I had a little breakdown, that morning. Alone in the grayness of morning. In a place that wasn’t home, where so much had happened. Where I was settled into a room of my own.
With nothing but my thoughts, the smell of flowers next to me and the subtle beeps of medicalia. Streams of soft tears, painted rivers down a face that hadn’t been washed in more than a day and fell back into my tangled hair. Sobs eluded the early day, soundlessly I let the facade slip, just for me, just for a moment…or so I thought.
She stood in the doorway and came over to me slowly, her blue scrubs soft and worn, her hands rough and warm. She handed me a cup, some medicine, waited for me to sip. Then, she hugged me. This caretaker, caregiver, spread thin, worn weary, wrapped her arms around me in the beginning of the day. She took her time with me and she didn’t ask me questions. She gathered up my pieces so I could glue them back together, and when They Boy returned I could be whole for him.
So as I struggle with what to do in this life, what hole to shove this peg into, my mind invariably goes back to her, in that darkened room, and nursing.
I don’t know if it’s my calling. But it is a far cry from the nothing I am doing, and if I can hold someone’s hand in the dark. Well, then it seems a life well spent.