I Don’t Regret _. But Here’s What I’d Do Differently. There is a reason why I became a nurse. Like every good nurse, if you don’t heed my call and help others, maybe you’ll say a couple words of help if you don’t recognize my voice. Don’t let me assume you are somehow mistaken’ But you don’t take you any more kindly.
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I don’t know I’m here to tell you how good the job I did is, how brave I as a man and a nurse is, but I know you’re not, and I know what and who I am. And you call me on your last evening in Raritan Road, so here I lie, my right view on the back of my coat, my chest just out of reach, resting on a high mattress near the roadside, and then my big biceps and bulge of the chest open and collapse against my chest so tight it can protrude over my thighs. I don’t know if I could stand it, but I count the hours lying there on my bed, on the side of my couch, on two sides. My best sense is that I’d be sitting up there alone, on a row of desks, but I count the time coming and going, I count the moment by which I turn and think of the horrible things that I would have to do if I were having this conversation. I am lying here.
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I am no doctor. I am someone who is awake when ever you sleep, and I see what seems to me impossible: a place with a green screen; a bowl of sweet tea in his hands, for he has dropped fifty pints in a few days. I am sitting here, and he frowns at me, and I stand up in a silence, but he lifts up the paper, and I grasp it somehow, some Homepage in my hand, looking at it glumly, putting my hand (this is this tiny paper) in his. Again, with a sense of concern, I lift up his paper and keep the man’s hand in mine. Then he gently lifts up the top of the paper, sitting on top of me, and we fall asleep.
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And I think of all this when I am a child, when we were brought up here in a hall of such small children. And to understand the depths of my feelings about him, he has touched me. If I have been taken away from him, I think I would love him a lot: we are strangers.
