Our Hands

My nephew, Preston, was brutally attacked at a Halloween Party exactly two months ago. When we got the call that Preston had been “jumped”, my husband, as the protector of the family, assumed the role of navigating traffic signals to get us to the hospital as quickly and safely as possible. As the nurse, I assumed the role of evaluating medical scenarios of what his condition would look like at the trauma center when we arrived. Bruises, maybe a black eye or some broken bones. Never could I have imagined the scene I would walk into.

I was the first one to get to the hospital. I checked in and said, “I’m Preston Lords aunt he was just brought in as a trauma” The girls eyes dropped, immediately avoiding eye contact with me, and said “Please come with me”, She buzzed me into a small room, sterile and alone. Four white walls. One tan couch. A single, sage green chair. One, medical supply box of Kleenex. As the averting eyes closed the door to this hospital cell, the only words she could give me were “the doctor and social worker will be in soon.” I immediately flashback to the times I have been the escort in scrubs with similar, tell nothing words. As a nurse, I’m not allowed to deliver grim news to awaiting families. It is the job of the physician. I knew the news without her saying anything more. I knew we were about to be dropped to our knees, altering our lives as we knew it forever. Once Preston’s parents arrived we were told very matter of factly that Preston had sustained a significant brain injury.

His heart had stopped.
They restarted it.

He could no longer breathe on his own.
They put a breathing tube in to do it for him.

He would likely never be coming home.

Here is what I know. I’ve been a labor and delivery nurse for almost 20 years. Every shift I work, I watch new life enter this world. At their moment of birth, a baby scrunches up their face, fills their lungs with air, and releases their very first cry. No baby enters this world with hate in their heart. No baby arrives here with emotional pain, anger, or the intent to harm another human. On the day of their birth, they come with only the instinct to survive.

In the words of Glennon Doyle,
“Children are not cruel. Children are mirrors. They want to be grown up so they act how grown ups act, they do not act how we tell them to act, they act how we really act, they believe what we believe and they say what we say”

Our children are hurting.

Our children are looking for us to lead.

Our children are looking to us to speak.

The events surrounding Preston’s death were traumatic. Trauma changes us. Changes Our children. Changes Our future. We cannot save our children from enduring trauma, but we can help them use the traumas they endure to become better, more resilient, loving humans.

Our children may forget what we said in the aftermath of Preston’s death. They may forget the long embraces, orange bracelets, lighting of candles, fundraisers, and walks for justice. But our children will never forget how we made them feel when they heard the news, and all the moments after.

A friend sent me this message after Preston passed away, “As awful as the unknown and lack of concrete justice… I think Preston’s light is one that was meant to permeate the darkness of what is going on, what has been going on in our community, and wake the unaffected masses up as a collective whole. If they made arrests right away, would it have People in this kind of uproar? Would it have drawn this type of attention?

Preston is strong enough to light it all up in the waiting…

Remember God knows the plan…”

I don’t know why this happened to Preston and to our family, its a question I’ve asked God daily for the last 61 days, but I do have faith the impact he is making is not for nothing. He is shining his light brightly, uniting a broken community and reminding us that our children were born with an inherent goodness. We as adults need to dial that back in.

Most babies come into this world knowing to cry. It’s a survival instinct.

Sometimes in a delivery when a baby does not cry right away we have to dry and stimulate them to breathe. We remind them with our hands that they know instinctively how to cry. Babies born blue and limp cause tears and terror in the eyes of their onlooking parents, while I, the nurse, calmly remind this baby of their own resilience. I know that a majority of these quiet infants just need my hands to guide them to take that first cry. They need my hands to remind them that they know how to take their first breath. They just need my hands.

My hands weren’t enough to help Preston keep taking breaths on October 30th when he gave his last exhale, but I will always remember my hands being enough to help him take his first breath in this world on September 23rd, 2007.

When I think of Preston, I think of his hands.

I think of our hands as a community.

As humans OUR hands can both give life and take it away.

What will you choose to do with your hands?

—Written by Melissa Lord