Izopoly

For the past few days, I’ve been playing Izopoloy; however, it’s not a game I’ve been playing willingly. Last week, Iz moved her Scottie dog token and somehow ended up collecting a Get Out of Camp for the Day Free card. I stared at it, and I wondered if I might counter with a tree fort on Park Place or even $200.

Iz just didn’t want to get out of camp; she wanted to come to work with me. No matter how much I said, “It’ll be boring,” the more she wanted to come. Next time, I should try reverse psychology and say “A chocolate brook runs along the side of the staircase,” and “Free range ZhuZhu pets roam the hallways.” That just might be odd enough in a Wizard-of-Oz kind of way to deter her!

It wasn’t that I didn’t want her to come; it was that I didn’t understand why she’d exchange playing with her friends for sitting in a 6x6 cubicle staring at her Mom who’d be staring at a computer monitor for the whole day. Why is it we only realize how great it is to be young when we are old?

Plus I dreaded those three little words. I am bored. I had arranged for a babysitter to come during lunch, so I could go run; I sensed that was going to be the most fun thing for her to do during the day.

If this had been two years ago, I’m sure Iz would have found plenty to do by running around my office area, which was then filled with all my wonderful and engaging co-workers. But, tomorrow, it’d just be me and my looming and extremely tight deadline. When I passed through the cafeteria today, I glanced at the monitor that advertised job openings; I thought, “HR intern. Iz would be great at that. Maybe they need one just for the day!”

I never went to work with either of my parents; perhaps though, it was because I was of pre-going-to-work-with-your-parents age. I remember picking my Mom up at work a few times; she was a nurse.

Unlike my job, my Mom’s job was hustle and bustle the whole time she was there; a day in her work week was six months in mine. I was always amazed by what my Mother did; she gave her all to her profession being an advocate for patients who couldn’t speak and taking on doctors who spoke too much. Then, there were the occasional evenings I’d find her at the dinner table in tears reading a favorite patient’s obituary in the Boston Globe.

Some days, my job seems most difficult; however when I look back at my Mom’s job and think of other similar professions (soldier, firefighter, teacher, just to name a few), I think I’ve got it easy. I get woozy when I see my own blood. My Mom went back every day for 23 years, because she truly loved what she did.

Her work made a huge a difference. I always admired her for that. It’s probably why nurses will always be near and dear to my heart and why, among many other reasons, I recently gave my friend, Cathy, who started as a nurse and is now an elder care lawyer, my Mom’s nursing school graduation bracelet.

Anyway, usually, I only had to pick my Mom up when I borrowed the car for a day; when I arrived at the Waltham Hospital, which no longer exists, I’d find my way to her floor. For some reason, I never liked being in hospitals; though, I knew they were most valuable, they were totally opposite from the way I saw the world with its grass, dirt, bugs, and blue skies. My world wasn’t white, antiseptic, and cordoned off with curtains that clinked as they dragged along a metal bar.

This was my Mom’s world though. I’d go to the desk and say, “I’m here to get Ruth Szymczak.” A nurse nearby would say, “Oh, you’re Ruth’s daughter. We’ve heard so much about you!”

I’d blush and hope that she hadn’t told them about that one Saturday night I had the close encounter of too many kinds with Southern Comfort sours. I told my Mom everything back then. Most of the time, this was a good thing, though sometimes it did come back to haunt me and in public.

Out of nowhere, my Mom would appear in her uniform. She was always beautiful, but she looked especially beautiful in her uniform. For her, it really wasn’t a uniform; it was a brilliant accessory that brought out her natural compassion not unlike how the halo makes the being in the white robe an angel.

As we walked down the hallway, I knew I had gotten a glimmer. It was not of my mother; it was of who Ruth really was. She was my mother, but she was someone else, too, and she was that person every day from 7am until 3pm.

My biggest fear tomorrow was that Iz might want to go home by 2pm; thus, this would definitely cause some logistical problems. My other fear was that after spending over a year at home with me, Iz might say to herself, “Wow, my Mom was so much more fun when she was home. She’s boring now and so is her job.” Hopefully, when Iz is 17 someday, she’ll pick me up and, though she still might not have any idea what I do for a living, she'll remember being home with me the year I was unemployed and always have the glimmer of who Jean really is. ♥