I’m no Florence Nightengale!

Growing up, I remember pretending to be a nurse, taking care of my grandfather who had the flu or trying to. I had a cute little nurse’s uniform which is what I liked the most. I tried to give my sister a pretend shot, and she knocked me across the bed and I ended up with a head wound bleeding profusely. I remember reading about all those great women like Clara Barton and Florence Nightengale, and somewhere along the way I learned I wasn’t good at blood, vomit or other bodily fluids. During my years of teaching, I came face to face with many sick children. Cough, cough. One would cough right in my face and say, “I’ve got strep throat.” Terrific. I soon had it too. Or the child who kept coming to school with pink eye. Yep, I got that too. And then there was the sweet little boy who sat on the front row who made a squeaking noise. I looked over at him. He’d covered his mouth with his hand. His eyes bugged out. And then vomit leaked through his fingers. “Go to the office! Quick!” That was always my solution. Then there was the child who started screaming, “Miss Wilson (that was my name back then)! Miss Wilson! It just keeps coming! It keeps coming! It won’t stop!” I rushed over to her and discovered she was peeing all over the chair, a yellow pool forming on the floor. “Well, finish. Then go to the office,” I told her. During high school, I thought I wanted to be a physical therapist and worked in a hospital for a short period of time. I’m sure the patients were glad I left after I wheeled a guy with a broken leg into a wall. Accidentally! Honest!!! I’m just not good at nursing. Then, I eventually became a mom. My son had projectile spitups. All day. Every day. I never got used to it. Then there’s the time that I sat with a friend’s husband in the hospital for a short period of time. Uncomfortable in hospital settings, I read a book while he napped. Suddenly, all these beeps and sirens were going off. Doctors and nurses rushed down the hall and into his room. I looked over and his eyes had rolled back in his head. He had flatlined. I just got out of the way. And he survived, no thanks to me. So here I am today, supposedly nursing my son, husband and dog. Is God trying to tell me something?