Recalling Patience and Patients

Sitting in the backyard, with dogs barking, Mike on the roof disassembling a leaky chimney, I found myself smiling at absolutely nothing. I cannot describe in prose or poetic soliloquy why I feel such contentment right now. The one thing I seem to be absolutely sure of is I don't have to know the "why"s in my current state. I just have to acknowledge it, feel grateful for it and enjoy the crap out of it. I could say my happiness is hard earned, but in truth, nothing in my life has been so bad to kill me, so I am good. Every day I draw breath I realize I have one more chance to live out my dreams. Sappy, isn't it? Yet it rings in solid truth.
I used to get so embarrassed by my sappy, emoting ways. The older I get the happier I am that I can still feel that way. I run into so much cynicism, especially as a writer. Artists never get appreciated the way they want, in some ways not unlike how a child wishes their parent would love them the way they think they need to be loved rather than the only way the parents can love them. I have a little of that, but so much of me is so happy that I have the extravagant lifestyle of someone who gets to work their dream job, I ignore the initial impulses to snivel around the house as the unappreciated.
I worked jobs, that I actually miss sometimes, with crazy hectic days, blood splattered clothing, running at breakneck speed around corners only to discover another trauma.I remember how I had to go to the basement to change my clothes before the kids touched me, covered head to toe in feces, urine and ground up food. Often times, I ran down the stairs hiding from the kids the blood soaked uniform of a really bad day.
I was young then, able to leap tall wheel chairs in a single bound. I didn't call in sick unless I was dying, even working while I myself had pneumonia. I stood for 12 hours a day, sifting through doctors orders, pharmacy deliveries and combatant patients who frequently connected with my thin frame, leaving large bruises under my baggy scrubs. I did what I had to do in order to survive. I did what I had to do in order for the patients to survive too.
A friend asked me yesterday if I missed the work. I thought for a moment and said, "Yes, sometimes I miss all the crazy that happens in the land filled with the forgotten." I told him wacky stories of my patients and the absurd things that happened on a daily basis. We laughed at the picture I drew with my words telling about folks that made me laugh at days end.
Still smiling, I realized how much life I have lived so far and still have so much farther to go. I have been so lucky that I was able to work that hard. I work just hard now, but it is different. This work suits my age, my time in life, my attitude. I walked away from nursing before I got so burned out, someone would request my exit. I promised myself I wouldn't stay beyond my expiration date. I never wanted to be that old, balled up, cynical, cranky nurse who could less about what the patients needed, let alone wanted. I left my field with job offers in Ohio on my plate. I left, so a younger, enthusiastic nurse to take my place and continue on doing good work.
Writing for me is sometimes as painful as my legs after 16 hours on the floor.My head throbs as I excise large chunks of extraneous material in order to keep the better written material. I never take this work lightly. After over 20 years of facing life and death scenarios, I don't know how to do "half-assed". Being my own boss, I have no one to gripe about or blame for any short comings, except me. Like my previous career, I have the guilt around to keep me in check.