They say you leave the job, but the job never truly leaves you. It clings to you like the smell of antiseptic on a wool cardigan. I spent thirty years as a triage nurse in the busiest Emergency Room in Chicago. Over three decades, I learned to read the color of a person’s skin from across a chaotic waiting room, to hear the distinct, wet rattle of a failing lung before the stethoscope ever touched the chest, and, most importantly, to recognize a lie.
I stood on the expansive limestone patio of my daughter Emily’s home, a glass of iced tea sweating in my hand. It was a perfect June day, the kind that realtors pray for. The garden was awash in pastel pink balloons and expensive floral arrangements that probably cost more than my first mortgage. It was the baby shower of the century, organized with military precision by my son-in-law, David.
