What I’m not good at is letting people take care of me.
My dream—my real one—was to finish nursing school. I’d started a program at twenty-two and dropped out after two semesters when my car died and I had to choose between tuition and getting to work. At thirty-four, I had $3,212 saved. The program at Sinclair would cost about $14,000 by the time I finished, plus the hours I’d lose at work.
So I did what I always did. I worked. I saved. I told myself “next year.”
Three times a week—Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays—I volunteered with a hospice support program. Light housekeeping. Meals. Company. The coordinator, Denise, once asked me why I gave up so much of my free time.
I gave her the easy answer. “I like being useful.”
The true answer was harder to say out loud: I didn’t want anyone to leave this world the way my mother had—suddenly, with nobody holding her hand.
