X Marks the Spot

Except it was a circle.

Her eyes were kind. Her long shoulder length hair interspersed with salt and pepper. The creases around her eyes showed the years of compassion she has poured out on many souls like mine, who sat across from her, our own furrowed brow.

My hands slid up and down the leggings on my thighs, remembering that I am human. My body heavy in the chair.

The kind eyed lady pulled out some crinkly material from her scrub pocket and laid them on the counter.

How about we start here.

Sure.

I nodded with trepidation.

She explained the crinkly pouches.

You’ll wake up with this one.

Sure.

She then pulled out of her other scrub pocket what she called “her Bible.”

Somehow, the worn pages gave me comfort. It signified she used it often.

When you wake up, when I come to see you, we can use this.

Trial and error.

Her “Bible” was a catalog of supplies.

Sure.

I was doing “ok” until she reached for the marker in front of her.

Sit natural.

In my mind, I was rifling through the Rolodex to find where “natural” fit into the terminology of having a hole cut into my abdomen to pull my small intestine through it.

I couldn’t find it.

Stand up.

Lay down.

Sit. Up.

I think that looks good.

That feels right.

The circle.

With just a few moves of my tired body, the circle signified the spot.

As I sit cross cross apple sauce writing my thoughts from my day, I feel my body. I honor my body. I honor the God given broken body that is mine.

I wonder if I’ll be able to ever sit like this again.

I cling to my Jesus.

I mourn what was.

I wonder what will be.

I honor the kind eyed nurse who had compassion on this trepidatious girl.