“Nor does he begin the Trojan War from the double egg.”
If only to be in love with a nurse,
reciprocal of course, for not all nurses should be
trusted. Some nurses are there for revenge, some take
advantage of elderly, or deny small boys candy
because they cried too much. Others are in bad
divorces, and they take their anger out on patients.
I don’t love nurses who are men, but I’m not sexist.
When a nurse tells me the doctor is coming, then leaves
me in a room for an hour, I don’t love that. I don’t like
when a nurse tells me to hurry up and slams the door.
I don’t like nurses who miss my vein five times; who say
it’s alright to stand up, and only watch as I fall down from
the sheer fright of blood.
I love the nurses who stay at home and watch movies
when they might be called to work. I love ones who give children
three suckers because they cried so much. I love the nurses who
smell like shampoo, and put their hands on my cheek and whisper
to keep me calm, my anxiety like a fish caught on a hook.
I love when nurses tell me “everything is going to be okay” when
the drugs start taking over my body and I am being prepared
to go under the knife. I love nurses who come visit me after I am
sewed up and nauseous (like angels from a story book) with
a tiny glass of water, and a balloon; on Labor day, or even Christmas.
I love only the nurses who smile with bright white teeth,
and when they don’t smile you can still see that they don’t
frown very often. I even love them when they stick me with needles,
lying me on my back for fear that I might pass out (they don’t have
the strength to catch me) I am too tall, and heavy and my arms are
flappy and fragile.
I can only imagine marrying one, a house, my own hospital. I would still
be afraid of needles, but I would scrape up my knees on purpose
just to watch my wounds be tended to, even with a kiss. And
what if she becomes pregnant, and I turn into a nurse myself.
Putting pillows behind her head, or her legs, with a cup of tea
and a pickel, or ice cream and peanut butter.
And what if there are complications, and we have to fly in helicopters to far
away cities, will my panic attacks keep me from saving her life? Will I be able to
tell the doctor that he has missed a step or is doing something wrong
(my boss a man with a blade.) Will he turn to me and say “surgery is
like riding a bike, sometimes you don’t feel the need to use a kickstand.”
metaphors to keep me calm, my hands yellow from sanitizer.
And what if I have to deliver the baby at home, give birth in a tub,
or hire a mid-wife who wears white. Not worrying about the stench of
clean hallways or the flickering of a fluorescent light. It would just be
blue birds, and small fawns, us with imagination that could cure
any infections. We would suckle life through long straws that are shaped like
farm animals. A green one with a chicken, (from a coup in the
backyard). A red one with a horse (that runs wild, eating berries).
A purple one with a pig, (cause they are friendly and taste good).