Page 2 of Thornhill Road

My dating history was littered with men who were far from safe. Mitchell wasn’t exactly my type—but for the last couple months, I’d thought it was time for me to reconsider my options.

However, at present, my pathetic dating life was not a priority.

I was at the house on Ramshorn Avenue, which meant I was there for Sharon.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked Mitchell as we slowly made our way toward the front door.

We chatted for a few minutes on Sharon’s porch. Mitchell’s youngest daughter, Emilia, had come down with a cold. She’d been in the house the day before, and he was worried. I reminded him that sick toddlers were inevitable, he couldn’t possibly blame himself, and I’d monitor Sharon carefully for any sign of a cold; then we both headed inside.

I could barely remember a time when I didn’t want to be a nurse. Since I was twelve years old, it had been my plan. I had noalternate routes for my future. Hospice care, in particular, was my end goal. For the last six years, that’s exactly what I had the privilege of doing.

And it truly was a privilege.

It was exhausting in every way—mentally, emotionally, physically. It was hard work. The schedule was shit, and I didn’t know the meaning ofwork-life-balance, but it was worth it. Not once had I regretted my career choice, because it was more than a career.

It was a vocation.

It was my calling.

It was medicine, sure. I was a registered nurse. But a hospice nurse was so much more than that. I addressed my patients' spiritual and emotional needs, too, as they journeyed toward death. I was there to make dying dignified, peaceful, and comfortable—or as comfortable as possible. It’s what made the job such a challenge. It was also what made the job so rewarding.

Hard as it was, I loved it.

I went through my usual routine with Sharon, checking her from top to toe. Once I was done with her physical exam, we discussed how she was feeling, and I got an assessment of how alert and oriented she was. Then, like I did with most of my patients, I sat with her for a few minutes and visited while I charted.

I was wrapping up, checking to see if she needed any of her prescriptions filled, when the sounds of an argument drifted into the room. I looked toward the doorway and frowned.

Lance had arrived.

“My boys…they’re having a rough go of it lately,” murmured Sharon.

It had become clear to me where Mitchell had gotten his personality. She was busy dying, and Sharon hardly spent any time worrying about herself, too concerned with the family shewould leave behind. It was why I liked to spend a few extra moments with her each visit, so we could focus onherfor a little while.

I offered her a small smile, then reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll talk to them. You get some rest, okay? Call me if you need anything.”

I stowed my tablet in my purse, then double checked to make sure I had all my supplies. I bid Sharon farewell and ventured out toward the living room.

I didn’t need Sharon to tell me her sons were having arough go of itlately. This wasn’t the first argument to draw me away from my patient. They were two men who were losing their mother. Rather than bond over it, they were hurtling their grief at each other like grenades.

“Guys—guys,” I interjected as I went to stand between them. “We agreed. No arguments without a mediator. As I understand it, Renee is home with a sick toddler, which leaves me. So—are we good here, or do I need to get a chair?”

“No. Sorry, you’re right,” said Mitchell.

“Yeah. All good here,” agreed Lance.

Lance, though younger, was the taller of the two brothers. His hair was lighter. His nose was sharper. His jawline squarer. One might have said he was the more attractive brother—until he opened his mouth.

I hadn’t met their father. He and Sharon were divorced. When I considered Lance, I wondered if his personality was his own, or if the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. He was certainly the more selfish of Sharon’s offspring. Most of the arguments were instigated by him; and most of the time it was about money, or whose turn it was to help with laundry or house chores.

In the two months I’d been coming around, I hadn’t seen Lance even so much as fold a single tea towel.

There was also something slimy about him that made me feel uncomfortable.

Nevertheless, people experienced pain in a variety of different ways, so I did my very best to offer him as much patience and grace as I could muster.

“I’m going to go check on mom,” Mitchell told us before he left.

I blew out a breath and looked up at Lance. “You sure you two are okay?”

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