Born into a family of nurses, I was supposed to be one. Actually, a doctor. Dad sent me into the operating room observation area to watch some surgeries when I was in high school, and the blood, the gore, the cutting of the head open did not bother me in the least. I sat there eating my deliciously refreshing Junior Mints and enjoyed the show. But neither did it fascinate me. Still, for some odd reason I signed up for pre-med in college, first time around. Maybe everyone does? Delusions of grandeur, or living daddy’s dream, or trying to make up for being a wild child? Regardless, I dropped out after two semesters, and never made it back for several years. And I knew what I wanted then; actually, I knew what I wanted after reading Harriet the Spy.
But the medical jargon and discussions seeped into my brain, my genes, my overly attendant attitude for the sick, or the overly diagnosing what’s wrong with you, hoping you are sick. It didn’t come out until I was a mother, and then, woo doggie, did it come out. I kept a feeding and poop diary on my son from day 1, which I would never recommend. It gets you obsessed with, well, poop. That came back to haunt me this week. After not worrying about issues involving bowels for years, my almost 9-year-old got constipated. I got suppositories, raisins, raisinets, yogurt-coated raisins, prunes, apple juice, cod liver oil pills, kid laxatives, adult laxatives, carrots, peaches, ad nauseum.
The water probably did the trick.
So enough with the nursing. I don’t like me as a nurse. I am not a patient person, in more ways than one. I would have made an excellent doctor.
What did you think you were supposed to be when you grew up? Are you glad it didn’t happen?