And I have learned that there are two types of people. The type who want to hear all the gory details of my shifts (which I am more than happy to supply in a fully HIPAA compliant manner), and those who want me to stop talking the moment I start with “I had this patient last shift…”. My brother and some of my closest friends are in the latter category. Some can’t hear anything about eyeballs, for some it’s bodily fluids or things where they shouldn’t be or sticking out in directions they aren’t meant to. Except for the intersection of tiny crawling bugs and the human body, I love it all. I’ve learned what it means when someone is “degloved” or is experiencing a “facial avulsion”. I am loving getting to see all these new things and getting to be part of the team that helps get people back to (or close to) their normal.

Work is great.

**2:30am 11.5 hours in to a 12 hour shift. Struggling.**

Lots of things outside of work feel not so great. A friend whose cancer may soon stop her breath. A family member undergoing inpatient psych treatment, another who is being whalloped by a debilitating condition and the side effects of treating it. I know so many others who are struggling - it seems to be the way of the world right now.

In a nod to this shit storm my writing group prompt this month was “bucket list”. My contribution is below, and since one of the rules of writing group (after “we don’t talk about writing group”, of course) is that you’re not allowed to preface your contribution, I leave mine here:

Golden hour.

The base of the sun begins to flatten as it is engulfed by the Atlantic. Elephant matriarchs lead trains of babies down the beach to find fresh water. The breeze coming off of the ocean cools my face, still covered in a paste of sand and sweat from our day driving across desolate dunes. The Skeleton Coast of Namibia is as beautiful as I have always imagined, and the cocktail that I have just been handed reminds me both to savor every every moment and how ridiculously over privileged i am to vacation in a country where one day of my trip costs as much as the people working around me make in half a year.

This, I know, is where my good fortune begins. My husband sits to my left, his eyes closed, taking in the sounds of the animals that we cannot see. His depression, his burnout, and his struggles with a concussion that would not quit are behind him.

My adult children are to my right. My daughter will be graduating from college soon and deciding if she wants to live on the East or West Coast. My son is happy whatever he is up to. He is not living in my basement and, most importantly, he is alive. He made it through barely attending highschool due to crippling anxiety. He survived in and out-patient mental health programs, and the years of feeling betrayed and bewildered by his own brain which, he believed, was determined that he never feel happiness.

Down the beach I can make out the silhouettes of my brother and sister in law trailing behind their kids who zig zag up and down the sand laughing as they try to avoid the surf.

Just up the beach, in chairs looking over us and out to sea, are my parents. My dad’s depression has also returned to manageable levels, and with the help of family and professionals he has worked through the loss of his wife and made a new life for himself just down the road from my brother.

My mom smiles. Her people. She did this. She sees who each of us are and in the face of our flaws and struggles she gives us love. This love binds us. It keeps us going, checking in with one another, staying when staying feels too hard, believing when there is no reason to.

Even in my bucket list fantasy I know that she is not there. I know that if i turn to look it is just my dad sitting up the hill.

But she is always with me and so there she is. I turn back towards the ocean and my face relaxes into the breeze. I lift my glass and toast her.