Oh, Anita. Why Me?

I’ve always been a person that seems to invite confidences from people I barely know or don’t know at all. I started a new job once and on the first day this guy came up to me and told me he was a heroin addict, but no one knew, not even his wife. Um, hello. What was your name again? Welcome aboard!

While Mom was recuperating from her broken hip, she had a gaggle of service providers scheduled to come by for a variety of reasons. A social worker came by to make certain we weren’t keeping her in a meth den; an occupational therapist came by to teach her how to shower, stand, bend and clothe herself appropriately and without harm; a physical therapist came by to teach her exercises to get her strong again; and a nurse came by to check on and tend her incisions from the surgery.

It was an ongoing stream pretty much daily and they were all very nice, professional and had more or less the same name. None of them stood out particularly except Anita, one of the nurses.

Like the others, she was timely and extremely capable with one exception. While they were all generally pleasant and only sort of chatty, Anita came in one day and opened up on me like a can of worms. She explained that she was sorry she was late and cranky, but she had had bacon for breakfast and due to her IBS she had had an accident on the way over and had to turn around and go home and change her pants. The problem was, all her pants were in the laundry due to the IBS except for the ugly gray pair she was wearing. She told me she knows better than to have bacon especiallaywhensheisgoingoutonnursecallsbecause…thesethingshappenanad…itthrowsoffherschedculeandshefeelsbadand….Anita! It’s okay!

I felt so bad for her and I think she felt better after she told me her tale. I gave her a hug and a Happy Holidays and left town a few days later. I think I may have missed my calling as a priest. Oh, yeah. Probably not.

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