Why I Never Became a Nurse

Growing up Catholic in the 1950s and 1960s, I was steered toward one of three professions – teaching, nursing, or becoming a nun. For a while I considered nursing as an option. For one reason, I hate shopping for clothes so being a nurse appealed to my (lack of) fashion sense.

Then one day as my younger sisters and I were playing in an area where we shouldn't have been playing (several blocks from our home), my youngest sister, Kathy (who actually is a nurse now), stepped on a nail. I raced to the scene and pulled from her foot the board with a nail stuck in it. My other sister, Cindy, grabbed the shoe and threw it somewhere across the construction site as I screamed, "SOMEBODY HELP ME CARRY HER HOME!"

In a state of panic I grabbed her by her arm pits expecting somebody else – anybody else – to grab her bloody foot and drag her home with me – six blocks away. My friend, Diane, stood calmly by and suggested, "Why don't you just put her on the back of your bike?"

Why didn't I think of that?

Kathy hobbled over to the bike, crying, and I rode her home, watching the blood hit the pavement about every three inches. When we got to the front of our house, I got off the bike and told Kathy, who was trying to balance herself on the back of the bike I had now vacated, to stand still – I would be right back with mom.

Is it apparent to anybody else why I couldn't be a nurse? No, the only one in my family who makes a great nurse in uniform, is my sister, Kathy, who probably would have healed me on the spot if I had been the one with the nail in my foot.

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