Tuesday, May 05, 2009

Proustian Stitches

I picked up my knitting this afternoon, after a good sleep after a long set of four shifts (2 days, 2 nights) and I found it in the middle of a row. When you're working the night shift, time seems to flow at inconsistent paces: like spring water, like motor oil. Last night, (or was it early this morning?) I dropped my knitting to answer a call bell and was thrown into a long intervention of medications, calling lab and doctors and doing everything I had at hand to comfort a lovely old fellow who was getting way sicker. The team jumped into action, discussion in the halls, what about this, what about that? We gathered our various resources and he was resting quietly when we left. But it's hard to let go. The final checks and charting took over and then I was home and jumping in to bed. Now I want to phone and ask how he is because the sweater remembered him.
While I was encased in the artificial climate of the hospital, the sun came out and my garden errupted. White and dark purple lilacs, apple blossoms and my very lovely dogwood.
The experience is a bit like going off world. But to re-enter this garden and the lovely comforts of my own home makes it a nice landing.

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