The Making of a Nurse Read Online Free

in the crazy whirling wallpaper that depicted jars of pickles, mustards and relishes, ham hocks and lamb chops, sheaves of wheat, and fruits and vegetables from every vine, tree, and bush, bursting forth out of straw cornucopias. My father heaved pots and frying pans onto the stove and soon his head became enveloped in a cloud of steam that fogged his glasses. Pots splattered and spluttered onto the enamel surface, and as he tasted from each one, he told me about his day. “If the customer doesn’t tell the dry cleaner about the stain, they can’t treat it. Home remedies are merely first aid, but dry cleaning saves the patient. Guess, what’s the most stubborn stain?”
    “Ink?”
    “It’s mustard!” he exclaimed. “It takes a lot of know-how to dry clean fabrics, and that’s where Regal Sales excels. We’ve got the best products on the market.” He went to get my mother and brought her to the kitchen, and we propped her up at the table. “Come on, Ellie, sit up straight!” he coached. He set bowls of steaming rice and chop suey in front of us. “Kung Hei Fat Choy,” he said to welcome the Chinese New Year. “First, let’s check your progress today.” He flipped through the notes I’d made about whether my mother had done her exercises, what her heart rate and blood pressure had been, and if she had cried. He was pleased with her day. “Now, let’s eat.”
    There were very few rules in our family, but one of them was chopsticks.
    “Here Ellie, let me get you started.” He positioned them in her hand.
    “I’m sorry I’m so slow.” My mother tried to grip the chopsticks, but they slithered away.
    “Hold the top one like a pencil. That’s it! Move it up and down. You’ll get it.”
    But I could see that she couldn’t grasp a thing so I moved my chair closer to hers and made a napkin into a bib and tied it around her neck. The chopsticks slipped out of her fingers and clattered to the floor. “No, Tilda, she can’t give up,” I heard my father say as I bent down to pick them up. I decided to stay down there awhile. Crouched under the kitchen table, I began to dream up a plan. I decided that if I would be a devoted and gentle nurse, the kindest, most attentive nurse possible, in return my mother would get well. While I was at it, I would be the most loving, understanding sister so I could make Robbie happy, too. And if I could be a doting, obedient daughter, I could ensure nothing bad would happen to my father.
    Unfortunately, in the years that followed, not one of us kept our side of the bargain.

2
WATERGATE DIAGNOSIS
    B y the time I was eleven years old, I had a new patient to worry about.
    Something was wrong with my father. Every night, long after midnight, I heard bizarre sounds. I crept into my parents’ bedroom and found my father sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his chest. He had a strained look and in his hand he held a row of white antacid tablets – lined up like the pennies and nickels he rolled and took to the bank. He pounded lightly on his chest.
“Greppps
…,” I heard him say.
    “What’s wrong, Dad?”
    “Not a thing, my dear. It’s nothing but mild heartburn.
Greckkk
…”
    “It seems your father has become a musical instrument. A woodwind,” my mother said. She was lying beside him, waving an imaginary baton in the air. “He’s playing
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.”
    “It doesn’t sound good, Dad.” I stood there, staring and worrying.
    “It’s nothing but garden-variety borborygmi. Intestinal rumblings caused by moving gas.”
    “What does the doctor say?”
    “Well, as a matter of fact I’ll take you with me to my appointment next week. It will be an educational experience for you. Maybe you’ll be a doctor one day?”
    But he had taught me about rhetorical questions; you didn’t have to answer them.
    AT THE DOCTOR’S OFFICE my father went to the men’s room and returned with a plastic container filled to the brim. He handed it to the nurse,