As I ready myself for another shift at work, I think a lot about what else I would rather do with my life. Obviously, there is raising kids. But that doesn't pay in anything beyond joy and hugs. And no matter what Mary Poppins likes to think, those things, as nice as they are, don't pay the bills. And eventually the kids will all be grown and the grandkids will take over. I'll still love them all just as much as I did the day they were born, but its different when they can take care of themselves.
I'd like to be a writer. There isn't a lot of capital in that either, unfortunately. I imagine myself not racing around the hospital attempting to get all my scheduled work done in between the "fire calls" but sitting at a giant oak table in front of a wide window, looking out over a meadow. The words spill out of me. They are beautiful and profound.
I'd like to be a musician, but the reality is that I have no inclination in that direction. None whatsoever. Luna likes it when I sing Kenny Rogers "The Gambler" but that's about it. Oh, and I'm tone-deaf. Doesn't help at all.
I resolve that there is really no other path for me. I will continue with my job as a respiratory therapist, at least until I am done with my MFA. Maybe then I can get a gig as an assistant professor at one of the local colleges. Not a lot of loot, still, but to have an office where I can stack up my books (yes, paper books! I have a nook but feel like such a traitor using it) and papers and a desk where I can stash my pens without anyone else rifling through them sounds like such bliss.
I will probably always be a respiratory therapist; I thrive on the adrenaline and gore of traumas. I like the absolution of it. I feel like a good person, like I have helped someone who otherwise would be suffering, at the end of most shifts. I love my co-workers like family. We depend on each other like siblings in an abusive home.
But the shit of it is that as much as we all love our job, we love to hate it more.
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