Today I walked into the hair salon for a trim and walked out having chopped off 11 inches.
Two weeks ago completely out of the blue I told my sister-in-law that for the first time in my life I was really happy with my hair. That I was truly happy with my hair. That I liked my hair. I have never said that about one of my own body parts before.
And then today I went AND CUT IT ALL OFF.
It occurred to me this afternoon that cutting your hair off is what you do after a breakup. Randomly chopping off all your hair is not usually a good sign. I’m pretty sure it is to mental health what Cheyne-Stokes breathing is to hospice patients.
So, for those of you keeping track at home, NURSING SCHOOL IS WINNING. I think if you ran the numbers I spend more of my time crying in hospital bathrooms than I do on any other activity. Sometimes I cry wearing the white scrubs of a nursing student. I also now sometimes cry wearing the burgundy scrubs of a CNA. This is not a positive development.
Today I held down a young patient while they received stitches. At one point in the inconsolable sobbing and shouts of “noooooo!” the patient gathered up all their self control to say a full sentence at normal volume:
“I’m so sad.”
Every heart in the room shattered.
The tragic naivety of it.
Of saying “I’m so sad.”
As if that mattered. As if that wasn’t obvious to everyone. As if the whole wide world hadn’t known that would happen all along.
You guys, I’m so sad.
As if that matters. As if that isn’t obvious to everyone. As if the whole wide world hadn’t known this would happen all along.
I feel powerless and bloodied and like everyone keeps murmuring “almost done” but we are STILL. NOT. DONE.
All that’s left to hope for is that someone will give me a hug and take me out for ice cream when they’re through with me.
If there’s anything left of me.
