Character
She’s been a nurse for longer than I’ve been on this planet, and it always showed in her demeanour. Since I was young, I knew her for the two sides that she needed for her line of work: the reassuring carer side that the usual patients saw, and the side reserved for the troublemakers; though I’d like to believe my younger self was a joy to raise, I saw the latter probably more than I’d ever care to admit.
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It was always deserved, if I was rude, doing something I shouldn’t, repercussions were inevitable and always had the intended effect. Her tone was never one of pure anger – that would’ve been far too harsh – she always sounded shocked, she expected better of me, and I’d failed that expectation. Her words were not complicated either, three words were all she needed:
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“Thomas Peter Daniels”
The war cry of impending doom, whatever I did from that point was irrelevant, she already knew I messed up. All I could do was weather the storm from her decades of experience with troublemakers far worse than I could ever hope to be, and meekly apologise whenever I could.
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Her caring side was thankfully much more present, she could tell when I was scared, sad, frustrated, when she needed to step in and give the support that I needed at that moment. Her mastery of these two sides are things that I wish I picked up from her, like my fondness for 80s music and how to properly fold t-shirts.
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Looking back, I’m surprised I can remember my mum being around so much, her being a nurse practitioner, working from early until late most days of the week. It’s almost embarrassing now to think about what sorts of things I could’ve done as a child to make her upset. As I know her now, I couldn’t imagine being on the wrong side of the strict nurse that once terrified me. Yet despite my age I know that she could stop me dead in my tracks if she needed to, I wonder if she knows that? I haven’t heard my full name in years.