This is my wife taking a nap.
She’s curled up on the couch, hair slightly tousled, one arm draped over her eyes to block out the light. The house is quiet now—the rare kind of stillness that comes between chaos and responsibility. But in just an hour, she’ll wake up.
She’ll open her eyes, swing her legs over the edge of the couch, and shift from rest to readiness with practiced precision. Her scrubs will come out of the drawer, folded but slightly wrinkled. She’ll slip into them while simultaneously fixing her hair and dabbing on a touch of makeup she swears doesn’t help. She’ll look in the mirror and frown. “I look awful,” she’ll mumble.
I’ll disagree. Emphatically. Every time. Then I’ll hand her a cup of coffee, already made the way she likes it.
She’ll sit back down on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, balancing her coffee in one hand while the other keeps a giggling toddler from tumbling off her lap. Our child will climb all over her, squealing, touching her face, pulling her ponytail. She’ll laugh. She’ll play. But every now and then, I’ll notice her gaze drift somewhere else.
She’ll stare ahead silently, not hearing what I say. That’s her mind preparing. Quietly bracing for the shift ahead. She thinks I don’t notice. I do.
When the time comes, she’ll stand, kiss our child on the forehead, kiss me on the cheek, and walk out the door—headed for a world most of us only see in brief, traumatic flashes.
She’s going to care for people on the worst day of their lives.
Car accidents. Gunshot wounds. Cardiac arrests. Overdoses. Burns. Domestic violence. Collapsed lungs. Shattered bones. Families holding their breath in waiting rooms. Mothers begging for news. Fathers in disbelief. Children who don’t yet understand what’s happened. She sees them all.
It doesn’t matter what you look like. Doesn’t matter where you’re from. Doesn’t matter if you’re rich, poor, young, old, kind, angry, clean, addicted, scared, or alone.
She will take care of you.
With her hands, with her mind, with her voice, and with her heart—she will care for you when your world is falling apart.
Fourteen hours later, she’ll return home. Tired. Heavy. Her shoes—those same shoes that have walked across cold ER floors soaked in blood, bile, tears, and fire—will be taken off and left outside the door.
Some nights, she won’t want to talk. The weight of what she’s seen will be too much. Other nights, she’ll need to talk right away, pouring out the chaos before it clings too tightly to her soul.
Sometimes she’ll laugh until she cries. Sometimes, she’ll just cry. But no matter how she ends her day, one thing is always true:
She’ll be on time for the next shift.
Because that’s who she is.
She’s more than a nurse. She’s more than her scrubs or stethoscope. She is courage in motion. Compassion in human form. A steady hand when others are trembling. A calming voice when the world is screaming.
This is my wife.
My wife is a nurse.
My wife is a hero.
