Episode 70: Nurse Nancy

Episode 70: Nurse Nancy

Excerpts from "The Petty Chronicles" every Monday

This week I had a terrible cold or maybe it was the flu. But it was the type of illness that slams you down with a vengeance, like the paw of a rather large bear, swiping away any energy you might have thought you had and sending you, post haste, to your bed. While lying there, I wished to God I had someone who could nurse me back to health, but being a single gal these days, I had to rely solely on myself and the stash of canned soup and somewhat stale saltines I keep on hand for just such an occasion. If only my dogs had opposable thumbs, I thought in vain, or if only I were still married, I wailed into my pillow, I wouldn’t have to be my own damn nurse.

Of course, a swift kick from the reality fairy set in right then, reminding me that even if he were still around, my ex would hardly have cooked anything for me or even ordered takeout. I would still have been fending for myself and nothing would have been any different. Even if he had been in earshot of my whining and endless sniffling and coughing, it is highly unlikely that my debilitated state would have held any sway over his nurturing instincts which, when it came to me, were apparently null and void. Of course, even if he had been nurturing at all, I wouldn’t really want him back, I told myself and chalked the whole incident up to the general malaise I was feeling rather than thinking how crazy I must be to be harboring remorseful thoughts about the man who never knew how to take care of anybody but himself.

To further paint the picture for myself, I decided to take a stroll down memory lane, and like a flashback there they were: a parade of visions filled with all the times he was sick. Of how tenderly I nursed him, in the face of his constant protestations that I do just the opposite, and I had to laugh at the absurdity of it all. One time in particular, I remember how he was marooned in our bed; a captive audience of endless bad cop shows that raced across the television screen for the better part of a week. To me it seemed like he’d been holed-up in there for a month but maybe that’s because my feet ached from tiptoeing around him, trying in vain to please him and remain invisible at the same time.  I didn’t know whether to pamper him or ignore him, parade through his sickroom with piping hot bowls of homemade chicken soup (‘what is that green stuff floating in there?’ he’d complain, pointing to errant bits of fresh basil swimming about in his lunch) or run like hell to the Holiday Inn and register under an assumed name.

But the thing I never really understood, and still don’t to this day, was the way he rejected my nurturing touch, just when he needed it most. Why did he find it necessary to assert his manly independence when he was suffering in his sickbed? I wondered. Contrary to every bit of logic I can summon, I remain confused as to his reasoning but it seemed he preferred to be abandoned, so he could feel sorry for himself, while stewing in his snotty juices all alone. This would actually have been amusing were it not so sad. Really! It would have been so much easier if he were more like me; appreciative of a good pillow fluffing, some tea and sympathy and yes, even some fresh basil floating in my soup. And then it hit me; maybe he was resentful towards me because I didn’t nurse him like his mom did. After all, he did worship the ground she walked upon and so it shouldn’t come as a big surprise that this supposition certainly could have been the case.

His mom; now there was a nurse! Her soup never had fresh basil floating on top. Oh no. Her soup had little alphabet noodles swimming about, which spelled his name over and over, served on a TV tray along with an endless supply of saltines and ginger ale. She also had a stack of freshly washed and ironed PJ’s at the ready and hours of attention and TLC to give. Let’s face it, the only way I could ever have hoped to out-do my ex mother-in-law in the nursing department would have been to dress up in a white uniform, replete with high heels, a perky little cap and a nametag that whispered ‘Nurse Nancy at your service’ pinned just above my heaving breasts. But come on! Who has time to prance around in a provocative costume all day (even if you have just such a thing hanging in your closet; the remains of Halloween past)? I had responsibilities and recycling to consider. And besides, his behavior certainly didn’t warrant such a grand reward! In the end, all I could do was my best. Every few hours I’d take my life into my hands, check on him and try to respond to his mumbled requests. I finally realized that I was making things hard on myself by trying, not only to nurse him, but to be the chef-du-jour as well and stocked-up on canned soup, saltines and ginger ale instead.

I do still have that nurse’s uniform hanging in the closet and there it will stay for the time being. You never know when I might have the opportunity to pull it out and don it on another occasion although, Lord help me, next time, I hope it’s met with a hell of a lot more appreciation than it was the last time around.

Check out new episodes of The Petty Chronicles every Monday.

Click the following to learn about The Petty Chronicles and its author, Rachel Gladstone