My lovely friend from Brazil is in town again this year.  She beckons to me to join her and the others for revelry.  We all laughed and partied and closed bars until 3 a.m. last year.  This year I’m on call to the operating room.  After the lay-offs, we all find ourselves taking more call.  I end my week with a lot of overtime, and fatigued to the point of tears.  Someday, I want to visit her in Brazil…It’s never really safe, but I want to go there.  When I do, I want to take thousands of photos…and write.

Devil me leans against the vanity in the bathroom, watching me apply makeup, “You don’t leave yourself much time for R & R.  Do you need that much overtime?”  I shrug and sweep mascara on my lashes, “School starts soon, so there will be expenses.  It’s not like H is going to pony up for school supplies.”  I look at the dark circles under my eyes.  I’ve been writing in my journal instead of blogging here, and Devil me thumbs through it’s pages.  She reads a few entries before clearing her throat, “You think it’s a good idea to keep a private journal?  No one can see it…”  I tell her that it’s nothing except more of the same.  I take more time when I write here so the finished note is richer in detail, better written.  I would never just jot – “Dr appt today.  Find out new treatment and new meds for stones.  Ha.  Imaginary stones!  Asshole.”  But there it is in my journal, with the sloppy penmanship, and the choppy sentences.  It has it’s eloquent moments when the words flow like silk.  Mostly it’s just a place to jot a few lines in an effort to keep my head marginally straight.

I worked a lot of trauma cases.  I was pulled to relieve other nurses on more complicated cases.  I’ve offered to come in early and stay late when there’s been a complicated case.  I stayed 3 hours over on a day when I had no call, because they needed me.  I received no thanks for that, but I didn’t care.  We all recognize those who work hard, and those who don’t.  My night shift buddies and I are tight.  At a party, W tells his cousin, “She my dog.  She got my back,” then he pulls me close for a half hug.  We watch out for each other, and bonds are tight when the seas grow rough. 

I work another open heart case on a critically ill child.  Dr L is happy to see me there, and jokes with me as easily as he does with the nurses he works with everyday in PICU.  That’s a good thing.  He’s the one who decides if Dr B does the surgery or if it’s sent to the Childrens Hospitals in the counties south of us.  There is another case next week.  I have a dental appointment that day, but I’ll have to go in after I’m finished.  I’ll work 10 – 12 hours that day.  It will be a good day.

All of the surgeons who take care of pediatric patients like it when I’m in their room.  So many years – 25 to be exact – as a nurse, and most of those working with children requiring surgery, makes for a comforting presence.  Many of us are comfortable with little ones, cuddling and playing with them before surgery.  We are parents first.  We care.  I often hold a parent’s hand or hold them to ease their fears.  It’s so difficult to hand a piece of your heart to a stranger.  I’ve been there, so when I reach out, it’s genuine.  They know.  They cry…always, but they trust, because they know that I care about their little one. 

They have no choice.  I know that.  Because they have no choice, I must take extra care with these little people who live in their hearts.  I used to tell my students that Jesus was watching them….and it’s true to a certain extent.  I care as if I’m under the watchful eyes of a superior being. 

I do that with all of my patients. 

Angel me touches my arm, pulling me away from patients and work…”What about you?  What are you doing for you?”  The truth…not a damned thing. 

On a positive note, I’m avoiding D.  I don’t visit his social networking page.  I don’t call or text.  He checks my page, daily.  He’s not acknowledging anything.  I tell myself that he’s no longer interested in me.  In fact, I would venture to say that we are no longer friends.  I probe my heart to see if that hurts, but it’s like a distant memory.  There is no pain or loneliness.  It’s empty, but not in a negative way….

It’s a void…a hole where a tumor was removed. 

I look at Angel me, “I don’t think I’ll have a problem staying away.”  She looks at me evenly, but doesn’t speak.  I tell her, “I can stay away because I don’t believe that he wants me around.  If I’m thrown away…”  She nods, looking sad, “But not thrown away by all…”  I turned away then. 

I don’t know if anyone will want me.  I can’t put my value on being inside someone’s heart.  That part of me is dead for now.  I look at Angel me, “Does it matter if no one loves me again?  Does it matter if I ever love again?  Maybe it doesn’t.  Maybe that’s the way it needs to be.  Maybe D is right.  Maybe no one will ever want me.  I don’t talk to any of them anymore.  Maybe it’s good time to disappear.”  She stares back, unblinking…silent.