The Wounded Nurse

“I’ll put the cord on your chair,” she said.

I was in our little lunch room and was to be given the call cord while she was away, briefly. Her hair hung down as she tied the cord. She stuck her tongue out at me. She was a communicator!

She was marrying a slightly older man. He had found that two of his children were not his and was shattered. “Who else would be crazy enough to marry someone like me?”

She uttered more demeaning remarks in a light way, as if she was one big joke.

Our wheelchairs were lined up for shower time. I saw her nearby.

“Could you do something for me?” I asked. “I heard you knocking yourself several times today.”

“It’s because of my crappy childhood,” she replied.

“Please don’t knock yourself. What happened to you is not you. It was something that happened to you.”

She bent over and placed her face next to mine before she walked away.

So many hurting people! In this state, where laughter is almost compulsory, she was hurting. My problems were just to get over my stroke. I soon forgot about them. Hers will be with her until she dies.

As the twig is bent, so grows the tree. I heard an old preacher say that we never get over our childhoods. So true, I am afraid. Brave soul she was. Hard not to love her.