I wonder sometimes why I am a visiting nurse. I really do miss the action of the hospital. I love trauma and the adrenaline kicking ICU, ER, and emergency response.

I then remember the very inconvenient shift work, night hours, and feeling opposite of the rest of the world. Sometimes, I liked that.

I think back to when my oldest son was about 10 months old. I called my mother in law's house where my son was staying and my husband was having a nice dinner with his parents and son and I heard the words "Gaetano walked across the living room". My eyes filled up and my nose stung like I just swallowed a pepper. I wanted to be with my family. I wanted my son to be with me when he took his first steps. I liked that my small family was close to my in laws and my parents and that we regularly had coffee or dinner with them. I like how this whole situation worked out so I could get some hours in at the hospital. I only worked one day a week for crispy sake, on Friday from 3 pm to 7 am...a double shift. I had off the rest of the week, but I was very emotional then, and didn't like being away from home for extended hours.

I worked as a float nurse which meant I went to a different floor every time I worked, but I liked the variety and liked that I didn't get involved in the politics of a permanent work place.

Before that, I worked on a transplant, post surgical unit and a gynecology/oncology unit where there was much suffering and death and it took it's toll on me. The patients did have much longer hospital stays then and I did get attached to many of them. In particular there was a young 14 year old girl. I forget her name. She was very thin, and pale with carrot red hair and freckles. She was really cute. Her stomach started to puff and then grow and her parents thought she was pregnant. By the time they took her to a GYN doctor her ovarian tumor was too big for surgical intervention. She had that awful chemotherapy where you threw up for 24 hours a day and lost your hair and most of your body fat and withered away until you died a more tortured death than that of cancer. (Today's chemotherapy and it's abundance of accompanying drugs is much more gentle and effective on certain types of cancer.

I cried like she was my best friend. In a week I was attached to another lovely, incredible person.

Angie,a cute, familiar Italian who was in her 80's, was dying. Her body was full of fluid that her skin actually squirted if you pressed your finger to her lower extremities. She was ventilated and medicated. IV antibiotics and steroids flowed regularly. She had a permanent IV line called a CVP that went through the side of her neck directly into a main vein. Her daughter's visited every single day and left with red, swollen eyes. They left cookies and cakes for the nurses. They helped bath, turn, stroke and kiss Angie constantly. I wondered why all these medical measures were taken. I think she coded (respiratory arrest) 2 or 3 times. This was a time where I learned to stop questioning GOd and to let things happen as He wants them to happen. Angie, after 4 months, left the hospital in a Wheelchair with a parade of about 12 nurses following her out the door. 24 or more red, swollen eyes cried for a different reason. We were truly astonished. Her family gave us credit for which we didn't fully deserve. This accomplishment was way above our ways and means.

Visiting patients at home help me SEE PEOPLE at a different angle. They aren't always as sick, they are in charge of the territory and I get to see inside...I like INSIDES. I also like a flexible schedule and the autonomy and the one on one ratio. I like seeing my city at full scale and feeling I am being helpful to a needed bunch that is forever growing.

After being in home care for about 17 years now I do not think I'll work in the hospital again. Maybe. I am thinking of getting my degree to be a Nurse Practitioner. This seems to be a likely development in my career. Nurse Practitioner's need at least Master Degrees and work in a variety of settings.

And I am sure I'll get lots of stories out of it.

I now know where writer's, especially science fiction and fantasy and children's and horror, get their insights and ideas...from REAL LIFE!

A sweet old lady, Lillie, is medium height, medium weight and very soft spoken. Her hands are small and thin with long, well filed pointed nails. Her hair is pure white and cotton candy spun with a large coiled bun. She stands for her treatment without being able to straighten. She is at 80% of a straight spine with a large bump on her back that looks as if it packs some extra water for desert days. Her skin is papery thin and the constant 23/7 sitting causes it to break and blister and weep. Her lower extremities are wrapped in tight gauze to keep open areas dry and edema low. Her hearing aide whistles as she tries to lift her head to hear my chatter. Her soft blue eyes are good at wondering and help her to hear the words.

Arthur is her house mate. He calls her "mom". He is not a relative, blood or otherwise. He is not a "friend" or spouse or lover. He is a companion. Why HE needs to live there I have no idea, but I assume it has something to do with being needed, being comfortable and the rent is very reasonable. Arthur provides the changing of the tight gauze of the lower extremities, some assistance with cooking and he is the official door man.

Lilie is 86, Arthur is 48. Arthur is short, bald except for the thin black and gray long hairs that stick straight out from the sides of his head about 7 inches, and on the stocky side. He wear thick, coke bottle glasses and ripped old man pants and suspenders, the seat of which is soiled and revealed when he turns to walk in the opposite direction. He speaks loud and at times I feel he is passive aggressive but most times he is kind and appreciative.

"Hey mom, your nurse is here. I'll go bye, bye for a few minutes". He leaves us privacy so I can change the bandages and clean the wounds on her back, buttocks and the back of her legs. "Charlie, the physical therapist called, he is coming to grandma's house to visit, too". Arthur speaks in a sing songy kind of way and I wonder just what is he thinking? As he walks into the kitchen he speaks to the squirrel on the outside window sill as if he knows him well.

The house is across from a large field where the kids practice football, beyond which is an overpass for the expressway. On the corner is a church and across from the church is a police department. The neighborhood is quiet and noisy all at once. Inside is a house that was once very much cared for and fussed over. There is good upholstered furniture and a great big sturdy dining room set in a separate room. The kitchen was redone about 1980. Thereafter, time has stood still and for 27 years the compilation of mail, medical supplies, and newspapers has done some redecorating.

Two unlikely people came together and help each other. All past essentials seems to have flown away with the wind. Family member's are accepting of this arrangement as it works for everyone.

I can't help but think of Harry Potter or Stephen King or English Fantasy stories or The Hobbit or even The Wizard of OZ...

I know all those characters!

I highly recommend Dr. Weil's web site for informative, easy and healthy health remedies, supplements, and even recipes. Dr. Weil is a Harvard prepared M.D. that practice Integrated Medicine.

http://www.drweil.com/drw/ecs/index.html

I just read Moral Disorder by Margaret Atwood. She is a highly intelligent writer whom I really admire..but this book was not my favorite of her's. Other really good ones by her: She's Come Undone, Alias Grace, Cat's Eye. I am working on her collection.

Also reading Water for Elephants...about a 93 year old man that worked for a traveling circus. It oscilates between now and then..If you love animals and plain old adventurous people..this is a book you'd enjoy. I really love the passages about the animal interventions. I am only 1/2 into it but really like it...really like the main character. I am also always intrigued when the writer is a woman and the main character a man and visa versa...I find it very interesting on the insight into the opposite sex's psyche.
Since I have a dog I love, I feel I am a real animal person. That is just funny. I can't even touch a cat. or a bird. or a bug. except a lady bug which I love. But, I love reading about them all.

Hicks Street would never have been my first choice for a name for a street. I have no idea where the name originated from and can't seem to muster up the desire to care due to the name being so...so...unattractive. Come to think of it, all of my addresses, past and present are on streets whose names are plain, ugly, not flowery or quaint at all. We don't judge books by their covers or homes by their street names. THAT turned out to be a good thing.

Growing up on Hicks Street was quite unique. Friendly neighbors who felt more like family at the time, middle class fun, lots of children who mostly all went to the same 1 or 2 schools in the neighborhood they lived in, close knit church and community, corner grocery stores owned by neighbors who usually lived above or next door to their businesses, freshly made bread, good meats: butchers that would grind, chop, slice and carve your wish right before your eyes, playgrounds, clubs and small yards with an alley running in between ours and the yards on the streets behind us. Sometimes I would sit at my brother's bedroom window and look out the back of our house to see the yards of the houses on the street behind us; those homes were much bigger: three stories compared to our two story houses. There were triplexes on that block and some renters. Our street was all homeowners and the same neighbors lived there for years and years. I was intrigued by an Asian family who lived in one house over, behind us. I think they were Chinese. They used to clean vegetables in the yard leaving their kitchen door wide open and I liked the red and gold banners and lanterns that hung in their kitchen and the aroma of their cooking. I do not think they spoke English. They had kids but kept to themselves except for the times they would wave and smile and I did the same. They always wore slipper and left them at the door before going back inside.

On our left was a good friend. Mickey felt more like my aunt than my neighbor. Our families mingled lots of times and I have fond memories of picnics, vacations, coffee clutch discussions, parties and even the million times I knocked for my key when forgetting to bring it to school. Chubby, her husband, would hand me the key with a stern look in his eye that I'd better remember it tomorrow. I laughed at him nervously and he'd just smile back. The kids are like my cousins even though we see very little of them now.

To our right was an old Italian couple. I was in their house a couple of times and was intrigued by the plainness of it. Functional furniture, a clean and purposeful kitchen, shiny pots, a small square table with four chairs. I remember the lights were usually off during the day, the blinds being opened to let in the light and the warmth from the sun. They were a frugal couple who spoke broken English. The husband and sometimes both of them would walk to the Italian market most days for fresh fruit and vegetables. It is about a 2- 2 1/2 mile walk. In the morning I'd smell their strong black coffee, Minnie would clean or do laundry (hanging it outside to dry)depending on the designated day and then they would shop, cook, have lunch and then knit or embroider or sew. After dinner, she would sit on a small pillow on the brownstone step outside and yell at us as we slammed our door running in and out a million times. "Go easy" she would say. Or she would lure us over to her with a gnarly finger to tell us something we barely understood with her thick Italian accent. I used to like to tease her but deep down I was so found of her and her simpleness and calm nature stays with me even now. She'd sit on her stoop and shell peas or clean fresh string beans or peel and eat an apple with a small paring knife. I tried to learn to knit but could never sit calmly long enough to get it right.

Our yard was a small, square, cement topped area with cinder blocked walls and an alley gate. We had a hose and clothes lines and a chain linked fence between our yard and Minnie's. Mickey and Chubby and my mom and dad tore down the fence between our two yards so we can share our expanded yard space and go back and forth freely; we walked in each other's houses without knocking, mostly from the back kitchen doors. We had lots of parties there and I am sure Minnie thought we were crazy Americans. Minnie's yard had a raised cement bed filled with soil for tomato plants and basil and parsley and peppers. They had a wooden trellis attached to the fences so it created a ceiling. Grapes grew and hung from above their heads creating an oasis of green that felt like a bit of heaven. They'd sit on their simple lawn chair with small pillows and Minnie would yell at us if we were too loud or throwing the ball too rough or wetting her yard with the hose. Minnie, in her housedress and black work shoes and Ralph in his shirt, pants and suspenders. I do not think he made his own wine. Figs and grapes were for eating. Every now and then they would give us a bit or parsley or basil. I wish I would have appreciated them more then and talked to them more and learned about where they originated from and some of their language. Lost time. Lost opportunities. Now, I think about their yard and their lifestyle and realize it made a deep impression on me. When we plant and grow flowers or crush grapes for wine I think of them, wish them well and thank them for making a lasting and important impression upon me.

Hicks Street, you'd never know the place by it's name.

"The past is not dead. In fact, it's not even past."

When I read this quote I was taken with agreement. You know me by now, my past lives right along side me every minute of every day. I sometimes wonder what is most important: my past, my present or my future and always realize they are all one in the same. Life is like walking through a forest and picking wildflowers along the way; the first one picked adds to the bunch just as the last. It all matters. Whether or not you liked your past, cherish it, think about it, ignore it, write about it or refuse to believe it, IT is still there affecting your every day decisions and focus and happiness and disappointments. Sometimes that is a pleasant and wonderful thought and for others it can be horrifying.

I thought this a good quote because I had a good childhood. Some people cling to things that happen to them that aren't so good festering and smoking until they spark and set fire to a rage or revenge. I am referring to the senseless killings of those school aged Amish girls in Lancaster County by a seemingly Christian man (not Amish)that planned and carried out an execution of several children for revenge that no one seems to understand. At 12 years old something happened to this man that seems to involve a female that has tormented him enough to take guns and tape and rope and knives to a school to kill and harm little innocent children.

One theory is he picked this school because of the low security and easy access not because the revenge was meant to be directed at Amish, but it was definitely directed at females.

His life is definitely over, but his past is not and hundreds of people were given a memory that will affect the rest of their lives and then lives that come after that and so on and so on. The Amish say they try to view it as God's will and remain peaceful and helpful to each other; they try to not allow the tragedy to affect the way they live or treat each other. They seem to be able to control much of their emotions and life with limitations on freedom and strict traditions.

This man's wife is in shock. She said she had no inkling of any tendency toward violent behavior. He was a loving and giving father and husband.

You never know someone's whole past and how it lingers about them. It is never dead, in fact, it's not even past.