took their toll, two-hour phone conversations became our norm. We spent hours trying to figure out how people could be so fascinating, our code word for ridiculous (or worse). I spun tales that brought the outside world into a life that was becoming smaller and more confining. What I didn’t realize at the time was the huge benefit I was getting from having someone on the other end to listen.

On the day we said goodbye, I felt nothing but shock. Tissues and tears filled the hospital room, but my eyes were dry. I choked out words that felt meaningless and empty, telling her to rest and reassuring her that her family would be okay. How could anything be okay? Her death would leave a gaping hole in all of us.

My one attempt to fill part of that hole took place at Christmas that year, when I delivered handwritten personalized letters instead of presents. The notes spotlighted qualities that each of her daughters had inherited from Robin, and included memories from their childhoods. It was my way of ensuring that memories of their mother became indelible, rather than getting lost over time.

“To describe my friend Robin as a warrior would only scratch the surface of her strength. From that day forward, she refused to let cancer define her.”

A few months later, I made sure the girls gave their father a birthday celebration exactly the way Robin would have done it. I taught them to make his favorite dinner and then I left them to celebrate together. All of the milestones were important, especially that first year, but as time moved along, their support system would diminish. It seemed too easy for people to forget and move on.

As the years passed, I watched Robin’s girls grow into amazing young women. We had family nights together at least twice a year, and they never hesitated to share how grateful they were to have me in their lives. Text exchanges in-between visits warmed my heart, especially birthday sentiments. We never got tired of sharing stories, memories, and time together.

On the tenth anniversary of her death, we had a special evening to celebrate Robin’s life. Chocolate chip cookies had been her specialty, but no one had attempted to make them until that night. I could feel her spirit directing me as I sweated over the vague recipe she shared with me only one time; adding extra flour to the standard Tollhouse ingredients. How much was anyone’s guess, but they came out perfect and the girls were excited to be able to carry on a family tradition that had been forgotten.

On September 21st of last year, Robin’s oldest daughter got married. It was a bittersweet experience and the tears I had somehow held in for more than 10 years began to flow. Meeting the groom of my friend’s daughter for the first time that day brought everything into perspective. He hugged me with gusto, expressing that he was so excited to finally meet me; the “legend.” Later, he added that, outside of the family, no one kept Robin’s memory alive the way that I did. The stories we told over the years had created the effect that he and Robin had “met,” when they actually never did. His sentiment was so heartfelt, and his words touched me in ways I never expected. Being acknowledged for guiding Robin’s girls to some form of being okay completely blew me away.

There is no rulebook or checklist for grief — there is only one’s heart. I love Robin’s family, and I feel blessed to be considered a special part of their circle.

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