Nurses and Finger Painting
Okay, some of you need to go ahead and get your imaginations out of the gutter right now (KimmyK, Slick, Becky, and Bea all come to mind at the moment). This is a "nice" story. A pretty story. One of those with the bees getting all trippy-like around the cone flowers, or the hummingbirds buzzing the sugar water, or even my preacher neighbor's wife getting all pissed off because her kids had a mud throwing party in our backyard as I watched and didn't intervene while Tropical Strom Fay rained hail and damnation upon our neck of the woods.
For what it's worth the neighbor kids enjoyed it - for the most part. I'm almost positive no one noticed me turning loose my outdoor hose on the
little pricks overly dressed imps of salvation after Fay yawned at us and decided to head toward more deserving destruction needing places like Washington. But let us keep our little secret between you and me for now. Won't 'cha?
So here's the serious part of the post. It is truly the part where I might even get a bit
weepy wimpy. No. That's not a tear - it's probably an eyelash or something.
Honestly I've never counted how many nurses have come through the doors of our home since Ben's birth. All I know is there have been many that have placed foot upon our welcome mat. Most have been really nice ladies and even a few nice gays...I mean guys (one was an ex-Marine so I take that joke back). Some have even been a little strange while a few have been...beyond the edge of reason? Crazy? Bat shit crazy? Ummmm....worse? Yes.
It can't be easy to walk into someone else's home to do your job. And it's definitely not easy to host a someone else into your home for them to do their job. Think about it for a minute. There maybe two of you out there whose carpets are vacuumed daily, whose laundry is nicely folded, whose beds are made every morning, whose dishes from the previous night's dinner are already washed and in the cupboard, and whose den has already been picked up from the spontaneous popcorn fight that occurred after Obama's speech.
Our nurses are greeted with a den full of clothes lying about that may or may not include dirty underwear. After crawling over about two weeks worth of laundry they reach our kitchen where generally, they have to push aside 3 or 4 days of dishes, pots, and pans just to make enough room to prepare Ben's morning meds. Since school has started back they now have the pleasure of some hairy smelly guy with morning breath that could peel paint reporting the overnight lowdown about Ben.
I tell you these are special ladies (and occasional gents). Eventually they become a part of our family. They become a part of "the A team" - the folks we trust the most to make decisions about Ben's health. They sometimes help Jessie with her homework and actually get caught folding a basket of laundry (y'all stop that). They even get to hear all about the stupid shit that I do before any of you get to read about it. In fact they've heard far more stupid shit about us that Joan won't let me post on the blog. Most importantly they love our son too. We sincerely thank them for what they have to put up with here in our crazy ass household. Mary Brady, Kelly Manly, Julie Guy, Lisa Stamey, Jenny Ohly, Vicki Robertson, and Stacey Brophy - take a bow!
One special gift that Ben has been able to give them is painting. Only a few have missed out because Ben was too young but you can be sure they have plenty of SoulShine they've taken with them to their next cases. Yesterday was special because it was the very first time that Nurse Stacey got to work in paint with Ben. It is so very cool to watch this happen. It reveals the essence of Ben to someone quicker and better than any other way.
The funny thing is that Ben now prefers they work with him more so than with me. I can't figure that one out but it makes the experience all the more special. Maybe he knows this is a gift only he can give.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Nurses and Finger Painting