If I had to pick a word for the last two weeks it would be impact. My car was struck twice, my debit card information compromised with a $1000 of bogus charges made, and last night as I exited a dear friend's engagement party, I found one solitary egg streaming down my driver's side door (conveniently located directly over the door handle). None of these incidents happened in the presence of the same people or in the same neighborhood, so I have to ask, "Karma, seriously?"
Even as I write this, the first draft floated away into the ether as I accidentally struck a mystery key redirecting me to a publishing site that must have been saved in my bookmarks or perhaps was a sign to abort this post, a sign that I am clearly not choosing to acknowledge.
And though I am not encouraging further egg-related behavior, the egg event definitely did break me from routine. As I accepted the bucket of hot sudsy water from my friend's fiancé, it didn't occur to me until we had removed the offending egg matter, that I really should have requested something with ammonia or alcohol, something that would lower the freezing point of water rather than allow the soap to do its thing with my car door, which was to freeze. After another hot rinse of the door and my friend scraping soapy ice off my windows, I was ready for something.
But this weekend brought more than literal eggs, it brought that stink of sulfur that accompanies the following. For the fourth and fifth time in the past two days I have been asked, “What are you going to school for?” When I replied, “I’m going to medical school.” I was then asked, “So, you’re going to be a nurse?” This has happened enough times in the past few years, that I have to wonder why some men spanning a wide age range have such a difficult time wrapping their minds around a woman going to medical school.
Now please note: I have the utmost respect for nurses. My mother was an RN and when I hear her stories of how she was responsible for titrating circa 10 IVs on overnight watches, while attending nursing school in Holland, or about the procedures (you know the ones that doctors don’t want to do themselves) that were thrust on her, I stand in awe. But what I am saying is if a man tells you he’s going to medical school, would the next line ever be, “Oh, so you’re going to be a nurse?” And maybe we should consider this more, too. Male nurses are on the rise and that, in my humble opinion, could be an amazing thing to have a nurturing man by your bed-side. But regardless, I ask are we really still here?
Dress rehearsal: two women walk into a bar. They tell you they’re going to medical school. Response______________________________?
Now, an egg-related poem from the last section of my book, entitled “Somewhere in a Room of Eggs” because why not?
There are times when the heart stops and the person continues
This may sound simple but stop--
There is more than cell death, the subsequent shock for return
Put aside the yogis who may will their organs still
I am right here and you are somewhere in a room of eggs
And someone right now is stopping—I can feel the strong glaze
Even this distance is nothing (when compared to matters of the heart)
There are ways in which we shutter
Another loved becomes obsolete, we no longer receive him
for undetermined or determined reasons he is no more
or no more present in a room of eggs than in a field
of windmills We continue, our lungs breathe us
one inspiration after another but our hearts
stop We present ourselves in Chemistry, conduct
experiments involving the sublimation of caffeine
watch the corresponding development of crystals—perfect
diminutive icicles—upon a cold finger
We are not thinking about the process of respiration
But notice the chill of extraction
Natasha Kochicheril Moni, The Cardiologist’s Daughter, Two Sylvias Press, 2014.
Natasha Kochicheril Moni is a writer and a licensed naturopath in WA State. Enjoying this blog? Feel free to put a little coffee in Natasha's cup, right here.