The full text reads: This is my wife Rayena taking a nap. In an hour she will wake up, put on her scrubs and get ready for work.
The tools and items she needs to perform her job will be gathered and checked meticulously – her hair and makeup will be done quickly. She will complain that she looks awful. I will disagree, emphatically, and get her a cup of coffee.
She will sit on the couch with her legs crossed under her and try to drink it while happily playing with the toddler that’s crawling all over her.
She will occasionally stare off blankly as we talk; silently steeling herself for the coming shift. She thinks I don’t notice.
She will kiss the baby, she will kiss me and she will leave to go take care of people that are having the worst day of their entire lives. Car wrecks, gunshot wounds, explosions, burns and breaks – professionals, poor, pastors, addicts and prostitutes – mothers, fathers, sons, daughters and families – it doesn’t matter who you are or what happened to you.
She will take care of you.
She will come home 14 hours later and remove shoes that have walked through blood, bile, tears and fire from aching feet and leave them outside.
Sometimes she will not want to talk about it. Sometimes she can’t wait to talk about it.
Sometimes she will laugh until she cries and sometimes she will just cry – but regardless of those sometimes she will be on time for her next shift.
My wife is a trauma nurse. My wife is a hero.