I used to be an ICU nurse, and I was good at it. I thought I was big time, saving lives and such. I was a rock-star.
I was living a full, full life. But not an enjoyable one. I was easily losing patience with my children. No one in my house had any clean underwear. There was constant back pain. Sleeping soundly for more than two straight hours was impossible. No time for date-nights or energy for sex.
Something had to go. And it had to be my job. Not in a {a woman’s place is in the home} sort of way. More like a {my priorities are quite screwed up} way.
Now I have a much less electrifying job.
But, I also have time to make honest-to-goodness pumpkin bread. And help Alex with his pesky spelling homework. And paint Brooklyn’s tiny, tiny fingernails. And volunteer. And do my own grocery shopping. And read. Actual novels, not just bedtime stories.
I will miss the thrill and the challenges of being at the bedside. Of leaping onto a patient’s bed and calling out a code. There is nothing quite like hearing the airlift landing on the helipad just a couple stories above me, and knowing that patient will be mine to care for.
But it’s just not so appealing anymore.
