I learned that nurses do not get to choose only the grateful patients.
That lesson became important sooner than I expected.
It was a Thursday in April.
I was stocking gloves in a supply cart when my instructor said my name.
“Vesper,” she said carefully. “There is a patient in observation asking for you.”
My stomach dropped.
Students did not usually get requested by patients.
I followed her down the hall.
The hospital lights hummed overhead.
Somewhere, a machine beeped steadily.
Behind curtain four, my mother sat on a narrow bed in a paper gown, looking furious and terrified.
For a second, she was not Maura the martyr.
Not Maura the guilt machine.
Not Maura who drained my college fund.
She was just my mother.
Small under a thin blanket.
An IV taped to her hand.
Her hair flattened on one side.
Her eyes found mine.
“Oh,” she said.
As if she had not asked for me.
