Greetings, my shiny friends.

I’m Joolz. Thank you for letting me share your space and soak in your shimmer.

I’m A Nurse Practitioner

I never wanted to be a nurse. I knew the whole time growing up that I was meant to be a writer.

Several decades ago, when I was a stringer for a newspaper, I was living the dream. The beat was exciting, the people were fun, but I craved something more substantial.

One day, I took my first born to the doctor’s office for her 2-year-old checkup. For the first time in my life, I paid attention to the nurse.

This nurse was helpful, insightful, and brilliant with my daughter. She’d made more of an impact on our visit than the doctor did.

I had an idea! What if I were a nurse?

I could write about health and wellness and medical issues.This could be the greatest thing to hit my writing career since I switched from my Corona Standard to a word processor.

It never occurred to me that I couldn’t make it as a nurse, so I signed up. I was elbows-deep in nursing school before I realized how fun it is sticking people with needles. Maybe there was something to this profession after all.

I’m a Writer

Fast forward through one BA in Communications and one MS in Nursing, and, YIPPEE, the plan worked. I’ve been writing and working as a nurse more than 20 years, eventually transitioning to become an editor for a nursing journal.

As I suspected, my profession has never failed to provide me with fascinating material, interesting characters, and even some salty issues to tackle.

I know what you’re thinking . . . what about the maggots?

After working in the pediatric cardiovascular ICU for a while, I moved on to home health.

It can be a tough gig. You never know what you’ll find behind that closed door. Never.

The first day I met Howard*, he kicked me out of his house.

I’d knocked several minutes; I knew he was there. I had called him prior to coming.

Howard: You don’t have to come here.

Me: Your doctor would like me to come in and check on you.

Howard: Grunt.

Click.

He answered the door, while pushing his wheelchair backwards into the living room instead of turning it around, all the while commenting loudly how he didn’t want me there.

Howard: You don’t need to be here. My doctor is a damned idiot, he shouldn’t have sent you.

I’d gotten Howard to open the door and he was talking. Big win! I felt I’d made it into Howard’s inner circle and I’d be able to do my job. Instead, his litany of negativity and misery seemed endless. So I listened.

Howard: My useless kids live across the country. I never see them anymore.

They wouldn’t like you being here either. Especially if it costs money. I don’t have no money. They know that. That’s why I never hear from them.

Me: You have Medicare, Howard. It’s paid for.

Howard: You should’ve seen the party they had for me at the power plant when I retired. I was there 40 years. Had to retire early because of this damn diabetes.

Me: I’m sorry.

Howard: What do you know about it? What the hell are you doing here anyway?

Eventually I spread out the disposable puppy pad— from the stash in my garage — on his living room floor as a clean place to set my bag so I could have easy access to my nursing equipment.

After some convincing, Howard let me take his vital signs but refused to let me peek at his left ankle wound. Non-healing leg ulcers are common in brittle diabetics. This was his second in six months.  

Howard: That leg is fine. I can’t even feel it. There’s no pain and no problem.

Me: You can’t feel it?

Howard: If I could feel it, then I could walk on the damn thing.

Me: If you let me look at your wound, you won’t have to find a ride to the doctor’s office this week. Save you some trouble.

Howard: That doctor doesn’t know shit anyway.

I took that as a yes and began undressing the wound.

It didn’t look too bad. No heavy drainage, slight redness around the edges. As I looked closer at the holes forming caverns deep into his leg, I was thinking about the best way to clean and re-dress the area when a maggot popped out of the hold onto the surrounding skin. It was wiggling frantically.

No way. That is not . . .

I looked up at Howard, hoping I hadn’t splattered the horror from my face onto him. But Howard had his head leaning on the palm of his right hand, his eyelids drifting downward. Oblivious.

I didn’t tell him . . . at first. I called the doctor and told them I needed to send him to the emergency department to be evaluated. That’s when I told Howard.

Howard: You’re full of shit. I’m not going anywhere. There’s nothing wrong with my leg. It’s fine. What’d you call the doctor for? You’re all full of shit. Every last one of you.

Me: Howard, this is serious. You could lose your leg.

Howard: You’re full of shit. Get the hell out of my house. Now!

I left Howard alone in his house but called his son who lived in California. It felt like tattling, but I had no choice. 

Maggot Problems

Howard is one of the reasons I love being a nurse. He’s also one of the reasons I love being a writer.

Life is full of maggot problems. The kind of messy issues that cannot be solved. The kind that lack full resolution. They are often more complex than we can grasp and ill-defined on many levels. And the Howard’s of the world are the anchors that keep us centered in this truth.

It’s not that we can’t help Howard with his maggot problem, because we can. It’s just that the help is only better or worse. It’s not the type of solved that is a real solution.

Whatever fix we offer won’t make everything better. The best we can hop for is somewhat better but not worse. There’s always a trade-off. There’re always adjustments. There is always a new messy issue rising from among the old messy problem.

The fact that there will always be maggot problems—without permanent solutions, lacking satisfying endings—is why I’m a nurse and why I’m a writer. We are a humanity of frailty and mortality, and, at some point, we all face our own maggot problems.

My hope is to be of service as a nurse and writer to soften the unanticipated complications, to moderate what isn’t easily understood. And if I have to stick people with needles along the way, that’s the price I’ll have to pay.

*Names have been changed.