Last night, I lay awake in bed while my baby cried.

He’s at the tail end of a cold, and was actually less congested than when we’d put him to bed hours earlier, but he was having trouble staying settled. I fed him, my husband changed his diaper, I put chest rub on him, and gave him Tylenol. I held him while he flopped around restlessly, wanting to be asleep, but unable to wind back down.

Nothing worked. So we did something we haven’t done before with this particular baby. We put him in a room by himself, and let him cry himself to sleep.

It didn’t take long.

Before we’d gone to bed, I’d shared a little about my recent night shift with my chaplain.* During report the morning after my shift, I’d found out that there was a key thing one of my patients could have told me that would have completely changed the way I’d ordered my night.

I may have discovered it, as well. If the patient hadn’t been able to communicate, it’s much more likely that I’d have dug deeper and figured it out. But it seemed like based on what I knew, some of my other patients needed more time than that one did.

I had prayed heavily over my shift for several days before going in. I had changed my night shift schedule for April to accommodate our travel at the beginning of the month. Because of the switch, the shift was coming after spending the day at our homeschool coop, which I’ve mentioned is exhausting for me. My oldest was playing with his drum line at a benefit later in the evening to raise money for several local organizations that work with youth. The evening which I usually spend in bed, sleeping for a couple of hours before work.

And I had a counseling appointment that day, which is always good, but is completely draining.

So after that long day, we stayed till the last possible moment at the benefit that night. I was filled with gratitude over the amazing community my son is a part of at his school.  We listened to live funk music in a dark club. Then we flew home, I threw on my scrubs, and headed off to work, just making it on time.

God answered my prayer. The floor was so quiet that nurses were wandering around asking others if they needed help. I had time to stay and hang out with a patient who needed to talk, and give two others what they needed in tight teamwork with the aide who was helping me.

This patient perked up when I came in the room at the beginning of the night and used the nickname the person preferred. I noticed through my exhaustion towards the end of my shift that the person was less enthusiastic. It was a subtle change. When I have to wake someone up for care multiple times during the night, I also often have to watch them wilt under the crush of repeated interruptions to their rest. This felt different.

In the course of the night, I did my regular checks, I helped the patient get comfortable with an ice pack for soreness, and we changed positions to get the patient off of their back. But on that slow night, I could have done more; I had the time.

The patient didn’t tell me what she needed. And I didn’t figure it out.

I know I sensed distance at the end of the night when I came in one last time.

The hope the patient had at the beginning of the shift that I would discover what she needed without her having to tell me, was gone.

I take care of a lot of people who aren’t able to tell me what they need. Maybe there are cognitive issues. Maybe they have been affected by a stroke so that they can no longer speak. Sometimes they can’t speak clearly, or just have to dig so deep for words that it takes achingly long to find out what it is they are trying to say, if they are able to articulate it at all. In times like that, I work hard to read their cues and try to give them what they need.

I allow myself a little more grace when the patient is alert and able to communicate. Yet some patients want me to read their minds rather than just ask me for help. I struggle with that. I struggle because my perfectionism dictates that even though I wasn’t told – with the multitude of ways that hospital patients can be uncomfortable and distressed – that I should just know.

My chaplain pointed out that the patient could have just told me.

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I have someone in my life that I would like to just be myself with, but in the past I’ve been punished for that. For being human. I think these days, my anxiety in spending time with that person is magnified more by me than by any unrealistic expectations from them.

I have been punished by someone outside myself for unseeable, unknowable standards. And internally, my perfectionism is already saying, anything less than perfect is not OK.

As an imperfect human, I am destined to fail. I may get punished for being human, and I may not, but I never know, and I end up feeling perpetually anxious.

It feels like I’m left with two choices: stop trying, or try harder. I vacillate between those choices.

I think back to my baby last night. I did everything I could think of to make him comfortable. It was not enough. Maybe it wasn’t even what he needed.

My patient knew what she needed, and chanced that I would figure it out rather than choosing to tell me.

This other person in my life has expectations of me that can feel unrealistic and whose responses range from cutting words to a cold shoulder. And who won’t tell me when I have done something to offend, but rather just starts being  punitive.

The only thing I have control over in any of these situations is me.

And when I make it about being perfect, I let Satan turn me into my own enemy.

I am not the perfect mom. I am not the perfect nurse. I am not the perfect person.

It’s hard to know where my responsibility ends to keep trying.

The photo above is my baby, grasping for something he can’t reach.

* My husband spent several years as a college chaplain, became a blogger where he is essentially an internet chaplain, and now works as a hospice chaplain. So I don’t have to keep calling him My Husband, because that just feels weird, I’m going with The Chaplain.