To my daughter: You asked to know more about me.

Thursday morning:

This 6 a.m. August daylight of the Arizona desert still carries the coolness of the storm from two days ago. I can see the dim sunlight filtering in through the cheap wood blinds, just enough to illuminate the beautiful plants by the window. The house is quiet. The dogs are outside, the cats are roaming the counters helping dad get ready for his short overnight trip, waiting for a treat.

Today, I have no responsibilities—except making art, sleeping, and getting high. I rarely get the house all to myself. Your brother left for work around 1 a.m., right at the peak of my trip. I handled it well, but he still questioned something I said, with that familiar “what the hell are you even saying, Mom?” look on his face. Then he softened it, to be kind, as a courtesy to me. He tries so hard to love me and be polite. What used to be painful, and insulting is now kind of charming, and I’m grateful to him for that.

I think today makes it a couple of days since I last slept. Today is Thursday 6 a.m. and I think the last time I slept was Tuesday morning before my shift. But that sleep was good, and it’s held me over just fine.

So, I have the house all to myself. Heaven!

This morning’s trip has been all about love. Everything is love and gratitude. Everything. I used to be scared to say that out loud. Growing up Mexican, you learn that you can’t be too happy – God will remind you He exists, and so do problems and misery. You can’t be too grateful or too content, or God might strike you or one of your loved ones, just to make sure you remember how life really is, and so that you’re grateful for Him, not your life.

But it isn’t just God. Even now, I feel a sense of guilt, as if acknowledging and sharing my good fortune is somehow portentousness. Society suggests that I haven’t truly paid my dues – that all the strides and hard work I’ve put in become irrelevant the moment there’s comfort and financial security. Who am I to tell anyone that their perspective shapes their life, their present, and their future? Who am I to suggest that pain can be transformed into gratitude and love, just as it’s been happening to me?

Me. Indeed, that’s my perspective. But I know other perspectives are just as valid, and I respect that. The more I embrace that understanding, the more grace I have for my own journey, the more love I feel. And with that love comes the realization that it is possible to shift perspective, to shift toward love. The more I understand that we are both the same and different, the more everything shifts to love.

But with this growing love, my need to share expands alongside it, and that’s scary. I find myself talking too much, sharing my real opinions a little too loosely, using words like love, alignment, acceptance, and curiosity. My PTSD and insecurity creep in, trying to protect me from all this vulnerability, reminding me that being real hasn’t always worked out for me. Being real got me fired within two weeks of a new manager, after eight years at my job.

But the love, acceptance and curiosity keep flowing out of me, beyond my control. If someone wants to play the chronic patient, I’ll support them in their story. If they see themselves as the suffering family member bearing the burden of the world, I’ll validate that too. I’m with them. I’ll agree, feel, and truly taste it with them. I believe them. I know it’s their truth in that moment, in that space and time.

I have a patient who is the exact replica of Jabba the Hut – a barely mobile triangular puddle of skin and bones. The first time I received her report, it was full of examples of her neediness, labeling her as a frequent flyer who just seeks attention and medication. I was ready to do the bare minimum – keep her clean and drugged to her liking. But then I also chose to be curious, and she surprised me. She was aware, painfully aware, that she had chosen this role and was playing it to the best of her ability, even though she hated it.

She had a family, grandkids, a life beyond this hospital bed. When I asked her what first led to her decline, she started telling her story. But the deeper she went, the more detached she became, as if she no longer owned it. It’s fascinating to see someone dip in and out of their narrative, aware and then unaware, perhaps to avoid destroying the world they’ve built. What would she have left if she took responsibility for creating her life? Devastation, maybe.

Either way, I did my best. I repositioned her, making her more comfortable, brushed her hair, and tied it in a ponytail. I surprised her too, by offering to set her up to brush her teeth and wash her face in bed. I’ll take credit for the very basic needs of human dignity I provided; I will take credit without guilt or a sense grandiosity.

I, too, could easily slip in and out of my own soggy story – the one where I’m the saintly nurse who sees and cares for people on their worst days, a blend of Nightingale and Mother Theresa. It’s a good story, and it’s valid. Yes, being a nurse feels like carrying a crucifix every day. How did I end up here? Why didn’t I take the easy way out, some job with less emotional weight? One with a less intense kind of customer service. But here I am, and it’s teaching me so much about what I’m missing as a person, about who I am and who I’m not. And most importantly, it’s teaching me who I want to be. I am grateful every day that my experiences at bedside help me polish my humanness. It is a humble honor to remain curious.

That is one thing you all have in common, especially you, my strong, determined daughter. None of you take the easy way out, or in.

As I write this, I am less high, more grounded. Things are starting to get denser. The liberating feeling of doing whatever I want is dissipating with my high. But I know I will enjoy my day, regardless. The plan is still the same: do nothing.
I love you baby girl