My mother died when I was 12 years old. It was this single most traumatic experience of

my life, and I'd be lying if I said I've gotten over it. But that isn't what is affected

me most lately. Whenever a parent dies, most people just talk about the death itself.

There's a lot of how and when, but not a lot of, then what happened? It is that lasting

legacy of what happens afterwards that really marks you for life. As my dad had a pick-up

extra hours to make ends meet, I had to help take care of my sisters. At that age, I barely

made my own bed. Now, I had to cook and book my sisters about taking their showers. My

younger sisters were far more depressed than I was. I didn't have time to be depressed.

I had stuff to do. So now, as an adult, I can kinda see that I got stuck in that rut. I'm

still taking care of people. Maybe I'm afraid of what'll happen if I stop. Originally, I

wanted to be a doctor, but we just couldn't afford that kind of education. I considered

studying abroad, but my sisters still needed me longer into their teenage years. Instead,

I studied to become a nurse, which was the cheaper option. No less work though, just slightly

cheaper. Once my sisters and I moved out, I got my own place, and I bounced around various

hospitals and nursery homes around the state. I've worked at a rehab clinic, an open clinic,

and as an in-home nurse. All kinds of positions. I had eight different jobs all in all, changing

back and forth between them as one closed and another opened. But it wasn't until a few

years ago that I saw an opportunity for a stable job. The biggest hospital in my home area

had an opening for a nurse in the maternity ward. Well, I hadn't worked there before. I

knew most of the procedures around the LDR rooms and the NICU unit. Sorry, I'll stop with

the abbreviations. I got my interview just days after the wanted ad went up. I was called

in to talk with two of the nurses and one of the doctors. I could tell he was sort of rushed

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