I’m sure there is more than one thing in this world I’m not good at doing. At the moment this is the one that matters.
I’ve always excelled at reading, learning to do so by the age of five. A few years ago I decided to write and the joy I discovered was out of this world. Now that I’ve got two published books under my belt and another one in the works, nothing’s going to hold me back.
Sewing comes easily to me and I can’t remember when I didn’t sew. It’s also been a nice source of income in lean times.
DIYing is at the top of my list these days with adding a faux transom window to the Philadelphia room and chalk painting every piece of old dark furniture I can sneak behind H’s back. (He’s kinda stuck on that dark wood look.)
Nursing is not my high level of achievement. Don’t ask me to bandage your finger after slicing it open with a knife or ripping the skin off. Changing bandages is not for me.
Once, Jessie, my youngest daughter, or it could have been Amie, but I really think it was Jessie – they will let me know if I’m wrong – almost tore the tip of her finger off when she caught it in a wire cage. She was playing with her rabbit who was on the inside of the cage and jerked her finger away suddenly, ripping the tip of it. It was a good thing there was another adult there because I was useless. I believe her older sisters changed the bandaid daily.
I’m not good with tending to the needs of the young or old when they are flat on their back in need of healthcare. I never know what to say or do.
When my daughter, Terri, was sixteen we found out she was diabetic. There was an overnight stay in the hospital and she had to immediately learn how to give herself insulin shots. My mother stayed the night in the hospital with her while I went home to attend to three other well children.
Now of course Mother was in her glory because nursing was her life. Give her a medical delema and she was on top of it. My children all lived through their cuts and scrapes, and didn’t lose any limbs because their grandmother was a wonderful compassionate nurse.
H recently had a surgical procedure that included an overnight stay in the hospital. He wasn’t happy about this because the last time he was in the hospital was when he was twelve years old having his tonsils removed. He hardly remembers. I think I remember more of my tonsillectomy than he does of his and I was only two!
When he hinted that I would be staying overnight in the hospital with him I didn’t think he was really serious – but he was – and I did. I told him if I was ever in the hospital I wanted him to go home. I want to be left alone,and if I don’t have any visitors that will also be fine with me. I don’t think he believes me. Let’s hope I don’t have a hospital stay soon.
Now I am expected to change his bandage. It’s only a small incision. Breathe…breathe…breathe…