Jodie

Holding two spaces for people with stories of survival matters, it also matters for the workers who listen, stay in the moment, maintain vigilant and focused on a delicate balance of life itself.

This is part of my preparation for HERDSA conference in Singapore.

In the spirit of transparency, this is an article that shares a real-life example of a crisis presentation in the emergency department; intervention approaches, medical, legal and forensic details have been removed intentionally. Comments are welcomed, however, further details will not be disclosed.

I am sharing this as story of ‘holding both spaces’ for both the person in crisis and the worker, linking this back to my research inquiry into trauma education, student preparation to manage countertransference during practice.

I arrive at work at 8.30am and at 8.46am a nurse who attended my training session on domestic violence couple of days earlier, pulls me into the nursing station. She recognised the signs and asked the right questions.

This is when I met Jodie, it is not her real name, it’s the name I gave her when I could not stop thinking about her story, I needed to remember her.

Emergency departments are surprising spaces where a delicate balance of life and death lingers, the fluorescent lights flicker and roars of pain and despair is behind every curtain, this was one of my favourite roles, in the 14 years of working in a hospital. The intensity and the family of staff was truly unforgettable. At the start of my shift I met Jodie, she was brought in by ambulance services after her phone call to the poisons helpline, admitted and treated for alcohol poisoning, she was ready to access detox services, with suspected abuse as a result of domestic violence, she has requested a social worker, I was told by nursing staff.

I took a deep breath, here we go again.

I walked towards bed 12, Jodie laid in bed, with beautiful long dark black hair, draping past her shoulders, perfectly brushed, I was struck by her elegant beauty, posture and grace. Her trembling hands, gentle smile and lowered gaze to avoid me. She tensed up. She took a deep breath and slowly raised her gaze. Her dark brown eyes, were wide, filled with fear, she searched my face for clues as though she was trying to determine if I was a safe person to talk to, if I would believe her story. I sat down next to her and covered her with a warm blanket, set up a selection of sandwiches, biscuits and a hot milo on a tray in front of her, she looked like she has seen hell. I knew this was going to be a hard conversation for her, and for me to hold.

My mind drifted to a memory, while I watched her fill her belly with food. Jodie’s slander build, glamorous features, high cheekbones, plum lips resembled my aunty who had passed away around the same time, she lost her battle to alcohol addiction, the loss was raw, the closure was in the distance over oceans, still lingers, a grief is a luxury I cannot afford. The memories beneath the surface, when I met Jodie, I couldn’t believe the resemblance, I push them away, with force and urgency, bury them for the moment deep inside, with an ache in my chest and lump in my throat, with the tightest gripped for now, if I loosen my grip I fear I will be not be able to be there for Jodie.

Jodie shares her horrific story detailing torturous abuse, addiction, violence laced with alcohol induced pain relief she expressed gratitude for. She pleads with me, to help her boyfriend, provide suggestions to stopped drinking, she expressed how much she loved him, she feared him, she depended on him, but he alone could not stop this madness, she was here to him.

This is where I pause. The details are not important.

Her story reminded me of GIA, although Jodie was not a supermodel, she certainly had the most glamours presence and I could not understand why she felt ugly, unworthy and deeply shameful of her life.

What remained to be important and true is that Jodie was physically forced to consume, high volumes of scotch, until she did not feel her breath in her chest, her body felt numb and lifeless, in that state she endured torture, she remembers snippets of it and details it as I sit in my own pain and listen. Her sorrow of isolation from her family, her daughter and being forced to move around the country is expressed through the tremble in her voice. She lived in survival every day.

She expressed that her plan was to obtain information of detox services for her boyfriend; this is the story she gave him. He rang at least 23 times during her admission. The truth is she was convinced she would die that night, and she wanted someone to know. She wanted to survive.

Holding my own memory of my beautiful aunty in her last hours before she was taken by addiction, her fear and pain she needed to numb was like a painful raw ache in my heart. I swallow hard, push aside my thoughts, emotions and leaned into Jodie. I needed to listen to her story.

Her glamours body was covered in bruises from her neck to her ankles, leaving her face, hands and feet unmarked. I noticed her perfect ruby red nail polish on her fingers and toes, her long glamourous lashes and softness of her hair framing a frightened face. I listened carefully, in silence, watched her tears swell up in her eyes, and roll down her cheeks, like perfect droplets, her lips quiver, as she explained the story behind each bruise that had come to land on her body.

At this point I worked closely with the clinical team ensuring accuracy of the body map and stories of the bruises were recorded accurately, clearly, without confusion, in overflow of patients competing medical attention, an unexperienced but eager to learn medical student was assigned to Jodie. Jodie is important. Let’s keep her in focus. This is not therapy; this is first response to safeguard a person in terror.

Where vulnerability gathers,
where the skin remembers,
where internal pain is forced leaving scars and evidence,
forensics called to collect it,
every intrusive careful touch,
every cell collected, labelled, sealed,
photographs taken from every angle,
with gentleness but no dignity,
I needed to hold her gently,
or not at all.

The warmth of a shower washed the evidence of terror away,
Jodie felt relieved and grateful.
I held my breath as I watch her run outside, I flowed, she left my sight.
She dropped her jumper in a hurry.
I called police, who escalated it to major crime,
20 minutes later he is arrested.

She is safe. Alive. Grateful.

Court proceedings followed.

Holding space for people with stories of survival matters, staying in the moment, vigilant and focused is the delicate balance of life itself.

This matters because frontline workers stand at the edge of other people’s breaking points, where stories are shared, with moments of raw shame and despair, and hope someone believes the madness they are living. If these stories are not heard, they are silenced, rooms darken and isolation closes in.

To hold own pain and give space to people in front of me trembling and experiencing human suffering is something that matters to me. This work is important work.

Holding Two Spaces

I am holding space for you,
with love and compassion in my breath and every move,
that feels gentle but no longer whole,
I do not name what’s in my heart,
I let it be buried deep inside.

Let me unravel with numbness beneath your skin,
words dragged out of me like thorns,
grief thick, weighing me down sitting painfully in my chest,
love twisted into unrecognisable terror in I see in your eyes.

In that moment I push my pain deeper inside,
I show you I am gentle and present for you,
I am composed, intentional and follow your lead,
I am holding my own aching loss and your fear of death.

Like a balancing act.

I return tomorrow.

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