I am.

A Story by Rosmbre

I am a woman. It still feels strange saying woman. Accusatory. That woman over there. But I’m closer to 30 than 20 so I better get used to it. Some irrational feminist worry about calling myself a girl. Am I still allowed to be a girl? I am various things to various people. I do care. Sometimes I feel I cannot access emotion or that I close myself off to it. Thats because I’m an A&E nurse. Coping mechanism. Sometimes that seeps into life. I sob at the TV though. It’s got to get out somewhere. Warm. Cold. Hard. Soft. Confusing to be everything at once. Nursing was my calling. I can’t imagine not being a nurse. Who would I be if I didn’t give a huge part of myself to strangers every day and night? Who would I be without the nurses who go back to their families, too, feeling half human? I need them as a mirror to understand myself. What sense would we make of ourselves if we didn’t have to give ourselves away? If we had our whole selves intact. Scary thought. It’s not a complaint. What a privilege to witness the edges of life and death as though it’s the norm. It is the norm. We are living. We are dying. You are pissed off about the bins and the late bus. Your dad is dying. Your dad’s ok. He’s with us. We care. Sometimes that means we have none left for ourselves.