Blizzard

3rd-floor window with snow on sill.

I spent three days in a state psychiatric hospital during the record-breaking Blizzard of 1978 here in Boston. I wasn't a patient. I was the nurse in charge by default because I was on duty when the storm struck. Other staff could not get to the hospital in order to relieve those of us who remained on duty for 72 hours straight with 45 psychotic patients in our care. We ran out of food items, clean linen and patience at times. The nursing staff cooked for the patients, since the kitchens were understaffed by regulars. I recall making a landmark decision to make huge quantities of soup with our limited meat and vegetables. That soup got us through.

 

This Blizzard of 2013 appears to be close to breaking the snowfall record of 27 inches in Boston in 1978. The sun is peeking through the retreating storm clouds. As I take shovel in hand later, I will be acutely aware of my place in the Universe. I will feel the weight of frozen crystals in the uncountable billions against my muscles. I will feel the harsh cold enter my lungs. My eyes will strain against the glare of midday sun on pure whiteness. I will watch fondly as Peter works with me in tandem. We will work together with whatever neighbors are about to clear away the snow from pathways. We are old. We are survivors. We are still engaged in the reality of life here in our environment, despite our challenges. This is much of what humanist practice means to me.