She Said Something

Why she never went to medical school

she daydreams about the insides of linen-closets folded to perfection, men whisking by in scrubs. she likes the phrase ‘rounding.’ she thinks pressed, white linen coats are not worn often enough. she scans for skookum bedside manner. she watches her blood fill viles. nursing shoes are sexy—there’s so much rubber. she doesn’t have cankles. she says ‘advanced medicinal organic chemistry,’ referring to her father. she is clean. she says ‘hygiene’ when possible. washes her hands 10 times a day. she fixates on the gynochologist’s hands—trimmed cuticles—he snaps off the gloves. she longs to ride a 10-speed down an urban thoroughfare at rush hour, switch into a coat with her last name on the breast pocket—like meg ryan in that angel movie. she can handle dead bodies. sometimes lies down with them—to sense life escaping. she admires RNs. she’s logged 500 hours beside hospital beds, 43 as a patient. the smell of ICU turns her on. she memorizes okay. latinate words fit her mouth. she scored higher in math on college entrance exams. her signature is illegible.