The coffee cup was warm in her hands, and in the blistering cold of the night, she was glad that she had 15 minutes to sit down and relax. The night was clear and bright and there were stars twinkling down from the heavens above. She shivered a little in her coat, and extricated a cigarette from her person. For a moment, she wanted to laugh. Her, a nurse, and smoking outside the hospital grounds. She lit it and inhaled deeply.
The smell of cofffee was wafting in the air, and made her think of home suddenly. How, on Sunday mornings, her mother would make pancakes and serve them piping hot with lots of salted butter and maple syrup, and fresh strawberries from the market. Some Sundays it’d be thick, fat pork sausages bursting in their skins, or chunky slices of streaked bacon oozing oil onto the paper towels. Always served with scrambled eggs or her mum’s famous Eggs Ben, and thick slices of new white bread, fresh from the oven. She missed home. She missed her mum even more.
All that filled her life now was sickness, illness, surgeries, catheters, medical supplies. She was tired of this life now. She could not bear to handle another death, standing by the doctor’s side as he would carefully explain to a wife, or a parent, that he was unable to save the life of their loved one. Too much pain.
She looked into the sky now and a tear rolled down her cheek. Funny how she was unable to cry when pain stared her in the face. When her mum, her beloved mum, was lying dead in the hospital.