And now, for something a little different.
Lately I’ve taken to looking at my hands, which appear to have morphed into my grandmother’s in recent years. They are well-worn and the skin is thinning rapidly, much to my dismay. While a layer of fat fills in the lines in my face, the same thing can’t be said for my hands, which tell my life story without words.
And then I think: these hands have held new life, and comforted the dying.
These hands have given the first bath…..and the last.
They have been washed literally hundreds of thousands of times in the service of people I didn’t give birth to.
They have administered the first feeding and the last dose of morphine.
They have rubbed sore backs, dressed wounds, smoothed fresh linens over feverish bodies. They have fed, cleaned, stopped bleeding, performed CPR. They have also prepared the living for surgery, and the dead for their final journey.
They are the hands of a nurse. And while I’m no longer a working nurse, my hands will forever bear the marks of the noble work they once did.
And somehow, that makes the wrinkles OK.