This has been a Hatbox story. It will be posted as a free story for a short time.

Jim and Heather had formed an eight-step pact during high school. They would attend Vanderbilt together and take those classes that would best prepare them for the MCAT. Once they had their undergraduate degrees they would get married, and apply for admission to Yale. After accepted, they would study to become surgeons, work diligently, and graduate with honors. They would then return to Nashville and work for the largest hospital in Tennessee (the highly regarded HealthWing.) Heather would become Director of Medicine, and Jim would become Chief Surgeon. All goes according to plan except for one small change. A few months into their years at Yale, Jim decided that a career as an RN would be a much better fit.

Years later, Heather uses her administrative position at HealthWing to make mandatory changes in the nurses’ dress code.

“Thee I love . . . put on your bonnet, your cape, and your glove . . . friendly persuasion.”
– Pat Boone 1956

To Alleviate Suffering
by Angela Rasch

I looked across the table at one more new nurse suffering through the adjustment to physicians with scalpels for tongues. She had resisted the constant demand for change that is the practice of medicine and would pay a horrible price if she didn’t find a way within herself to be malleable.

Hospital communication is often terse and delivered with no regard for the trauma felt by the person at the business end of the command.

Tears can follow after a revered surgeon dots a pointed sentence with an unfeeling, venom-filled “Stat!” Harsh words and insensitive orders, like tasteless meals, and an antiseptic odor, can make you wish you were anywhere else but in a hospital. Young caregivers, like Jenna, often need to be soothed and that job falls to me . . . a pre-middle-aged male nurse with a knack for setting shattered young ladies back on their white-shod feet.

I had restrained a giggle when I first met Jenna a few weeks before, during her orientation. Her twenty-something eyes spoke with boundless excitement about how she would eagerly mend a flawed world. She was older than a candy-striper, by at least a decade, but still had the trademark wide eyes of innocents. She had gone to med school for her RN long after achieving her undergrad degree in biology and then working in a hospital lab for, six years.

A person can change so much in six years. I wonder how she managed to keep her youthful exuberance. She hasn’t yet realized how much society will limit her options with guidelines and parameters.

I felt compelled to shelter her under my wings -- the same way I had carefully protected dozens of other innocents.

If it wasn’t for the uncomplicated ones -- like Jenna, I’m not sure I could live in this world. It’s as if everyone is living through self-delusion and false fronts they erect. They believe the world wants them to be something they aren’t.

“I’m . . . trying . . . my . . . best,” Jenna haltingly vowed while worrying her coffee, with a vicious spoon that clicked with hopelessness against the sides of a stained porcelain mug. The spoon fought for release from the scalding liquid, while Jenna struggled to contain her ire. She had an openness that made it easy to want to shower her, with friendship.

Everyone brought their own mug from home. Hers was imprinted with a Maya Angelou quote. “If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude.”

Jenna had been on the verge of tears when I found her just a few steps away from the third-floor dispensary. I recognized that desperate look nurses wear when the ideals that led them into caregiving paled against the harsh reality of hospital politics.

I thought for a long moment before talking, not wanting missteps on the slippery path toward helping this young lady build a sound foundation for a long and rewarding career. “The O.R. isn’t a democracy, and its rules are harsh.” My words reeked of bureaucracy. There was no real excuse, for the bad manners that had hurt her.

I’ll have to watch Jenna more diligently for trouble, during the next few weeks. My protective shield can give her a few precious months of reduced stress before one of the big bad doctors tries to permanently crush her spirit.

If people would simply leave her to her own devices, she would do wonderful things. Sooner than either of us would like, one of the “esteemed” will stare into Jenna’s mask-covered face and announce to the O.R., “Didn’t they teach you anything in Med school? We’re surgeons, not butchers!” It’s my job to prepare her for that moment. I have to quietly change her – make her more adaptive -- without her knowing it . . . for her own good.

She bit her lip. “If my husband ever talked to me like that jerk doctor just did, I would flip his world inside out. Every time a patient takes a turn for the worse, everyone acts like it’s because a nurse made a mistake.”

I couldn’t give her the affirmation she sought. Even so I had seen the blame-game played too many times, to argue. If a patient died, the doctors brought pressure on peer review, to place the fault on the less powerful.

We both searched the surface of our coffee as if answers could be found in steaming, flavored water.

Part of the hospital’s carefully designed scheme to falsely assign guilt and shame was attributable to oversized egos -- and the basic human need to find commonalities. It was simply easier for the hospital to allow the defective system to bump along.

Inevitably patients die, and doctors are HealthWing’s most valuable assets. If a nurse’s feelings get trampled, it’s thought to be collateral damage, for the greater good. The doctors have to be protected to allow profits to flow . . . no matter what facts or logic are ignored.

Not every death comes with a simple explanation. Why can’t people accept that things naturally happen? What is. . .is.

Unlike our hidebound hospital, Jenna seems as if she has most things figured out.

HealthWing had to be profitable . . . very profitable . . . to keep our shareholders happy. Hospital messages are a bewildering shorthand of acronyms. Unfortunately, ROI (return on investment) had become more commonly talked about than LPN, CCU, NP, BP, or EMT. For years, HealthWing had existed on a simple system of gold plaques and wealthy benefactors. But our capital needs had outstripped slow-moving pledge drives. Since our hospital had gone public, to finance a huge new geriatrics/cardiac-care wing, we had become slaves to doing and saying what it takes to produce glowing quarterly earnings reports.

I devoted a great deal of my strength to keeping a buffer between proper patient care and a crass profit motivation. I worked overtime and practiced self-sacrifice to protect my staff and consequently assure that our patients received the medical attention they deserved. My job, which involved becoming close to the young nurses, included teaching them the virtues of flexible scheduling and a total willingness to adapt, as needed.

My instincts saw only the good, in our new nurses. Some of my older peers complained constantly about their younger co-worker’s warped sense of entitlement, which resulted in laziness. I didn’t share that jaded viewpoint. Instead, I tried to create an environment, in my ward, where nurses, including me, could excel by acquiescing, to their basic good nature.

Given a chance, a person will allow their core desires to rule their decisions. Good nurses bubble to the top.

Perhaps my nurturing disposition blinded my radar as to how Jenna’s naïveté could impact someone caught, in the path, of her ‘topical’ storms.

Maybe I secretly craved turmoil – or at the very least, some sort of catalyst to prod me out of my funk. My life had become sedate and predictable. Change wasn’t common for me. I had established a pattern of behavior that made it easier for me to get through the day. Given a choice between conforming and ruffling feathers, I capitulated to the majority opinions.

Even in matters of the heart, I had followed a straight and narrow path. Heather and I had dated since our first year of high school. Our parents seemed to think we were perfect for each other. Mom told me in private that the best marriages were sometimes made between total opposites. . .but didn’t elaborate. Neither Heather nor I ever felt the need to be with anyone else, having found our soulmate – even though our marriage had ultimately become far from fulfilling.

We earned our Bachelors of Science degrees together and then stepped immediately out of our graduation gowns, into formal wedding attire.

Our parents threw us the Nashville wedding-of-the-century. Heather made a gorgeous bride, having been homecoming queen during our senior year in high school.

I hadn’t been a member of her court because that was reserved for brawny football players. I stood about six inches too short and fifty pounds too light to make the gridiron squad. I had been a tennis player until all the other boys transformed it into a serve and volley power game rather than the finesse style I preferred. Like with everything else, I tried to be one of the guys on the tennis court -- but I didn’t have the physique required, so I gave in to the inevitable and quit the sport.

“You could have been a doctor,” Jenna said quietly, jolting me out of my reverie. “You could have been one of the chosen few . . . the elite.”

I stared into my hands, which were clasped on top the chilly, aluminum, break-room tabletop that formed a barrier between us. Even my hands had pointed me away from surgery. They’re smaller than Heather’s and probably not as powerful as what would have been needed, for me, to be an orthopedic sawbones like her.

“Stereotypes and generalizations don’t help anyone,” I cautioned after a moment, wanting to fill the unbearable silence and bring us back on task. “There are good doctors and bad doctors . . . and only the good doctors are really ‘elite.’ And the same is true for nurses.”

Jenna continued going down the conversational path she’d chosen – not following my lead. “I heard from several of the night nurses that you elected to be an RN, even though you could have been a doctor.”

I let a few moments pass before trying again to change the tone and content of our conversation, to something more positive. “Every new nurse goes through the ordeal you’re experiencing. It’s a Baptism of fire. When something goes wrong the system looks around for what it perceives to be the weakest link. We all talk about the ‘practice’ of medicine. Some in the medical field think that until a person has ‘practiced’ for at least a few years, they can’t do anything right.”

“You aren’t like that,” Jenna stated. “You respect my abilities and have a high regard for my knowledge . . . not like that doctor, just now. You listen to me and appreciate what I have to say. It’s a good thing that you didn’t become one of them because you would have had a terrible time fitting in.”

“Fitting in” has been a lifelong battle.

I blinked slowly, wishing she would quit pressing her point. I let down my guard for a moment – something I rarely did. “Confidence is more important to a nurse’s success than most people realize. It’s the young nurses who come in here and hide their opinions, who shrivel on the vine.”

“I’ve never had a problem with forming opinions.”

I returned to my canned speech. “Healthcare is all about love. If we allow our patients to love us, and we reciprocate with unconditional love, we can accelerate the healing process.”

“They didn’t teach us anything about ‘unconditional love’ in med school,” Jenna observed.

“I’m sure it was part of your education. You had to read between the lines. For example, do you recall your clinical supervisor saying that you needed to ‘connect’ with the patient?”

“Uh-huh.”

She’s more polished than I originally thought and probably has a fascinating life story to tell.

“HealthWing tries to move in that direction. That’s why my nametag says ‘Jim’ instead of the more traditional last name and title. In most hospitals, my nametag would read ‘Dunn, RN’.”

She nodded. “My husband thinks our nametags are a little too informal.”

“So does my wife. I guess they both would be more comfortable if people were placed into neat boxes. I personally don’t care what name they put on my nametag -- just as long as what they call me doesn’t impair my ability to care for the children, on my floor.”

“That I believe,” she acknowledged. “It’s easy to see that your top priority is your responsibility, to your patients. That’s the way it should be for a nurse.”

I smiled. “We walk a fine grey line. Jenna, you’re a terrific person who has displayed great empathy, in your short time at HealthWing. You’re what we call a ‘fixer.’ You’ve already developed a reputation as someone who can size up a situation quickly and make the right adjustments to set things right.”

“Oh my. I’ve had a lot of practice. I was a real mess as a teenager and practically had to reinvent myself. Yep. That’s me, Little Miss Mechanic.” Her fresh and promising laugh sounded a lot like Spring.

I should move things along.

“Many of the doctors are afraid to get too close, to their patients. I suppose cutting into someone you know would be hard. In a way, the doctors give the impression they don’t care about the patient’s needs . . . other than treating the medical problem. I think that approach is wrong -- in that it impedes the natural healing process.”

“I suppose,” Jenna allowed. “Doctors have been stereotyped as uncaring, so either the profession attracts the self-centered, or a lot of them are great actors.”

“The majority of docs I know are pretending to be the person society seems to want them to be. It’s easier for them to be accepted, if they fit the mold. Look – I might have a simplistic view of life. But aren’t we all basically looking to love and be loved?”

“All you need is love.” She bubbled with apparent affection for Lennon and McCartney and then became very serious. “I get it.”

She thought for a moment. “Men who become nurses have it rough, in some hospitals.”

“Really?” I inquired non-committedly.

“I’m surprised you haven’t noticed. I checked. HealthWing only has three male nurses, on staff.”

“Is that odd?” I asked, trying to draw her out. She’s actually quite shrewd.

“HealthWing has about seven hundred nurses.”

“We are the largest hospital, in Tennessee,” I said with pride.

“Well. . .,” she drawled, .” . .about five percent of all nurses in the United States are males. If HealthWing had their numerical share, there would be about ten times as many of you.”

I chuckled. “Don’t you think one of ‘me’ is enough?”

Heather had allowed the percentage of male nurses working for HealthWing to be reduced through attrition. Every time a male nurse retired, or left for another job, a female replaced him. I had hoped no one else noticed because sooner or later HealthWing would be the defendant, in an Employment Practices lawsuit. That had been done as a reflection of management’s bias. It wasn’t that Heather disliked men. She just thought there was a place for everyone -- and everyone should be in their place.

Jenna peered into my face. “I had a brother like you.”

“Ahhhh. . ..” She lost me.

“He was more like a sister,” she said, with a wistful smile. “He torched his man-card.”

When talking with Jenna, I had to resist following her, into every conversational dark alley. Her mind leaped on ahead to a land of unicorns, while my job required that I stick to the mundane.

“You should cherish the good things doctors say,” I advised, “and let the rest of their comments run off your back. Pretend you don’t even hear them. Change the reality of your world by occasionally playing a passive role, even though it really isn’t you. ”

Her eyes narrowed as if she was judging me. “Have you always been able to smile, through the unfairness of it all?”

I grinned. “It gets easier the older you get.”

“Isn’t it frustrating when the world’s perception of you doesn’t match your internal reality?”

I nodded, not entirely sure what I was agreeing to.

“You know,” she continued, “What’s inside our hearts is our actuality. All the exterior posturing is simply how we chose to interface with life.”

Someday I’m going to find out what she means by that. But today I have to get back to work, in five minutes. I smiled.

She held her arm out next to mine. “Look at your snowy-white skin. It’s been five months since summer. I’m still tanned, compared to you.”

“I don’t have the time to go out in the sun. I’m either with my patients, or I’m reading medical journals, trying to keep up.”

“You do work hard at being the person sitting in front of me. I like you,” Jenna allowed. “My mother is six states away. You’ve been taking her place.”

“Don’t you mean I’m standing in your father’s shoes?” I laughed.

She shook her head. “You don’t have to hide your feelings with me. You know, Jim . . . I haven’t told many people at HealthWing. My brother committed suicide.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” I shook my head in sympathy. Suicide is such a selfish act. Even though death was always around me, I never lost perspective for the holes it leaves in the hearts of the surviving families.

“It happened fourteen years ago, next month. If only, I had known then what I know now. . .. Such a waste!” She tossed her head. “I’m not about to let history repeat itself.” She stood, wagged a stern finger at me, and then raised her voice. “Life is not your enemy -- resisting your true nature is.”

I finished my coffee wondering if Jenna’s checkerboard was missing a few squares.

She stopped me from leaving, so she could complete her thought. “I’m living proof that what ails you is completely fixable.”

*****

I kept a watchful eye on Jenna, for the next few weeks. Much to my relief, she seemed to find a way to deal with the all too quick criticism of the doctors. In fact, she made a clever effort to seek them out for advice, which they all loved.

Several times I saw her buttonhole Heather during rounds. At first, I worried about a first-year nurse having the audacity to corner the Director of Medicine – the title Heather had achieved. Strangely, Heather was open to Jenna approaching her and it appeared to work out well. It seemed to be my wife who was absorbing information, while the two huddled in intense private conversations.

Whatever internal change Jenna had made -- worked because she became much more effective in the O.R. adjacent to our pediatrics ward.

Jenna was the last one of that year’s crop of new nurses that I had to console. They had all survived their initiation, by rounding off their square edges to fit into HealthWing’s circular holes. Life became good again when I could put my full concentration on my young patients’ well being. Perhaps I was experiencing the lull before the storm. And, maybe I knew that the change coming my way was inevitable.

Having been trained in California, Jenna brought a more holistic approach to our healing process. She became especially helpful to me in fine-tuning our triage. . .the immediate prioritized response we made to a doctor’s diagnosis.

*****

I had just finished my shift when I was ordered by the P.A. system to go to Heather’s office.

“Do you have to work late, again?” I guessed cheerfully.

Heather’s desk is too large and dark for this room. Her drapes are much too severe. She decorated using a picture of her father’s office as a guide.

She looked up with a quizzical look on her always-intense face. “Jim,” she started, “I need your help.”

“Whatever you need; I’m here for you.” I sat, directed by a flick of her hand, in the direction of a small cinnamon sofa. We were divided by a coffee table covered by spreadsheets that had been garlanded with multi-colored sticky-notes.

Her office is as messy as our home would be, if I didn’t clean it. Heather puts her energies only toward those actions that further her career. Her singleness of purpose is the main reason her career flourishes -- and at the same time is at the heart of our marriage problems. When she adopts an idea she carries it out to extremes others can’t even imagine.

“I’ve got a bit of a rebellion on my hands.” Her face showed the worry of detail-oriented management. I would have described her as “fixated” if she were a patient in HealthWing’s psych ward. If I was just meeting her I would have guessed her age to be approximately fifty – although I knew her to be more than a decade younger than that . . . just like me. I longed to hold her until all her problems went away. But she isn’t a hugger.

Heather is still marking off boxes on her father’s checklist for success. It’s been over fifteen years since he died, yet I can see his hand in every move she makes.

“HealthWing’s financial projections are trending toward dire.” She waved a sheaf of papers at me, evidently trying to float their red ink, across the few feet between us. “I’m a surgeon who has had to learn, on the fly, how to single-handedly run a gigantic business.”

I nodded. As usual, Heather assumed too much personal responsibility because that’s what she thought the Board expected of her. In reality, she had a unit of highly trained accountants and MBA advisors. Admittedly, she stood on the quarterdeck, but the crew proficiently manned the ship.

Even though her responsibilities allowed her the time, it had been several years since Heather and I used room 214 for a tryst. The staff of HealthWing had sensibly decided that using janitorial closets for sexual affairs was super-tacky. Instead, they colluded to set aside room 214, picked by the romantics to honor February 14th, Valentine’s Day. They described what went on in that room as “making hospital corners” – something done, on a bed.

Maybe her egocentric bias can be attributed to being spoiled as a child. Heather was the only child of parents who also had been “only” children. The week after we got back from our honeymoon, my parents were lost in a storm while on a trip to Banff -- leaving me sole heir to a fortune that paled only in comparison to what Heather inherited.

Her parent’s yacht was shipwrecked months later off the coast of Africa. There had been suspicion of piracy. We’ll never know because they and their entire crew perished . . . leaving us without any close relatives.

I miss my parents and my in-laws, even though there had always been a bit of disappointment, in their eyes when we talked.

Heather’s father had been a HealthWing’s Director of Medicine. He had passed on his utmost respect for surgeons, to Heather.

“It’s the government,” she moaned.

According to Heather, government meddling had risen to become so insidious that it was futile to go on fighting it. Her eyes misted with passion while she spoke of a brighter future, if she could steer our hospital through the latest Potomac hurricane.

Still standing so that she looked down at me as if I was floating in a petri dish under her microscope, she continued. “With half of our revenue coming through government-run programs, the nexus with reality has been severed. My decision-making is almost entirely based on satisfying our dear Uncle Sam. That’s so wrong!”

“I told you we should stop being Conservatives and jump on the Libertarian bandwagon,” I joked. Actually, I voted as a Liberal. Heather’s and my votes normally effectively canceled one another. She told people that I voted “Blond” in reference to my straw-colored hair, which contrasted with Heather’s brunette.

Why is she making such an effort? It’s obvious she’s selling me something. But what? I fingered the worn surface of my stethoscope much like my mother had toyed with her pearls when she had been in deep thought.

“I swear, Jim, our government doesn’t need a prophylactic to prevent waste, as much as it needs an enema, to induce elimination.” Heather started to pace, which she always did when she really wanted to win an argument. “I’ve never seen a patient so clogged as Washington. It’s unstoppable in its propensity for boondoggle and bureaucratic nonsense.”

What has Major William Wreath, Ret. done to create a code blue in Heather’s world?

Major Wreath was our newly-appointed federal government liaison, with his hand rested firmly, on the currency faucet. According to what Heather told me, he had been an honored twenty-two-year-old infantryman in Iraq under the first George Bush. I couldn’t say much about the Major’s personality because only Heather had met him -- when he’d flown in from Washington for his initial visit to Nashville.

He hadn’t come any closer to the hospital than a meeting room at the Airport Holiday Inn. Heather had complained to me that the Major was leading the charge against any shred of logic that still existed in the administration of HealthWing. Other than saying that he was a good dresser and a little too handsome, she hadn’t revealed much positive about him.

“I’ve got several dozen fashionista nurses barking at me. At the same time, ‘Major Pain-in-the-Butt’ is laying down new orders, about uniformity. The esteemed Major has identified mandatory cost-savings measures that we have to adopt . . . or lose our status as a Medicare provider. We don’t have a choice. According to the math geniuses at the Government Accountability Office, we can save millions simply by making our hospital uniforms . . . more . . . uniform. They say the change in attitude that follows will permeate every aspect of my hospital.”

Like every other nurse at HealthWing, I never thought about my scrubs. I wore the same light-green cotton outfits every day -- distinguished only by how faded they had become from frequent washings in hot, soapy, and bleached water. “I guess you can’t blame someone who spent his entire adult life, in the military, for harboring that kind of opinion,” I allowed. “But since the nurses buy their own scrubs, how does he expect HealthWing to save money?”

“The Major. . ..” her face twisted as if she had just sucked a lemon, .” . .says our hospital lacks discipline. He says. . ..” she picked up a piece of paper and read from it. “ ‘With sloppy, non-conforming dress, you run the nonverbal communication risk that you're not thorough. You send the subliminal message that you're not paying attention to detail and the kinds of things that are very important, in healthcare. Eventually, and consequently, HealthWing becomes a lightning rod for malpractice suits.’ ”

“He has a point,” I said. The Major obviously was an obscure bureaucrat, who apparently had stayed far enough under the radar so that even a Google search on his name came up empty. “I’m not a big fan of those denim scrubs that look like faded jeans. Our patients and visitors should easily identify who’s on staff.” I shuddered from the cold. Heather kept her office thermostat seven degrees cooler than the rest of the hospital.

“Ohhh. . .. I suppose. . .. But the problem is not so much that he wants to crack down on scrub color choices. It’s become a crisis because at the same time I’ve received a demand from the nurses’ grievance committee, to upgrade our uniforms. The committee has chosen the Cherokee unisex scrubs.”

“I saw a picture of the scrubs they selected. They seem to be a traditional design.”

She smiled. But it didn’t include her eyes.

I can’t remember a time when her smile took over her face. Mine reveals every emotion I’m feeling. I even have to be careful to keep my hands from flying around when I talk. So that people don’t get the false impression that I’m feminine.

“The design isn’t the problem,” Heather whined. “The Major is adamant that we split the hospital into four sectors so that each sector’s staff will start to develop esprit de corps. I think it’s military gobbledygook. Whatever. . .? I guess it makes some sense to have different colored scrubs, for each of the divisions. The committee submitted eight colors . . . that they contend are much more stylish than our old scrubs.”

“I don’t have the time to pay as much attention as I would like to what colors are in style. But I’m all for the nurses feeling more comfortable at work. Besides, a change might be fun.”

Her face turned sour. “It really doesn’t matter what you and I think. Uncle Sam is calling the shots – and when that happens it’s best to salute and obey, without comment.”

It’s not like her to meekly follow orders. But HealthWing has been struggling. Last week, Heather told me that if profits go down more, we’ll have to cut personnel.

Darn it! We’re already understaffed, which impacts horribly our level of care. Heather wants HealthWing to be the best hospital in the state, which is good for my patients. She’ll make the right decisions. She can be so strange. Two weeks ago, she demanded that I freeze my sperm. . .just in case. That was sweet. . .but ultra-strange because whenever I’ve tried to talk about starting a family she’s shut down.

Heather paced before continuing. “The Major has approved three of the colors the nurses liked and added a personal choice. . .which amazed me. I thought he would want the scrubs to be camouflage colored, like they used in the Desert Storm operation, in Iraq.”

I laughed.

She said she needs my help. But she hasn’t asked for anything. . .yet.

Her face flushed. “I don’t know how to tell you this. The colors the nurses selected are: sage-green, canary, and Caribbean blue. The Major opted for carnation for the fourth division.”

“Sage-green is sort of like the color of celery, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “It’s not the green that’s the problem. It’s the carnation. The trouble is it’s more of a pink, than anything else.”

Pink? “I suppose you want my help to convince the other two male nurses and the male orderlies that pink is the new brown.” I chuckled at my own joke.

Heather was too absorbed in her dilemma, to properly appreciate my humor. “The orderlies are exempt. This dress code applies only to a narrow band of the professional staff -- only those below grade seven . . . and above grade four.”

Grade seven are the interns, who rank just above RNs. Grades five and six are all nurses.

She picked up a list marked “personnel” and scanned it. She opened her mouth. But closed it slowly before turning away from me. Heather stared out her window while she finally spoke. “Actually -- Tony and Art will be in the sector that’s wearing teal. It’s your sector, pediatrics and obstetrics, that are slated for the pink scrubs.”

“Ohhhhhh,” I said softly. I’ve got a strong support network at HealthWing. I could say or do almost anything and my many friends would just grin and find a reason to stand by me. Besides, I’m not a school kid anymore, who’s lusting for peer acceptance. “Look, Heather, the scrubs can’t be that bad. If Cherokee is marketing them as unisex, I’m sure they will look just fine.”

“This whole idea that pink is for girls and blue is for boys is so ridiculous.” She shook her head at the stupidity of mankind, while she turned toward me. “The advertising world changed things in the 1940s. Up until that time, pink had been a masculine color. The gender bias isn’t based in reality.”

“Uh-huh. . ..”

“Had you stuck to our plan at Yale, you wouldn’t be faced with this.”

The life-sized portrait of her father in his surgical scrubs scowled at me, from over her shoulder.

She turned and walked toward her office door. “I have to take part in a phone conference – some sort of Zoom meeting,” she said, while holding the door open and motioning me out. “I knew I could count on you to do the right thing. Once you help me convince the other nurses, to accept the new scrubs, we can avoid a staff uprising.”

I didn’t agree to do anything. But if wearing pink scrubs contingently benefits my patients, I’ll do it.

On the way back to my ward, I thought about how little respect Heather sometimes gave my opinions. We had both been accepted by Yale Med School, where everyone seemingly had scads of money. That hadn’t been the case in Nashville where we had grown accustomed to being treated as aristocrats. We had a position in the community and were expected to lead by example. Our social code set exact standards.

It had been “our plan” to become surgeons and to eventually return home. Heather and I would take our pre-ordained positions as pillars of the community because it was our duty and our birthright.

We both had been well prepared for the academic rigors of Yale. As Elis we took to the school’s many charms. Heather looked and acted like the Southern Belle that she had been groomed to become. I tried my best to play the role of her gallant and ever-attendant young husband, which wasn’t always as easy for me because it didn’t seem quite right.

There had been those at Yale who refused to believe that someone as drop-dead gorgeous as Heather would be married to someone as marginal as me. Several times she was openly courted by men who thought she could do much better. She had been unreceptive to their advances.

Then disaster struck, and a fissure developed, in our wedded armor.

During our first semester, Yale did its best to acclimate us to the world of medicine. They carefully explained, in no uncertain terms, the distinct difference between doctors and nurses.

“Nurses,” our Dean had sniffed, “have the audacity to attempt to heal the person, while ignoring the fact that it is the illness which needs our undivided attention. The process of defining the symptoms and treating the disease is what’s called for, in the field of medicine. Medicine is not social work.”

After our first year, much to Heather’s disgust, I decided our Dean lacked compassion. Turning out like him would have been a nightmare for me. I yearned to help people, not joust against the windmills of curing “death.” To me, the right of the individual trounced the need to “advance medicine.”

I transferred into Yale’s Registered Nurse program.

Heather mocked my decision, in part because she felt “compassion” was another word for weak negotiating. She worried constantly about what our people back home in Tennessee would say when they saw me doing nurse’s duties. She just couldn’t understand that my decision to become a nurse was just me . . . being me. Although she remained true to our marital vows, I could see interest in her eyes, when men approached.

After completing our curriculum and interning in New England hospitals, we did return to Nashville’s HealthWing. She had recently been named a very youthful Director of Medicine and essentially became my boss. My career had moved slower, but I was widely held to be an extremely competent nurse who had made Assistant Unit Manager and one day would be named Head Nurse.

The prospect for promotion mattered little to me. The satisfaction I derived from nurturing a youthful trauma patient drove me to make whatever sacrifice was needed. I worked in the children’s ward -- guiding them through those horrendous hours of intense fear immediately following injury. I loved that wondrous moment when they made the personal choice to engage in the rehab therapy needed for them to take control of their destiny, to live a fully-functional life.

The process to find the courage to leave his or her old, debilitating life behind seemed to be different, for every patient. It could be frustrating to watch a young, injured person refuse to move toward a much brighter future because they wouldn’t take a leap of faith.

Helping my patients make positive lifestyle decisions had become the focal point, of my life.

There’s nothing more important to me than nursing that includes nurturing correct choices.

*****

The new “carnation” scrubs for our unit had been dyed the most feminine pink imaginable. The first day I had to wear them, I felt like a complete fool. I wasn’t alone in my feelings. Several of the women I worked with weren’t the kind to wear pink. They loudly voiced their disapproval. But Heather’s management team steamrolled over their dissent.

HealthWing’s official position was that all designated nurses should embrace pink as their natural color, despite reality suggesting a broad spectrum of preference.

The days went on, anger faded, and everyone grew used to the new color. I was only jarred by their “pinkness” when a patient or a visitor mistakenly addressed me as “Miss.” Soon, even that incongruity became acceptable, to everyone who mattered.

It wasn’t a big deal. Gender confusion had become commonplace for me over the last few years, with the reverse in traditional roles in our little family. As Director of Medicine, Heather held a position on the hospital Board of Directors. We went to an endless number of fund-raising events where we were noted as “Dr. Heather Dunn and spouse.” Although, many of the grey-haired benefactors clearly thought of her solely as Dr. Mead’s daughter.

I often was the only nurse in attendance. Heather seemingly felt duty-bound to apologize for my regrettable career choice. She never missed an opportunity to laugh haughtily about my forsaken opportunity, to be a surgeon. She would shake her head prettily, which prompted Tennessee’s high society to allow her permission to publicly question my occupation. Further, as Director of Medicine, she was above reproach, holding the fate of those around her, in her skilled hands.

She and I often argued about her insensitivity, which never made a change in how she felt – or acted. It was almost as if she thought I had tricked her into marrying me on false pretenses, which entitled her to belittle me “at will.”

At the same time, my respect for her healing arts grew each day. She deserved her position based on her remarkable performance in the O.R. I had scrubbed-in with her often enough to appreciate her acumen and the incredible good she did repairing my young and severely injured patients. In the operating room, we worked together, in beautiful harmony.

Often, as a surgeon, her chosen course of action seemed highly debatable. But she demanded a total team effort -- and her outcomes were noteworthy. I had to accept the bad “Heather” along with the good. She had an unmistakable need to vent her dissatisfactions, on her journey toward correcting the medical world.

The years passed and male nurses became more and more prevalent in every hospital except HealthWing. Heather remained steadfast in her bias against male RNs. In her mind, I had shirked my duty and had scarred her career with my ignominy. She stated flatly that men who want medical careers become doctors. According to her, if I couldn’t have cut it as a surgeon, I could have at least been a general practitioner.

She could also be tremendously caring. She even arranged to have Jenna draw my blood and take a urine sample once every other month. She personally kept a watch on my overall health.

My father had suffered from chronic anemia, so it didn’t seem at all odd that after Heather had another doctor review the lab results to prescribe treatment, she had Jenna establish a regimen for me that included bi-weekly B-12 serum injections. For all of her complaints about my vocation, I had little reason to think she wasn’t watching out, for my interests.

Despite our problems, our marriage held together. In my opinion, it had a firm foundation of love, which made up for the respect Heather had lost for my choices.

It was obvious to me that Heather was struggling to meet ideals set by her overbearing father’s memory. She rarely allowed herself to be happy. . .and never came close to being content.

I often dreamed of the children we might have had. I was buoyed by Heather’s insistence on my frozen sperm. Overall, I was too fulfilled by the work I did at the hospital, to pine away an otherwise highly satisfactory life.

*****

Jenna looked up from nibbling on an egg-salad sandwich on seven-grain bread. A fastidious eater, she usually dismantled her meals, conducted a thorough inspection and then reassembled them before lifting them to her lips. It was as if she thought she could always improve the things around her. “I don’t think it’s right that HealthWing should tell all of us nurses how we have to wear our hair.”

I smiled.

Once again Jenna is right, but there’s little to be done about it. Sometimes it’s best to go along with what’s happening, so that you have time to concentrate on what really matters.

She fiddled with her wedding band.

She’s taller than me, and her hands and feet are bigger than mine. Yet, she’s quite feminine.

The two of us often had lunch together. We had been transferred into Neonatal the same week. Heather told us our new positions solved a staffing situation. I hadn’t relished giving up working with the older children. But I soon found the Level II nursery to be to my liking. It became a soothing retreat after working with youngsters who had been terribly injured and traumatized out of their minds. Even though we had enjoyed our triumphant moments in pediatrics, there was little that could compare with the wondrous feeling of holding a newborn. I made significant changes to the workflow, in the nursery, and our outcomes were improving.

My team of nurses prided themselves in our excellence, even though we suffered from a greater turnover in personnel, than in pediatrics. The joke in the Neonatal ward was that pregnancy was a highly contagious disease. Young nurses seemed to “catch the bug” in large numbers. The joy of tending to infants seemingly infected their bodies and changed their biological patterns.

It often took only weeks for their apparent increase in estrogen, to make them extremely fertile.

Estrogen is a powerful drug that can do wondrous things.

“That nurse came down with Paula Sue-it is,” we would joke every time a Neonatal nurse became pregnant.

Paula Sue had worked HealthWing in Neonatal. After less than a month working with the babies, all she could talk about was having one of her own. Two months later, she was married, and about a year later she had twins and had become the poster child for family-itus.

Jenna treated me like a favorite uncle . . . or aunt, given the pink scrubs I still wore every day. Without fail, Jenna made a pot of tea every evening, for our break.

We worked nights, which was the preferred stint, in our end of the hospital. On the graveyard shift, you usually didn’t have mid and upper-management second-guessing your every move. Meddling family members of our patients, who might interfere with your work, were kept to a minimum. You lived on caffeine, adrenaline, and critical thinking. At times, we seemed pleasantly isolated from the mainstream and could do our own thing, without suffocating oversight.

Jenna especially liked the minimal number of doctors who prowled the floor at night. She told me she had gone through a period in her life when she needed a great deal of hospitalization and surgery. Her attending doctor’s brisk bedside manner hadn’t thrilled her. She seemed to harbor distrust that caused her to keep most men at a distance.

Jenna went out of her way to make everyone, on our shift, feel like family, with her as the patriarch. She would steep our tea and then stir a special sweetener in mine that she brought from home. She said it contained less than a calorie per serving. That had been going on for the six months since our transfer.

“You’re so lucky,” Jenna said. “As long as those of us with shorter hair have to have the same hairdo, at least you have a head shaped perfectly for it. You could have one of those Homer Simpson heads.”

We both laughed nervously at her joke. I fought back the urge to scratch my chest. It’s been bothering me for the last month.

“I’m serious,” Jenna said, “with your prominent cheekbones you have the perfect face for a short ‘do.’ No fooling – you’ll look absolutely darling.”

Darling? I know she means it in a nice way. Coming from her -- I’ll take it as a compliment.

The memo from Heather about haircuts had shocked me. It had been directed to the entire nursing staff and read in part . . .. “in order to assure proper hygiene, each nurse is to have a soft pixie cut with a medium-length fringe that’s swept to the side. The top of your hair is to be lightly layered to create a bit of height. Highlights are mandatory, to allow maximum uniformity.”

“You big baby,” Jenna chided, when I sulked. “When I was in my early teens, before my brother passed away, my father made me get a haircut every other week. I had hair shorter than yours. Get rid of that boo-boo face and accept the hand that’s been dealt.”

She’s right! Because a lot of nurses looked to me to set a tone, I’ll try my best to be positive, about management directives.

*****

Later that night, Heather and I discussed my hair during one of those rare moments when we were both at home, at the same time.

“Jim, you’re being unreasonable.”

I laughed. “Not at all. Look – I get it that you want all the nurses to look fairly similar, but it’s over-reaching to ask me, to get a feminine haircut.”

She stared at me in obvious disbelief. “I thought you were smarter than that. The only thing feminine about a “pixie” haircut is the name. Most Tennessee men hate women who get a pixie because they look so masculine.”

“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “When you wrote that memo, did you even take into consideration that it would apply to me”

“Of course. Don’t you think I pay attention to details? The Major was adamant that he most assuredly meant “every” nurse. I would never intentionally embarrass you. You know that. I don’t get you. You didn’t care what people thought when you became a nurse . . . and now you’re making a big deal, over a unisex haircut?”

I’ve never really cared all that much about how my hair is cut. Heather’s right. The pixie is a boy’s haircut. A lot of construction worker guys who work outside have natural highlights, in their hair. If it’s going to help the hospital, I’ll give it a try.

*****

I touched the nape of my neck, where my hair was now much shorter than it had been before getting my regulation nurses’ cut. “Heather told me that only those with hair longer than eight inches were given a waiver, so they didn’t need to make such a big change.”

The waiver was probably given to avoid problems on religious grounds. The stated reason was that those with long hair could solve their hygienic problem by pulling it back, which also became mandatory.

Most of the longer-haired girls wore their hair in a ponytail and then clamped it to the back of their heads with a claw clip. My hair had been longer before the memo came out. But not half long enough for a ponytail. I felt envious of the nurses with longer hair because they looked professional and sophisticated.

Jenna sighed. “I suppose it makes some sense. Hair is like a magnet for germs. I was taught in med school that long hair is to be pulled back or worn up. They spent a lot of time warning us how microbes and lice can get into long hair, to say nothing of hair that hangs down into what it shouldn’t . . . like bedpans.”

“Eeewwwww. . .. I’ve had longish hair for years,” I said. “I’ve never been one to spend my precious down-time, in a barber chair.”

“You have beautiful blonde hair,” Jenna said, pushing aside my concerns – and then beamed. “Sandra said she’s going to have hers bleached and tinted, to look as sexy as yours does.”

I waited for her to giggle at her joke. But she looked serious.

Jenna has an annoying habit of staring at me intently and then looking as if she’s feeling nothing but pity.

“The pixie is really a boy’s haircut.”

She took a sip. “I know. My dad hated it ten years ago when my mom got one. No one asked me. But I prefer longer hair. It took me years to become a woman. If I thought wearing a pixie made me less of a woman I wouldn’t do it. To me, it’s a neutral haircut.”

Jenna’s sweetener is different than mine. She told me hers contains special herbs she takes for a skin condition.

“I love the free hair salon for nurses the hospital created on the first floor, by the gift shop,” Jenna added. “I love the unique aroma of a salon. The hospital has banned attaching nail extensions because of the dangers of the methyl methacrylate, and have a mega air filtration system to handle the acetate fumes. It smells pretty and is safe for the employees. Most of us are now getting our hair fixed, either before or after our shift.”

“Uh-huh, so did I,” I admitted quietly, while wondering if I should ask her not to kid me so much about my hair. In fact, her attitude about my haircut seemed sexist. So, I decided to make a point. “When I was at Yale we were told to expect hospital administrators to be like the early 20th century Massachusetts’ school board that posted a set of rules for female teachers.”

She laughed appreciatively while I listed their rules:

1.) Do not get married.
2.) Do not leave town at any time without the permission of the school board.
3.) Do not keep company with men.
4.) Be home within the hours of 8 P.M. and 6 A.M.
5.) Do not loiter in an ice cream store.
6.) Do not smoke.
7.) Do not get into a carriage, with any man except your father or brother.
8.) Do not dress in bright colors.
9.) Do not dye your hair.
10.) Do not wear any dress more than two inches above the ankle.

“With our pink scrubs and those whitish highlights in your honey-blonde hair,” she joked, “you’ve already broken at least two of the rules. Feel free to ‘get into a carriage with any man’ you want.”

I blushed.

No one has ever referred to my hair as “honey-blonde.” Maybe it’s a good thing I got it cut a little shorter, at least on the sides.

I drained my tea and noticed a granular residue in the bottom of the cup. Evidently, the sweetener Jenna brought from home didn’t dissolve as completely as sugar. Unless that’s some kind of drug she’s putting in my tea.

“Now that the dust has settled,” Jenna asked, “are you still okay with being transferred to Neonatal?”

I smiled broadly. “More than okay. When I first came out of college I actually wanted to be a Level I Neonatal nurse and work in a newborn nursery. Of course, that kind of nursing has practically become obsolete -- with the healthy babies now in their bassinets, in the room with their mothers, where they belong. The last few months, I’ve come to realize that my real calling is Level II Neonatal. I love the constant challenge of the ailing newborns and the preemies. They come to us needing a lot of love and TLC.”

“I laugh when I see Madison Avenue ads on TV talking about multi-tasking young mothers. They should try a few shifts of what we do.”

I nodded. “Between the strangely uncaring parents we see all too often and the overworked OB/GYNs -- our work can be trying.”

“Some days, I’m just not sure I picked the right profession,” Jenna grumbled, sounding a little lost. “Today, I got in trouble with one of the surgeons just for doing what I’m supposed to be doing – advocating for my patient’s right to dignity. Babies have rights. Everyone has a right to his or her own esteem. People around here sometimes forget that . . . including you!”

When she gets an idea in her head she sometimes lashes out at the world. . .and I’m the handiest target. So I get the brunt of her anger. “You need to be able to admit your shortcomings. I’ve seen many nurses blame everyone but themselves when things go wrong. That backfires because when you’re an RN you’re held responsible and accountable for everything. You have to be able to take the responsibility that comes with the job.”

“But . . . I wasn’t wrong,” she sniffed.

“I’m not saying you were. Sometimes it’s like a game where you have to be someone you really aren’t, in order for things to work smoothly.”

“That’s what you do every day, isn’t it? That’s how it once was for me.”

I’m not sure she’s following my meaning.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” I assured her. “You have the compassion, the patience, and the confidence in your knowledge of what’s necessary, to be a great nurse. Look, when things get tough just look inside yourself . . . for your core maternal instincts.”

Jenna looked at me strangely. “Is that how you do it?”

I blushed when I realized what I had said. “I suppose. . .. But, of course. . .. It’s not ‘maternal” instincts with me. It’s. . ..”

“It’s ‘maternal’ instincts,” Jenna argued. “I understand more about how you feel than maybe even you do. Your warm-heartedness is exactly what makes you so wonderful with the babies.”

I dismissed her with a shrug. “Whatever. . .. Call it what you want. When I first decided to train for young children and babies, I didn’t realize how often I would have to deal with death, and with patients who would become stabilized -- but who would never be normal. . .. Look . . . if I look less masculine because I’m opening my heart to my patients, then so be it. I don’t mind being a little bit less of a man, if that’s what it takes to get my job done.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.” Her deep, but melodious alto voice asserted her mystical understanding of my innermost thoughts. She grinned -- obviously happy and maybe a bit smug. “Some people don’t trust anyone who’s kind or compassionate.”

“I know. That’s so strange.”

Heather’s like that. It’s weird. Her mother was such a warm person. But Heather has opted to mimic her father’s disdain for kindness.

Once again, Jenna gave me an appraising look before speaking. “I’m not so sure that you’re really changing your basic nature when you express your feminine side.”

She’s lost me.

“I’m no saint,” I said to restart the conversation. “The real heroes are the Level III Nurse Practitioners in the Neonatal ICU.”

“I wouldn’t want to take those annual exams.”

“They have to spend all their free time keeping up with the changing medicine,” I agreed, knowing I studied as much as they did. “You know, Jenna, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that the two most important attributes for our job as nurses are to be adaptable and flexible.”

“A person like you has to be terribly flexible.” For some reason, Jenna patted my hand before she continued. “And . . . I’m counting on you being adaptable.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She giggled. “You’ll see soon enough.”

She can be "one strange" nurse.

“The longer I see you with your hair cut this way, the more I think it suits you. . .much more than it fits most of the girls,” she said kindly. “I wish you were really my sister. It would have been wonderful, if we’d both been born with female bodies.”

I could feel a blush creeping over my face.

*****

It was initially embarrassing for me to have my new haircut. Much like it had been the first few days wearing the pink scrubs. But everyone else was in the same boat. After a few weeks, no one said a word about it, except Tony and Walt, the other two male nurses.

Both of them found jobs at other hospitals and left HealthWing. They both improved their positions and compensation packages.

At a going-away party for Tony, he took me aside and whispered furtively in my ear. “I couldn’t take the new rules.” Neither Tony nor Walt had acquiesced, and Tony still sported a proud mane. “You look good with your hair cut like that. I could never be a Mary. I’m not RuPaulesque . . . more like two hundred pounds of Teddy Bear. You’re cute and will make some lucky man a great wife, someday.”

I fought off the urge to set him straight . . . if that were possible. I hadn’t known Tony’s sexual orientation before that conversation. It didn’t unduly bother me to be thought of as homosexual -- other than how it might reflect on Heather.

Tony had been gone about four months when the nurses received another new hospital rule. Evidently, the Major had decided that nurses were taking too much liberty in their choices of stockings, or in my case, white SmartWool socks.

I had to admit that even in our ward I had been a bit surprised by what otherwise properly dressed women would wear for socks with pink scrubs.

The new rules demanded that all nurses wear nude nylon hosiery, either full stockings or knee-highs.

“I thought it was bad enough three weeks ago when they enforced the rule about visible . . . underwear . . . lines.” I blushed. . .having barely avoided saying “panty” out loud.

“I’m not sure what your problem is,” Jenna scolded over her teacup during our break. “The rule has always been clear. ‘Underwear must not be visible through clothing or above the waistband of slacks.’ According to some of the older nurses, that rule has been around for two decades.”

Jenna is always playing the angles. If she doesn’t see a way out of wearing nylons, it probably doesn’t exist.

“Uh-huh, but. . ..” I spoke almost in a whisper -- not wanting to remind her that I now had to wear panties to work because someone had complained to management.

“Your old underwear created lines that were easily visible,” Jenna reminded me. “Nobody could deny that.”

It had been my wife who told me I had to follow the rule. If she doesn’t care if I wear panties, why should anyone else?

“Aren’t you pleased with the bonus check we all got this month?” Jenna asked.

Heather had been excited when the last quarterly report showed distinct improvements that she said were all traceable to the new dress code. She said the people complaining had been against the changes, from the start and were simply trying to create a problem.

The Board had hinted that Heather was on a shortlist to be groomed for CEO. They voted unanimously, to issue a special bonus to all the HealthWing employees.

Jenna smiled. “And . . . I can tell you from personal experience that panties are much more comfortable than men’s underwear. Believe me, nylon stockings will be no hardship for you.”

It was obvious I would have to take one more, for the team, by wearing the silky socks.

As hard as I tried to ignore the changes, the immense difference between how my tighty-whities had felt and how the flimsy, silky panties floated against my crotch often left me feeling . . . sexy . . . sometimes, very sexy. Our flimsy nylon footwear also proved sensually pleasing. I was amazed at how exquisite my stockings felt against my feet. Without any sexual relieve at home, I found myself having titillating erotic thoughts while at work . . . much more often.

On the other hand, the pink scrubs seemed to irritate my chest. After I complained while drinking tea, Jenna helped solve that problem with a gift of silk undershirts. She said her husband wore them, all the time.

Like with every other recent change, I went through a short period of adjustment before deciding the new rules regarding socks and underwear weren’t really that hard to tolerate. I hardly ever thought about my hair, except for having to submit to a very girly two-hour salon appointment every third week to keep my haircut within regulations.

The hairstylists treated me exactly like all the other nurses. She never made me uncomfortable by reminding me of my male gender.

And . . . the sexual thrill provided by my panties offset the negatives. I actually enjoyed the light, slippery feeling so much that I quit buying my panties at Target and started shopping at Victoria’s Secret for something more daring and colorful.

If Heather noticed, she didn’t say anything.

Whenever I had a hard day, with several people mistaking me for a female, I would remind myself of the Nightingale Pledge.

I solemnly pledge myself before God and in the presence of this assembly, to pass my life in purity and to practice my profession faithfully. I will abstain from whatever is deleterious and mischievous and will not take or knowingly administer any harmful drug. I will do all in my power to maintain and elevate the standard of my profession, and will hold in confidence all personal matters committed to my keeping and all family affairs coming to my knowledge, in the practice of my calling. With loyalty will I endeavor to aid the physician, in his work, and devote myself to the welfare of those committed to my care.

I owe it to my hospital and its mission, to keep an open mind. The recent financial success of my hospital has proven it needs me to make a sacrifice, for the common good. It really isn’t all that much of a hardship for me to go along, with what’s necessary.

Over the next few months, HealthWing received dozens of positive comments from patients during their checkout interviews. Major Wreath’s changes were being noted and widely approved.

My modifications were aligned with our success as nurses, and as such, they seemed “right” for me to cheerfully adopt.

*****

Well. . . I thought, . . .the new shoes all the nurses have to wear do have their advantages. I’m finally able to look Heather eye-to-eye. I was standing in her office waiting for her to complete a phone call before we could talk about my problem.

All HealthWing nurses were required by a new Major “Pain” mandate, to wear patent leather, white shoes made by a company called Bryar that specializes in nursing shoes. The requisite shoes had noiseless soles . . . and 2¼-inch heels. I had real trouble with my equilibrium until Jenna gave me a few quick lessons. Heeding her instructions, I shortened my stride and walked with my feet in a much straighter line. Suddenly everything seemed more genuine.

Jenna had said that she had been awkward and clumsy at one point in her life and learned to move gracefully, in her late teens.

She and I spent hours after work examining what she called my inner-self. Jenna really helped me a lot with allowing the babies to see me as someone they should trust. She coached me to pretend to be a little feminine.

Once I pushed my stubborn male pride into a place deep in the background, and adopted a few “maternal” mannerisms, the babies seemed much calmer around me. Jenna assured me she had made similar changes and enjoyed the results.

“Is it absolutely necessary for me to wear these shoes?” I asked Heather when she finally looked up from her work.

They’re not so bad. But for the sake of my masculinity, I feel like I should protest.

“I didn’t even notice you had them on,” Heather said to me from where she stood behind her desk – the same manly mahogany desk her father had occupied when he had been Director of Medicine. “Besides, you’re the one who decided you didn’t want to be a doctor.”

“Not that again,” I groused quietly.

“Jim. . ..” Heather wailed with exasperation. “You gave up without a fight. You were smart enough. You could have been a great doctor, I just feel bad for you.” She bit her lip, which was as close to crying as she normally ever came.

I flinched under the lash of her disappointment. She scored a 33 on her ACT, but I had achieved one of seven perfect scores of 36 in Tennessee the year we graduated from Sherwood Academy High School. “You and I aren’t all that different. You’re trying desperately to match your father’s passion to assure the business side of HealthWing.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Her eyebrows knitted, signaling her rising anger.

“Not a thing. Your father was an admirable man. You should want to follow in his footsteps. I’m just as determined, to equal my mother’s empathy.”

“Your mother was the sweetest woman in Nashville.”

I nodded slowly, while remembering just how incredibly patient and understanding she had been.

“But, honestly Jim, nursing is just so unmanly.” Heather’s mouth twisted sourly around “unmanly” so that it seemed to contain at least five cruel syllables.

My hands balled into fists I would never . . . ever . . . use. I started to open my mouth to suggest that precious few Nashville debutants had studied anatomy at Yale . . . with their very own cadavers . . . but decided one sexist remark didn’t warrant another. My mother had taught me to exercise discretion, without fail.

The older I get, the more I want to emulate Mom, in as many ways as possible.

Heather felt that by switching to nursing I had caved in the foundation of our marriage. Every time we had even a hint of an argument, she brought up my “failure to rise to my potential.” I always felt as if our marriage was a short gurney-ride down the hall, from flat-lining.

Leaving Heather’s office I could feel her eyes glued to my body’s new maternal sway, which was part of what Jenna had taught me.

*****

That night in the staff lounge Jenna made me an extra ration of tea, to soothe my frayed nerves. Meetings in Heather’s office always took a lot out of me. The door opened behind us.

“It’s Dr. Anist,” Jenna hissed as if guarding a state secret.

The doctor with the George Clooney grin quickly selected a bagel and a bottle of water.

He’s so important to our floor’s mission. He barely has time to eat.

Before leaving he smiled in our direction, which obviously had an impact on Jenna . . . and surprisingly . . . on me as well.

“He dated Carla, the EMT, for about six months. She’s moved to Seattle to live with her sick mother,” Jenna said conspiratorially after he left. “The nurses are starting to call him ‘Dr. Anist. . .thesiologist.’ One look at that two-legged love machine and you’re off to dreamland.”

I giggled.

Carla is incredibly sensual. They must have made a cute couple.

“You shouldn’t talk about him like he’s a hunk of meat. I hear he’s one of the best we’ve got.”

“Did I say he wasn’t?” She faked a swoon. “I’ll bet he’s ‘best’ with a capital ‘B.’”

“I meant he’s one of the best obstetricians at HealthWing.” I lightly punched her arm.

“That too,” she nodded. “Not only is he ‘just-right’ tall and has a perpetual tan -- his C-section ratio is under ten percent.”

HealthWing’s ratio of C-sections to all births is at a staggering seventy-four percent, including Dr. “Anesthesiologist’s” numbers.

Dr. Anist! I’ve got to get that silly nickname out of my mind, or I might accidentally call him that.

“Do you know what the C stands for . . . and don’t say ‘Caesarean.’”

Here comes a rant. “Let’s hear it. What does the ‘C’ stand for?”

“Cash,” she said, not disappointing me. “HealthWing’s profits on births go way up when they can charge for another procedure. Or, maybe conveyor . . . as in a conveyor belt in our hospital baby factory. Or, it could be ‘convenient’ as brought to you by the letter ‘C’ . . . convenient for Mom, the doctor, and the hospital because you can schedule O.R.s, set tee times, and never miss a Junior League meeting. The C-women are the ones who opt for a ‘designer’ delivery . . . complete with tummy-tuck. How can we be so stupid as a country? In Europe and Japan almost seventy percent of births are handled by midwives . . . here less than eight percent.”

I can’t blame her for being upset. Babies come into the world in much better condition, if they’re born naturally. I hate seeing a little sweetie all drugged up during the most important day in his little life. However . . . O.B.s are such targets for malpractice. C-sections help them avoid some of the problems.

“It’s a wonder. . .,” Jenna continued. “Those precious little darlings can barely come out of their drug-induced stupors when the obstetrician spanks their little behinds to promote a little vagitus.”

Vagitus – first cry. That’s my favorite sound. It’s the first indication that everything might be okay. Amniocentesis can only tell you so much. Another beautiful sound is a nurse declaring an Apgar score of “ten.” Even though Jenna is usually a drug advocate she hates epidurals.

“You’d think those jackass mothers would know about oxytocin.”

She’s really gotten her rave going today!

“That oxytocin works just like Love Potion #9,” she preached. “Sometimes moms and babies need that hormone to feel loved. They have trouble bonding, without it. I’m certain those moms coming out of a C-section don’t produce all their natural drugs. Hell, I could use a little oxytocin, for Friday nights. I’d spike Charlie’s vodka-sevens with it.” She leered suggestively.

I laughed. I have no doubt Jenna is fully capable of slipping someone drugs to get her way. She’s a charter member of the school of thought that the pharmacy is on the road, to the good life. Sometimes when she talks about Charlie, he sounds like a character in a Jane Eyre novel. I never can tell what parts are facts . . . and which are fiction.

“Speaking of oxytocin?” She asked. “How are things at casa del Nunn.”

Since I’ve been in Neo-natal, Heather and I barely see each other outside the hospital. We haven’t shared the same bed . . . together for. . .. It’s been months! Heather said what is happening to me is confusing her.

“Fine,” I lied. “Same old, same old.”

Although she doesn’t vocalize it often, the feminine changes in how I look and act seem to bother Heather. She wants me to do what’s best for HealthWing. But she isn’t totally pleased by how I’ve adapted to make things work, for me. Actually -- I’m beginning to worry about my male parts. The old adage of “use it or lose it” seems to apply because my penis and testes appear to be atrophying. I really don’t crave love from Heather. It’s as if the unconditional love the babies give me has almost replaced that.

“You know,” Jenna warned out of left field, “bad thoughts are as toxic as a serious infection. You will tell me if you feel depressed, won’t you?”

I laughed. But her face remained serious.

“Promise me,” she ordered.

“Okay,” I relented, “I promise.”

“It’s not like I’m anti-surgery,” Jenna stated. “I think certain corrective surgeries, even elective ones, are extremely beneficial. I’ve had a few procedures done, and never regretted them.”

I chuckled. “If we don’t believe in corrective surgery, we’re in the wrong business.”

“Too bad we aren’t single,” Jenna said, changing the mood. “That Dr. Anist is one fine. . .. Ooooh wheee!”

I laughed.

Jenna is always aiming gender shots my way. Maybe the changes around the hospital are bothering Jenna more than what she’s letting on. There has been some rudeness toward me. But those involved were a tiny minority, and that quickly faded.

I rubbed the back of my calf. The heels on my hospital shoes leave my legs invigorated. But at times, after I work a double-shift, my legs are sore.

Thank goodness Heather bought me a pair of nighttime heels to wear around the house.

I was blindsided by her purchase. But she said she felt sorry for me going through needless pain while my feet and legs transitioned, each evening. I’ve purchased several more pairs of my own, after finding out how much better my legs feel if I’m not shifting back and forth between heels and male flats. The shoes I wear at home are pumps and much cuter than my nursing shoes. Women’s things just seem to work, for me.

“There are two kinds of O.B.s,” Jenna continued. “There are the ones who are in it for money and make all their decisions about birthing based on their bank accounts. They don’t have time for doulas and midwifery. Then there are the docs like Dr. Anist, who constantly are doing things the right way. If I was single, I’d grab him and head for room 214, for a little evening delight.”

We both laughed.

“His sapphire eyes are so compelling,” Jenna cooed. “When I’m in his gaze I feel obliged . . . and needy at the same time.”

I squirmed a bit with the realization he made me feel the same way.

I’m becoming more like Jenna every day.

*****

“Is there anyone in your department at HealthWing who might be looking for a different job?”

The question was a cliché. Headhunters have been approaching workers with that line for years. But given what I had been going through and the emotional swings I’d been having, I hit on his red and white daredevil like a famished northern pike.

Nashville Center One was looking for someone with my experience and credentials. Heather and I hardly spoke to each other outside of the hospital. So, a new job would be no hardship.

After consideration, I decided that things had become too bizarre for me at HealthWing. The latest was a new rule regarding perfume.

Exposure to perfume can cause migraines, nausea, tightening of the throat, and respiratory impairment. Further, breathing problems such as hay fever and asthma are found in 15-20% of North Americans and synthetic fragrance heightens symptoms.

Fragrance products use synthetic chemicals that are derived from petroleum or coal tar. The United States tests less than a tenth of the products on the market for toxicity. Almost one-third of the chemical additives used in perfume are known to be toxic. The fragrance industry uses over four thousand chemical ingredients to make their products. Over eighty percent of these chemicals have never been tested for toxicity. The chemicals used to produce the fragrance in a product are protected under trade secret laws and are not listed in the ingredients.

HealthWing had considered a fragrance-free policy. But the Board realized visitors could never be controlled to that extent and about forty percent of the hospital’s female workers surveyed stated that they considered a scent to be an important, even essential, element of their femininity.

Heather and I had a long talk about the scent problem, one evening. She looked bewildered, at one point, bemoaning how steep a price some of the nurses were willing to pay, to embrace their softer side.

“It’s almost as if declaring their femininity is more important to them than anything else,” she said. “You’d think they would consider the impact on others.”

The center of the perfume problem was overpowering colognes. At first, the hospital Board tried to establish a list of banned scents, such as Shalimar, Angel, and Jungle. It became painfully obvious that one woman’s perfect odor was the other’s bane. Heather then made a bold move and came out with a clear, but forceful, directive.

Nurses were all instructed to use a perfume called Grace. Grace has a scent that is light, sweet, refreshing, clean, and sensual. It combines soft floral blossoms with a slight musk. Its scent lasts forever. But it is never too strong. Almost every nurse described it as delightfully feminine.

A nurse’s hands spend a good part of every day emerged in scalding, soapy water. We scrub dozens of times, each shift. A good lotion that doesn’t have a toxic scent is highly prized by nurses. Consequently, the staff quickly and happily embraced the latest change.

We were each provided free access to Grace perfumes and other Grace products. Our instructions demanded that we use a spray or two at the start of our shift. Our showers were equipped with dispensers for Grace shampoo, and Grace lotion dispensers were placed everywhere in the hospital. We each were provided Grace solid deodorant.

The immediate reaction from our patients proved to be very positive, with almost non-existent complaints. Every week or so, we did receive a nasty comment from an annoyed wife, who thought Grace made the nurses too sexually attractive, around their vulnerable, convalescing husbands.

Hollywood has done us a disservice by stereotyping nurses as either airheads or nymphomaniacs.

My application to Heather for a perfume waiver was summarily dismissed. In a way it didn’t seem to matter all that much. For several months, my personal body scent had been mysteriously changing from the normal male metallic odor, to a pleasant sweet aroma.

It isn’t that I don’t like the perfume. In fact, I love Grace as much as everyone else. But enough is enough. I hope they don’t come out with a similar directive for the doctors. I especially love the intoxicating after-shave Dr. Anist uses. Oh my, I’m not sure if I want Dr. Anist as attracted to my scent, as I am to his. Of course, he’s heterosexual. So - that isn’t really a problem.

I took stock of the nylons on my feet, my high-heeled shoes, the pink scrubs, the sensual perfume, my pixie hairdo with the ultra-feminine highlights, and my silk underthings. I’m starting to step over some lines. It’s time for a change. If Jenna’s “sweetener” is what I think it is, I need to make a move before some of the changes happening to my body become irreversible.

I called the headhunter, who immediately found a position for me at another hospital.

The only person at HealthWing who knew about my job offer was Jenna. I told her over a cup of tea she had fixed for me.

*****

A few days later, I scheduled an appointment with Heather to tell her I was taking the job at Nashville Center One. It would mean a promotion for me. . .and I could return to a children’s trauma ward – although leaving my babies troubled me more than what it once might have.

When I walked into Heather’s office at the pre-arranged time it was obvious that she had been crying. The pungent odor in her office made it apparent she had eaten something for lunch that included onions.

She looked up at me with eyes that lacked their usual confidence. “The hospital’s in real trouble.”

I swallowed hard. Even though I had made a firm decision to leave, my friends could be hurt, if HealthWing stumbled. And, I’m starting to have second thoughts about interrupting the process of change I’m going through. “I thought things were going good.”

“Oh, they are. But Major Wreath tells me the Justice Department is creating a huge case against us.” Her words sounded desperate. “We’re hanging on by our fingertips right now with what they think is our ‘gender disparity.’ If we lose even one more male employee, we stand to be fined.”

She also sounds strangely disconnected from her words. It’s as if she’s reading from a script.

“How large could that fine possibly be?” I asked, shocked by her high level of concern and her odd timbre. “Even a $500,000 fine wouldn’t be too much for HealthWing to withstand, given its recent profitability.”

“They’re suggesting an extremely punitive amount . . . in the area of $8 to $10 million,” she cried. “We’re under a hostile takeover attack by Southern Hospitals. If the Justice Department fines us, we won’t have the financial resources needed to stop Southern from acquiring us. They have a bad reputation for coming into a hospital and cutting staff to create immediate profits. They’re the ultimate black-hearted corporate raider, in a white lab coat.”

My heart flipped. I can’t be the one to pull the plug on all my co-workers. “Do you have a plan?”

“I’ve hired an outside consultant. She thinks we should start an aggressive male employee recruitment campaign. I don’t think we can hire any more male nurses given how things are here, but any orderlies or other staff we hire . . . will be men.” Her heavy gold jewelry jingled when she moved. She had exchanged her scrubs for a power suit that was as overstated as her outsized bracelets.

Major Wreath must be in town. She always makes a big effort to look more sophisticated for the meetings at the Airport Holiday Inn. He still prefers to meet only with Heather, and has never been to the hospital.

I need to talk to her about toning down her eye-shadow. She’s addicted to light blue, and it makes her look so old. The same goes for her fire-engine-red lipstick.

I also need to pee. I always need to pee these days. It almost seems like my prostate is shrinking.

“Why not turn back the clock and change the nurses’ rules. Things have gotten a little ridiculous.”

She looked at me with unmasked amazement. “Our nursing rules have made miraculous positive improvements, in this hospital. They’re my crowning achievements. Major Wreath has attributed every good thing we’ve done over the last eighteen months, since we changed the color of the scrubs -- to our new nurses’ rules. When things don’t go right, or things don’t happen fast enough for his liking, he blames it on NOT making enough changes, in how the nurses handle themselves.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t tell if Heather ever disagreed entirely with the Major. She could be very closed-minded and dogmatic.

“A nurse’s appearance,” she continued with a frown, “is as much a symbol of medicine as the caduceus.” She stiffened her shoulders as if to signal her resolve. “What was it you wanted to see me about?”

I can’t let everyone down.

“I was wondering if you wanted to go away for a weekend? Maybe we could spend four days in Savannah.” We had honeymooned in that quaint Georgia town.

She shuddered as if the cold in her office had finally gotten to her. “I don’t know when I’m going to be able to get away from the hospital, for any amount of time, for the next three to six months,” she answered flatly.

I didn’t quit my job with HealthWing.

Nor did I quit a week later when the memo came down banning all nurses from wearing any earrings other than studs. That didn’t bother me.

The part of the memo that made gold studs and pierced ears mandatory for every nurse did give me cause to consider how far I wanted to go down the road, with my feminization.

But I didn’t quit.

I almost did resign five months later when Heather, at the request of the Major, told all the nurses that fingernail polish would no longer be allowed and banned any artificial nails. The new rules stated that nail polish and acrylic nails were an invitation for bacteria and fungus. The hospital had decided that every nurse was to report to the hospital salon, once a week, for a high buff shine, on our natural nails. The hospital also required every nurse to have the same manicure, which kept our nails at a quarter of an inch. They said shorter nails would guard against the possibility of torn surgical gloves and scratched patients.

Of course, for me, the new rules actually meant longer nails. My hands, with lengthened nails – buffed so that looked like they were covered with a colorless lacquer -- seemed girlish.

If I don’t like it, I can always find someplace else to be a nurse.

Once again, even though I wanted to at times, I didn’t throw in the towel. My mother had been a strong woman, who taught me never to quit.

I can’t be the reason HealthWing’s fined . . . and consequently taken over.

*****

Several months later, Jenna, Dr. Anist, and I were enjoying a cup of tea together on a break. I noticed that Jenna didn’t put any of her special sweetener in Dr. Anist’s tea.

Of course . . . he doesn’t need to lose any weight. I’ve been drinking tea with Jenna, for about two years. “But for” her special sweetener I would be grossly overweight, by now. At least, that’s what she’s told me.

I hadn’t thought I weighed too much until Jenna convinced me that losing ten pounds would improve my overall health. She enrolled us in a yoga class, that soon became a three-time- a-week workout. My waist had gone down four inches. I still felt heavy through my hips and chest . . . that was where I had first noticed the accumulation of “sedentary flab” as Jenna called it.

Jenna had just gossiped about a new Resident in cardiology who was creating quite a stir with his heavy usage of room 214. It seemed he was keeping three nurses quite busy.

Dr. Anist shook his head ruefully before changing the topic. “Have you heard about the new nurses’ rules?”

Jenna and I both claimed ignorance.

“They seem a little drastic,” Dr. Anist opined.

“‘Drastic’ is commonplace at HealthWing,” I inserted. My voice seemed strange to me. Over the last few months, I had noticed that it consistently pitched about a half-octave higher than what it had been, a year or two ago. Jenna blamed it on the constant whispering we did around the sleeping babies. I smiled while I thought of the cuddly infants and how much I loved running my lips through the lanugo -- their fine soft hair. “All of us nurses should be mandated to wear garlic – to ward off any more new rules.”

Dr. Anist laughed.

He enjoys my humor, which makes me feel warm all over.

“I agree with the underpinning science, but why is it always the nurses who are targeted?” He asked. He looked at our questioning faces. “Oh . . . I’m sorry. You two haven’t seen the latest. The hospital now wants all the nurses to take special care, to remove all their body hair.”

“Huh?” That was all I could get out.

“Hair is horrible for harboring bacteria. That much I will agree,” he continued. “But why not have the surgeons shave their arms, if HealthWing really wants to attack that problem.”

He pulled a copy of the new directive out of his pocket. It had been folded into eighths.

Jenna and I read it in silence.

After I had digested the new rules I sat back and sighed. “It says they’re going to give us a starter box with all the supplies we’ll need . . . and replenish, as needed, for free.”

He reached into another pocket and pulled out more folded paper. “Here’s the list: A supply of Lady Bics, rose-scented shaving cream, Nair, Braun Epilator, body lotion, and body wash. Why body lotion and body wash?”

“I use them every time I shave,” Jenna explained. “They soften the stubble, on my legs.”

Dr. Anist and I nodded. But I don’t think we really understood.

I don’t have a lot of body hair. But the idea of a bald torso seems unfamiliar.

I turned to Dr. Anist and tried not to think of the old joke about his name, which reminded me how attractive he looked. “Do you think shaving our bodies is a positive step for our patients’ health?”

He chuckled from deep within his broad chest. “I think the impact will be minimal. I doubt that the AMA stays awake nights thinking about it. Actually, with your fair skin, you might look more organic, without that peach fuzz on your arms.”

Jenna agreed much too enthusiastically.

“Don’t get me wrong.” He beamed. “You look very nice as you are. It’s like nit-picking the Mona Lisa, for the color of her gown. But I’ll voice my opinion anyway. It’s just that following the new directive might be a step toward being more natural, for you.”

Jenna kicked me lightly under the table, while grinning.

If shaving my body is required for continuing my work as a nurse, I’m going to do it right and sign up for electrolysis, in the hospital salon. That’ll reduce the time I’d have to spend dragging a razor across my skin. My beard has always been so spotty. I might as well get rid of it entirely. For some reason, it doesn’t seem as thick as it once was. On the other hand, I had noticed a thinning of hair at my temples a year ago, but that seems to have stopped. My father had a widow’s peak. I had been worried that I inherited his male pattern baldness. It’s all so confusing because at the same time the hair on top of my head is thicker.

I’m pretty sure I know what’s happening to me and why. But I’m content to let things play out.

Jenna got up to leave. She had told us she could only stay a few minutes because she was attending a special patient. “I don’t think many of the nurses will find this new rule to be much of an ordeal. Shaving my legs is a soothing ritual. I can remember the first time I ran a razor over my legs. What a sensual rush. It was so liberating. I’m happy to have the hospital pick up the tab for my personal items. If that’s what they want.”

What’s next? I thought. Are they going to demand that all the nurses put their feet up into stirrups, for a staff gynecologist to do a pelvic exam? Maybe I should check to see if Nashville Center One still wants me?

A week earlier Heather had astonished me by giving me a pearl necklace and matching earrings for Christmas. She said her gift was in appreciation for all the help I had given her in making HealthWing much more profitable. I had been so flabbergasted all I could do was mutter a terse “Thank you.” Although they were unbelievably lovely, I stuck them in the drawer in my closet with several other “unexplainables.”

After Jenna left, Dr. Anist once again changed the subject. “You seem to love your job.”

I grinned. “Is it that obvious?”

His smile displayed a set of incredibly sexy teeth. “It is. I don’t know any other nurse who seems so well-suited and content.”

His voice is so deep and inviting. I would love to lie with my head on his chest and listen to it rumble. He couldn’t be any more masculine. He’s so wise for someone who’s a couple of years younger than me.

“Those dear babies make it easy to come to work. The unbound joy in the eyes of the new parents is intoxicating. The preemies are so needy. But we’re doing great things, and their survival rate is charting nicely toward new highs.” The excitement in my voice made me blush. “I’m sorry, I get carried away. I hear about young mothers who have what they call ‘disappointing births.’ To me, that seems like an oxymoron.”

“Exactly!” He laughed. His enchanting eyes gleamed. “You’re great with newborns. It’s like you were born with a gift for nurturing.”

He’s looking right into my heart.

“It hurts me to see any little ones have such daunting problems,” I said. “It’s so sad when they have to be in an incubator when they should be in their mothers’ arms. Those that have trauma – like the breech babies, need so much soothing. It’s nice to be there, for them.”

“HealthWing is lucky to have you.” He stood and placed his hand on my shoulder while he spoke. “I feel genuinely blessed to be able to work on the same staff with nurses like you.” His hand gave me a squeeze.

The flesh that he touched burned with a desire for more intimate contact. I shifted in my chair and felt the exquisite softness of my panties. My smile overextended my face.

There’s no way I’m ever going to voluntarily leave HealthWing and the chance to work with Dr. Anist!

*****

Four weeks later, I had found that keeping my body hair-free was actually quite calming, as Jenna had predicted. My ultra-smooth legs glided together in bed, at night, adding even more pleasure.

One day, on duty in the nursery, I tried without much luck to quiet a colicky baby. We have four rockers we can use, and some nights they aren’t enough.

“I’m pretty sure this baby is unhappy with his blanket.” I looked up from the baby I was rocking. He was swaddled in a blue blanket. We used pink for the girls.

It doesn’t take many weeks of working in a nursery to notice that newborns arrive complete with personalities. Once you grasped that wisdom, it became readily apparent that their plumbing didn’t always match their attitudes.

HealthWing delivered an average of eight to nine babies a day. About every six to eight months, a baby would be born who defied gender designation. No one talked much about it. Not even an avowed pill-pusher like Jenna had meds to correct that problem.

At least, not any she’s willing to discuss publicly.

Everyone seemed determined to perpetuate the myth of two distinct genders, in the face of absolute proof to the contrary.

Even more commonplace were babies like the one I held. About every other week we would greet a new baby who just didn’t want to accept the gender role society had assigned. The frustrated infants listened for as long as they could to proud grandparents, uncles and aunts, moms and dads, sisters and brothers. . .going on and on about how their baby was going to be an ultimate wrestler or beauty queen. . .all based on the color of their blanket.

Once those poor little darlings put things together and realize what a cruel joke has been played on them they cry . . . and cry . . . and cry.

We lied to their mothers, telling them their baby “just has a fussy stomach” – but we knew it was gender dysphoria.

“You’re a magician,” I whispered to Jenna. Her baby had been screaming a few minutes before but had surrendered to her efforts and now was sleeping like a . . . baby.

“It’s not ‘magic’ at all.” Jenna beamed at me. “My mother used to tell me that the most comfortable thing about a house is its front porch.”

“Huh?”

She giggled. “I have a 36C advantage over you. Babies seem to love nestling against my breasts.”

I nodded in unhappy silence, envious of Jenna.

“You could fix that, you know.”

“That’s one hospital rule I’ll never go along with.” I smirked at the thought of Heather’s overbearing memos. “It’s really only a matter of time before Major Wreath comes up with the bright idea that all nurses have to undergo breast enhancement so that we’re all 36Cs. Of course, if I get any fatter the babies will think I actually have breasts.” I looked down at the two bumps that had formed on my chest over the recent years.

I suppose it might be part of getting older. But there’s a more logical answer surfacing.

“You can be a better nurse for the babies without having surgery to enhance your chest,” Jenna stated as if implants were an option for me. “All it would take is a prosthesis. . .or two.”

“You’re not suggesting. . ..” My mouth dropped open.

“Sure I am. The babies love to feel my breasts. You know how babies seek stimulation. I suppose it has to do with their natural feeding instincts. Their little fingers are constantly groping me.” She looked pleased.

I shook my head. “I never thought of it. I suppose you’re right.”

“Sure. . .,” she went on, “I’ll bet you a dinner at the restaurant of your choice that you’ll be more soothing for the babies, if you wear prostheses that simulate breasts.”

“Wear? I thought you meant surgery! Even so. . ..” I laughed. But I stopped abruptly when I noted the serious look on her face. “You’re not kidding!”

She shrugged. “What’s the big deal? You’re the only nurse at HealthWing that doesn’t wear a bra. It’s about time you left the dark side and joined us.”

“I’m not Darth Vader. But I’m not Princess Leia either.” My laugh was more of a nervous giggle. “Do I really have to wear a bra to do my job as proficiently as possible?”

“What do you want to do . . . staple the prostheses to your chest? I suppose we could use surgical glue. But are you willing to make a commitment to wearing them twenty-four hours a day for a month, or so, until the glue breaks down?”

I shuddered. “No!”

“When I first got my breasts, I was amazed at how the world reacted to me. You’ll love the difference.”

“Maybe. . .?” was all I could say.

“Okay then . . . tomorrow I’ll stop by the dispensary and pick up your prostheses. Then I’ll loan you one of my over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders.”

*****

At first, Heather seemed perplexed by what I wanted to do. We spent hours talking about it. She warned me that many people, herself included, would think of me quite differently, if I wore a bra and assumed a female shape.

It angered me that she and others would try to stand between me and my adapting, to become a better nurse.

After we talked it through, she saw my need to do what was best for HealthWing and begrudgingly agreed.

The babies melted into my new shape like butter on hot pancakes. I was hooked when the first tiny face stared into mine with rapt attention as if looking at her mother. My effectiveness went way up. So did my job satisfaction, which I would have thought impossible. I practically purred my way, through my shifts.

Jenna said my prostheses were actually what women called “cheaters.” “You might already have enough natural fat on your chest for your bra to form a “front porch” without a lot of extra help.”

At least, that fat has some purpose. My butt is getting larger and larger and no amount of dieting and exercise seems to help. It seems like my subcutaneous fat is changing. At the same time, what little muscle mass I once had has gone away. There doesn’t seem to be much doubt that my suspicions about what Jenna has been sneaking into my tea are correct.

Much to my surprise I actually liked the feel of a bra strapped securely to my chest. Jenna only had to make slight adjustments to tighten the straps of her bra, for it to fit me like a glove. I had always thought of Jenna as a small woman. But I was actually tinier than her.

After a few highly satisfactory days, I went to Victoria’s Secret and bought several bras of my own. They were prettier than the one Jenna had given me and seemed more to my individual taste. I also bought a couple of bras that fit me without the “cheaters.” My chest had been hurting from my flab bouncing around, and it just felt much better to have things secured. I allowed the saleslady to think of me as a woman, which was not a tough task.

Over our usual cup of tea, Jenna suggested a possible explanation for why the feel of a bra suited me, as much as it did. “Babies like to be swaddled in a tight blanket. Next to sucking and feeding, being held tight is what they like best. Being held is natural. Why shouldn’t you like the feel a bra? You’re simply satisfying one of your basic instincts.”

That makes good sense. The guilt derived from drawing pleasure from a taboo piece of cloth dispersed.

“Besides,” Jenna giggled, “maybe having a better figure will give you the confidence needed to do something about Dr. Anist.”

I could feel my face turning crimson. “I’m married,” I protested guiltily.

“And . . . if you weren’t?” She grinned impishly.

“Do you think. . .. Are you suggesting that Dr. Anist is gay?”

“You’re more of a woman than most of the other nurses. What makes you think Dr. Anist would have to be gay, to have fallen in love with you?”

My excitement got the best of me. “Do you think he’s in love with me. . .? Don’t kid me. Do you think it’s. . ..” I closed my eyes, realizing I had clearly exposed my innermost feelings for Steve . . . er . . . Dr. Anist.

When had I started to think of him as “Steve?” “Please, Jenna, don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. I would just die if anyone besides you would ever find out.”

“Everyone already knows.” She patted my hand. “Your twinkling eyes when he’s around have told the world.”

I bit my lip. “Do you think Heather has heard?” I don’t want to hurt Heather. I’ll stay far away from Steve . . . er . . . Dr. Anist.

“I doubt that Heather knows about anything,” Jenna said bitterly. “She doesn’t seem to see beyond her freaking corporate balance sheets. All she cares about is making sure HealthWing maximizes its profit potential.”

“That’s not true,” I argued. What Jenna said about Heather sounded so honest! Jenna is excellent at reading people. “Heather cares about a lot of things.”

“Ohhhhh? When’s the last time you two did the horizontal waltz?”

I shook my head to end our conversation. But Jenna wouldn’t allow me that courtesy.

She gave me a calculating look. “I saw you and Dr. Anist standing outside room 214, last Tuesday. We’re you two trying to work up the nerve to go in?”

“What? Heavens no! In fact, I asked him if he thought it was appropriate for the HealthWing staff to be using that room, for sexual encounters.”

“Really? That was pretty suggestive of you.” She leered.

“Jenna. . .. Really!”

She didn’t stop her prying. “What did Dr. ‘Love’ say to your sexual advances?”

“Oh . . . you’re too much. Okay, if you’ll stop your nonsense I’ll tell you. He said something like, ‘I think people who truly love one another should express their passion, in more romantic settings.’ And, I think he’s absolutely right.”

Her face lit up. “Did he ask you to go with him to a ‘romantic setting?’”

“No,” I gasped.

Jenna needs to mind her own business! It’s bad enough that I allow her to feed me all those drugs.

She grinned. “You sound much more disappointed than shocked.” With that she turned and left a trail of giggles behind her, while she moved down the hall, toward the elevator. “Shall I hold the elevator or will you be going down . . . with Dr. Anist?”

*****

A few weeks later, I was presented with another positive reason to wear breast prostheses. With them in place, I looked a lot like a woman, which saved me some of the embarrassment I would have otherwise felt because of the latest directive.

Heather had passed along Major Wreath’s newest demand. According to her memo, the use of cosmetics in our hospital ranged from horrid to worse. She said those who should have been using make-up -- weren’t. And many of those who did use it, often applied it improperly.

Our weekly trips to the salon for manicures were to be stepped up. We were instructed to make a mandatory stop at the hospital salon, before every shift, until further notice. We would have our faces done, until we had learned enough about skillfully using make-up to pass our shift administrator’s scrutiny. The hospital would have two dozen cosmetologists, on hand, to train us.

I have no chance of getting out of wearing face powder and other things unless all the nurses act together to reject this latest infringement on our personal privacy. I’m not sure I want them to rebel against this directive. Wearing a little make-up would seem to be the next likely step for me.

Fifteen of us arranged a meeting in the third-floor nurses’ lounge. HealthWing had redecorated our lounge to make it much more feminine. Nurses’ “lounge” is a misnomer -- because we never do.

Sandra started things off by reading the offensive memo. “HealthWing is committed to presenting a professional, neat, and clean image for our patients, their families, and other visitors. As staff members, we represent the hospital to everyone who enters. We can contribute to the hospital’s image by taking pride in our own personal appearance.”

“What do they think?” Juanita asked. “Do they think for one minute that we have no pride? I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. My unit has certain guidelines. But none that say anything about make-up. I do want to say that I’m so-o-o glad that nurses are no longer allowed to wear any color -- or pattern -- scrub that they want. One nurse was wearing a fluorescent yellow, and I thought it looked very unprofessional. Others wore crazy, loud prints that also looked unprofessional. I think this strict uniform policy that they put in a couple of years back, makes us look very nice and . . . uhm . . . professional.”

I’ve worked dozens of shifts late at night, with Juanita. She is on the heavy side. Her husband once asked her why nurses are so big. She told him that it took a huge heart to be a nurse and a big body to hold a XXXL heart.

Christina stood -- a popular nurse, who was famous for her giving nature. She often offered other girls rides home, who were too exhausted to drive . . . even though she was just as tired.

I had accepted a ride, not long ago. Christina had taken the opportunity to tell me she thought all the changes at HealthWing had made me a nicer co-worker and had enhanced my performance on the floor. She also told me that she thought what I was doing was the right thing.

“I think as long as skin, hair, and nails are clean . . . and of neat appearance, a requirement to wear make-up is both pointless and impossibly vague. Who decides how much make-up is ‘enough?’ Who decides what shade of foundation or lipstick is ‘right?’ I think it’s a stupid rule. The first two years I worked in intensive care . . . both years I got dinged on my annual evaluation, for not styling my hair. I had long, shiny healthy hair.”

She fingered her pixie cut, which looked almost exactly like mine, as did the hair on several others, in the room. “My supervisor at the time had short, spiked hair that she had teased the life out of . . . that I thought looked ugly. In the comments section of the second evaluation, I wrote that I would like clarification of expectations for hairstyles. I had searched the employee handbook and failed to find mention where one style is preferable to another. Voila, no more catty hair comments on my evals.”

I’ve never worked with Christina, but she seems sweet. Her make-up looks great. I wonder how she gets her eyebrows to look so neat. Mine are so bushy. I’m going to do something to mine to make them look as neat as hers. How would Heather react if I plucked a few stray and unruly hairs? I could ask Jenna, but I know what she would say. She’d only push me harder toward becoming more of a woman.

“I think it’s kind of ridiculous for them to require us to wear makeup!” Jenna said, although her tone somehow suggested she might feel otherwise. “It was just the opposite when I was in clinicals...we were warned NOT to wear too much.”

“It’s been a long time since I was in nursing school,” Sandra said, “but for three years and every time we went on duty our clinical instructor always reminded us to wear make-up. They said it would look nice to look pretty, for the patients. At least, then when we faced them we not only were giving them a warm, comforting, and caring smile, but also with a face that seemed to brighten a sick person’s day. So I think make-up may help. But I don't put too much on though. So that I don't look like a clown, after a sweaty day on duty.”

“I’ll say,” Nicole added. “A lot of my shifts are dealing with the geriatric population. They seem to like to keep their rooms the temperature of the sun. By the time I’m done with their A.M. ADL’s I’m dripping. If I have to wear make-up doing that, I’ll end up looking like some Stephen King clown character.”

“I know, Honey,” Julie added. “Back before we got our new scrubs, I’d run around so much in Emergency that I sometimes had to use my shoulder-arm to wipe my face . . . and bam . . . foundation all over my whites, all day long. How embarrassing!! It happened more than once, believe it or not. So I just quit wearing it . . . and, Honey . . . some days it’s hard to tell me from some of the deathly ill.”

Laura smiled and got to her feet. Her recent divorce had caused her to miss a lot of shifts, which sucked. “Personally, I like to wear make-up because I feel better when I do. But I don't feel it should be a requirement. While we’re on the subject, I want to suggest a GREAT foundation for those who have a sweating problem. Sephora sells a face and body foundation by the brand Make Up For Ever. It is very lightweight but buildable if you want more coverage and it is sweat-proof. I’m a paramedic and the foundation hasn't budged in the heat and humidity. It’s also great on my O.R. rotation, where I have to wear a mask. It won't rub off. It is expensive -- but well worth it.”

“I don’t want to be thinking about my make-up instead of taking care of my patients.” It was a surprise that Kelly spoke at all because she rarely said anything other than what was needed to do her job. “Doesn’t this new rule sort of play right into the pretty-girl-looking-for-a-husband picture. I would think you’re on the floor to take care of the patients, not to be a gussied-up looking for a date.”

“I don’t think,” Jenna offered, “that HealthWing wants us to be ‘gussied-up’.”

Margie stood looking quite angry. She was one of the many nurses who had to go out on the roof deck, to smoke. “This is ridiculous. I don’t wear make-up. . .never have. I have no clue how to put it on. I’ll look like a crazy woman coming into a patient’s room, if I have to wear make-up. Not to mention I break out from most of that stuff.”

If she’s never worn it, how does she know she breaks out? I saw Steve and Margie standing together and laughing the other day; and I wanted to scratch her eyes out. Strange!

“Have you ever tried tinted moisturizer?” Christina asked helpfully. “Maybe a little bronzer and a touch of mascara wouldn’t hurt.”

Margie still looked angry -- but nodded.

“I don’t have perfect skin -- like Jim,” Jenna started.

Everyone turned to look at me.

“It’s not perfect,” I said shyly. But I felt delighted they thought my skin was nice.

“Every girl in this room would love to have your face,” Jenna argued.

Several nodded.

“I have to wear something every once in awhile to cover-up my zits. If I wear a concealer, I want to use a little foundation . . . and one thing leads to another.” Jenna grinned.

I don’t remember her ever having acne. Jenna knows how to get things done around the hospital. She’ll tell us what to do.

“I don’t want to look like a chorus girl,” Juanita said. “That would be so unprofessional.”

“I don’t think that’s what HealthWing wants for us,” Jenna said. “From what I hear they’re going to go top shelf, buying the good stuff from Sephora. I also heard they found something from Bare Escentuals, which is a foundation that is really resistant to sweating. The people I talked to said we would only be required to use a little foundation, some eyeliner, mascara, and our choice of gloss or lipstick. The cosmetics they’ll provide are all supposed to be hypoallergenic.”

“Does anyone know anything about tattooed eyeliner?” Juanita asked. “My mother said her friend had it done and loves it. But it supposedly hurts a lot to have it done.”

The disgusted looks around the room suggested the idea of having tattoos near their eyes wasn’t going to be very popular.

“Me,” Cynthia said, “I can’t leave the house without mascara. I have these blonde eyelashes, and if I don’t use mascara, it looks as if I am one sick puppy.”

I wonder if I have the same problem?

“I have uneven skin,” Julie said. “If they can find something that doesn’t come off on my scrubs it would be lovely.”

“It sounds like they’ve solved that problem,” Jenna said quickly. “I don’t think this new rule is much of a change. I had a nurse manager once who knew exactly what make-up I wore to work. She said I needed to wear make-up to work for that ‘professional appearance.’ It does become part of your evaluation if those grading you believe that makeup looks ‘professional.’”

“If they want us to look ‘professional,’” Juanita argued, “They should concentrate on ongoing education. Being a nurse isn’t like being a contestant in a beauty contest.”

Margie looked determined. “When I worked at Nashville Center One they tried something like this. We simply said all the women would wear make-up . . . as soon as the male nurses were required to put on lipstick and eye-shadow.”

One by one the other nurses seemed to remember me. They peered at me with expectation. Their faces took in my feminine shape, aided by the prostheses I wore to make the babies happier.

Each face that had spoken against make-up . . . fell.

“I guess we might as well get used to the idea,” Jenna said brightly.

It might be a cool adventure.

Jenna took me aside and whispered in my ear. “Don’t worry about it. Make-up is easy to use. I started later in life than most. After a couple of weeks, it seemed like second nature.”

*****

I never would have thought it possible. But two months after the make-up rule went into effect I actually opted to wear lipstick fulltime rather than gloss. It felt so much more natural. Jenna had been right again. It almost felt like I was walking in her footsteps. It was so natural for me to use make-up that if I didn’t refresh my lipstick often enough during the day, my lips became dry and icky.

My reflection in the mirror behind the nurses’ station smiled radiantly, while I admired the perfection of my make-up. The clock had just clicked by midnight. I turned slightly from side to side, checking my figure. I do have pretty skin!

“Oh -- my goodness,” Heather exclaimed from behind me. She grabbed me by the arm and yanked me into the first empty patient’s room she found.

“What’s going on?” I blushed when I noted how easily she had overpowered me. What’s she doing in the hospital this late at night?

She carefully closed the door behind us, before she spoke.

“I’ve been hearing things,” she said firmly.

She’s heard about my feelings for Steve! But how? I’ve stayed clear of him as much as possible. Dr. Anist and I have hardly spoken to each other in weeks.

“Twice last week, I heard visitors to the nursery address you as ‘Miss’.”

What? “Of course, they did!” It’s rare when I’m not addressed as “Miss”, even by the hospital personnel.

“Just look at you,” Heather hissed. “You embarrass me, with what you’ve become.”

“I embarrass YOU?” I don’t believe her. She’s never felt guilt or shame, in her life!

“For sure!” Her face was contorted in anger. “You’re making it very hard for me, to continue, to stand between you and our disciplinary board.”

“The disciplinary board? On what grounds?”

“Your appearance, Jim. Your appearance puts this hospital’s reputation in jeopardy, every time you wiggle your behind down our halls.”

I don’t wiggle! And, if I do, it’s because of the shoes I’m forced to wear. It’s been weeks since I’ve given how I look a second thought. In my mind, I’ve become one of the girls.

“How can you blame me for my appearance?” As Director of Medicine, Heather is the chair of the Disciplinary Board.

“Let’s not make this into a scene any worse than it is.” She reached toward me.

For a second, I thought she was going to console me by holding my hand. It would have been the first time we had touched, in months. She slept in our guest bedroom, claiming she didn’t want to disturb me when she came in late after business meetings that often lasted into the night. Sometimes she didn’t even make it home. Our schedules never matched. We were coming and going at strange hours.

“I’ve decided you need to protect HealthWing by wearing this nametag,” she told me sternly.

I looked to her hand and saw she wasn’t moving to touch, but to thrust a hard, plastic strip toward me. I took it and read the name. “Who’s ‘Olivia’?”

“You are . . . Olivia,” she answered with a surprising uncertainty. “You need a name that matches what people think you are. We can’t have a ‘Jim’ running around the halls of HealthWing checking his lipstick.”

She saw me! Wait. . .. Why shouldn’t I check my make-up?

“HealthWing made it mandatory that I use cosmetics.”

“And it was a great idea. I’ve heard nothing but very positive comments about how much better you nurses look.” Her face flashed sadness for a moment and then ire. She pointed a finger at me. “You could have been a man about it and refused - - or used the bare minimum. No one said you had to get all prissy about it. Lot’s of men . . . metrosexuals . . . wear make-up or use a lip balm. But they don’t preen in front of mirrors, and they don’t pile on the lipstick, like you do.”

“I don’t use too much lipstick,” I said petulantly. Wow! “Heather this is ridiculous. You stuck me in pink scrubs.”

She closed her eyes in thought, before answering calmly. “You started down this path years ago, at Yale. I should have known it would come to this.” Again, her face showed sadness and regret. “Those scrubs are unisex. . .and the color is ‘carnation.’ I don’t recall telling you to wear silk camisoles.”

“They’re silk undershirts.”

“Uh-huh.” She sneered. “They’re silk undershirts with lace trim.”

Lately the undershirts Jenna’s given me have been more feminine. But that was to match my other lingerie. “You demanded that I get a girlish hairdo!” I wailed. “The nylon stockings and panties. . .. I’m wearing them because of your rules.”

“No one can see those.” She gestured angrily at me, tossing her hands in the air. “Are you trying to claim that people are mistaking you for a woman because of something that can’t even see? That’s irrational. There are plenty of orderlies with hair much longer than yours. No one thinks they’re anything but men. You could have fought the changes.”

She’s right. But everything seemed to be for the best. I became a better nurse . . . and a better person every time I moved toward a more feminine world.

I shrugged both shoulders. “What about the mandatory ear studs?” Despite an effort to sound forceful, my voice seemed reedy and weak.

“Where have you been the last twenty years . . . under a rock? Men wear studs in their ears. You’re amazing. I knew you didn’t have what it takes to be a surgeon. But I never before realized your unlimited capacity for self-delusion.”

“I’m not ‘self-deluded,’” I argued indignantly.

“No? What about your voice?” She asked with a smirk. “When we were married your voice was only slightly higher than it should be.” She laughed nastily. “I used to bet with my girlfriends about when you would finally go through puberty.”

My voice has always been higher than any of my friends. But no one made anything out of it, that I know of. “All the nurses in Neo-natal have higher voices than when they started. We have to whisper so much it strains our voices. It’s an occupational hazard.”

“I suppose that’s also why all you ever talk about is girlish things . . . like how much you l-o-v-e babies.”

Of course, I love babies. What’s so wrong with that?

“If only my mother hadn’t been so insistent on me marrying, into the Nunn family!”

Her mother did push us together. Her father wanted her to marry a surgeon, and her mother was enamored with my family’s social position.

“I was in love with marrying someone like my daddy. I wanted someone rich and powerful. You’ve got the money. But who’s ever heard of a powerful nurse? I could have married any one of a dozen men at Yale, who became leaders in their hospitals.” A tear escaped from her right eye.

I opted to ignore it. “I won’t wear this name tag. You can’t make me do that!”

Her eyes flashed. “It’s for the best. I’ve watched people . . . patients and visitors . . .. They take one look at your nametag and react adversely.”

“Are you sure? I haven’t heard people complain.”

She waved a stack of papers at me she had taken out of her attaché. “Oh . . . I’m sure. Most of them are so confused by your appearance that they think you’re a woman who’s trying to change into a man.” She stuck the papers back into her briefcase before I could look at them. “Oh. . . ,” she allowed, “you can’t really help who you are . . . I suppose. But people are talking. You . . . you need to wear the nametag. It’s the right thing.”

I can’t. Maybe when things have run their course. But I’m not ready. “I would wear the nametag, if I had initiated the problem,” I insisted. “But with the female scent HealthWing has me use. . ..”

She spoke quietly but with determination. “Olivia . . . that perfume is so delicate people hardly even notice it. Besides . . . Olivia . . . you and I both know it’s your figure that has people thinking you’re a woman. No one ordered you to wear falsies.”

I blushed furiously. “It’s for the babies. The babies like it,” I whined.

“So do the men,” she said bitterly. Her eyes flashed intense ire. “So do the men,” she repeated much more softly. “I’ve seen you thrusting your chest out at the male doctors, especially Dr. Anist.”

“We. . .we’re friends. We’re just friends,” I countered, knowing too well that my mortified tone told a much different story. I wouldn’t mind being more than friends with Steve. But it’s not meant to be.

“Sure, sure . . . if you were really a woman, you’d know just how short a step it is from ‘friends’ to ‘friends with benefits.’ Admit it,” she demanded heatedly. “Admit that you dream about having sex with Dr. Anist. You do, don’t you?”

Only every night! I opened my mouth, but couldn’t find the words to deny what was so desperately true. I love the simple pleasure of looking up into his face. Oh my, I really am becoming a problem for HealthWing!

Jenna had told me earlier in the evening that she had heard from a friend of hers who works at Nashville Center One in their personnel department. She told Jenna how happy they were that they hadn’t hired me, given my “peculiar” behavior.

I don’t have the options open to me I once had. If I want to continue in nursing, I have to conform to Heather’s orders. I replaced my “Jim” nametag with the one imprinted with “Olivia.” “Olivia it is,” I said sweetly, in an attempt to be derisive.

Heather demanded my old nametag and then slammed it into a waste can next to the hospital bed. Another tear escaped Heather’s eye. “We have to talk.”

The tone of her voice scared me. Is this where my career in medicine ends?

“I’m tired of being your ‘beard,’” she said, sounding exhausted.

“‘Beard?’” I asked in a whisper, which was all I could muster.

“That’s what you people call your spouse isn’t it?”

You people? “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I protested.

“‘You people,’” she repeated slowly, “get married to mask your homosexual lifestyle. Are you going to try to tell me that you don’t have homosexual feelings for Dr. Anist? Do you think I’m blind?”

I hung my head. His hand had accidentally grazed mine the day before when we were consulting about a patient -- and my knees had nearly buckled. I luckily had spare panties in my locker, or the rest of my shift would have been uncomfortable . . . and sticky.

“The other day I rode in an elevator with two young volunteers. They were talking about an exceptionally pretty nurse, in their unit. It took me a moment to realize they were talking about you. I was mortified!”

She stood with her hands on her hips. But her face clearly showed her sadness about what she was going to say. “I want a divorce.”

Each word tore into me.

“I’ve been home all evening packing your things,” she said. “I found an apartment for you on Maple Street. The movers are taking your things there as we speak.”

I sat on the bed . . . dejected.

“It’s all for the best, Olivia.”

Olivia? Who’s Olivia?

Oh yeah . . . that’s me.

Heather called the desk and summoned Jenna to the room we were in.

Somehow my friend got me into a cab.

After a short ride, I found myself at my new apartment.

Jenna had come along. She gave me a sedative and put me on the couch covered with a blanket.

*****

I took several days off -- and cried my eyes numb. Although I knew in my heart that my marriage to Heather had ended long before she tossed me out, it was hard not to blame myself for making her miserable.

I also grieved for that part of me I had tossed aside . . . the “Jim” Heather had married. The bridges to my past had been burned.

Heather had a valid point. We had made a pact to become surgeons. My decision to become an RN had been right for me . . . and wrong for her. Our wedding vows had been uttered under false pretenses. Heather had married me for all the wrong reasons. But I had abetted her crimes by feigning to be male.

Jenna came to my apartment every day to do what she could to make me feel better. She seemed to know my thoughts, as well, or better, than I did.

I felt like such a complete fool because of my inability to control my emotions. On the hospital floor, I had to be such a rock in order to do the constant math required to carefully monitor the prescribed meds we gave to patients – especially amid the chaos around us. Yet, my reaction to being evicted by Heather, and to accepting my fate, was to melt into a blubbering puddle.

It felt bizarre to give in to my bottled-up feelings. But in some ways, the tears seemed cathartic and helped me think much more clearly than I had for years.

Who am I, really? Am I a fit nurse? Am I better off now than I was four years ago?

*****

I watched Jenna approach with yet another mug. “Are you sure the drugs you added are the proper dosage?”

Jenna stopped in her tracks and almost dropped the tea she had prepared. “I . . . uhhhh. . ..”

“Are you giving me enough Premarin? Aidactone? Provera? Androcur?”

Her face affirmed what I had known all along. But she did not answer.

Even though I had given tacit approval I can’t resist blaming her . . . at least a little. What she did was irresponsible.

“For goodness sakes, Jenna. Don’t you think I realized long ago that something was interfering with my body’s testosterone and DHT production. You must be using some form of antigonadictropic, given what’s happened to me.”

She blushed furiously and sat down. Her eyes went to the tea she was holding. Her chinned quivered.

“Can’t you finally be honest, Jenna?” I accused. “I can only imagine the large doses of androgen receptor blockers, estrogen, and androgen I’ve ingested. Those supposed B-12 shots you’ve been giving me. . .they weren’t really B-12, were they?”

She bit her lip. But remained silent.

“There’s no reason to deny it. Did you think I wouldn’t notice my skin becoming softer and less coarse? Or the way my body fat has been redistributed away from my waist to my buttocks, thighs, and chest. How could have I missed the softening of my facial features, the reduction of body hair, my emotional swings, the changes in my voice. . ..”

She finally spoke. “I don’t think the drugs had anything to do with your voice.”

I nodded. “I suppose that really is due to all the whispering we do at work -- and me naturally mimicking all my co-workers. Speaking of whispering – what I don’t understand is why the other nurses didn’t talk to me, about how much I was changing.”

“I took great care to tell each of them that you were transitioning and really didn’t want to talk about it. Everyone loves you so much they respected your wishes . . . or, what I told them were your wishes.”

My head slowly went up and down. “Didn’t you think about the potential for me, to become sterile? Did you really want me to grow breasts?”

She stared at me sadly. “It wasn’t about what I wanted.”

“I suppose not. You’re my fairy godmother, granting wishes I never made.”

“Jim, I never. . ..”

I cut her off with a raised hand. “It’s ‘Olivia’ now . . . and probably always was ‘Olivia.’” I sighed. “Am I done growing, or will my breasts get any bigger?”

“Transgendered women vary greatly in their breast development.” She seemed relieved to be talking clinically. “The truth is, Honey, all women vary greatly. My sister is as flat as a board. And I’m more than amply endowed. The chances of you exceeding a B cup are small. But some who have been on the medicinal regimen you’re on have continued to grow, for about ten years.”

“My areola have enlarged in direct proportion to the size of my breasts,” I stated, realizing I was happy that had happened.

“That’s normal. I suppose your nipples are bigger as well.”

“Uh-huh.” And they’re oh, so sensitive.

“When did you figure it out?” She asked.

“I thought something was wrong when I found nodules forming behind my nipples. At first, I feared cancer. But that cream you gave me helped so much to relieve the dull pain I actually went into denial that anything was happening. I measured my chest every week with a tape, to make sure I wasn’t growing. My overall chest measurement didn’t change all that much. For months, I didn’t take into consideration that I was losing muscle mass just as fast as I was sprouting breasts.”

“That cream actually helps your breasts grow. Do you still use it?”

“Sure – it’s become a daily habit. You gave me a lifetime supply.” I did my best to keep a stern look on my face, even though my ire had long ago faded. “I had my suspicions almost right away when you insisted on fixing so much tea, and were using your own ‘sweetener.’ My antennae went way up when I started to become so physically attracted to Steve.

At first, I had thoughts about being a latent homosexual. I started to read about males who react to male pheromones and then ran across studies of that being a normal occurrence in males taking hormones before they have sex reassignment surgery.

My . . . ah . . . male parts rarely get hard anymore. But I’m inches away from an orgasm all day long daydreaming about him.” With considerable effort, I pulled myself away from an erotic thought about Steve. “Jenna, you had no right.”

She straightened her shoulders. “You were so miserable,” she asserted.

“I suppose. But that didn’t give you the license. . .. Speaking of license. . .didn’t you give any thought to losing yours?”

“You’re my friend,” she said quite simply.

“Did you assume our friendship would keep me from reporting you to the authorities?” I asked incredulously.

“No. . ..” A tear trickled down her cheek. “Whatever happens to me was unavoidable. I couldn’t. . .I couldn’t allow a friend of mine to be so sad.”

I understand. “Were you afraid that I would commit suicide?’ I whispered. “That’s it. Your brother was a transsexual, wasn’t he?”

She nodded.

“And . . . you took it upon yourself to fill me full of drugs to create these changes to my body. I don’t know whether to scream for the police . . . or . . . I just don’t know.”

“Good things have happened to your body,” she insisted. “For example, you now have the advantages the genetic female population enjoys with respect to much lower probability of arteriosclerotic plaque disease and much better cardiovascular conditions.”

I shook my head at the mental stretch she had made. “That’s precious little justification, to offset chemical castration.”

She looked away. When she turned toward me again her face was contorted in pain. “There’s a lot more you need to know.”

“Like what?”

“For one thing, I was being helped by a psychotherapist who led me throughout the process, to simultaneously be your helper, teacher, and guide.”

She thinks she’s Yoda! “Anything else?”

She sighed. For the next ten minutes, she told me how my physical condition had been monitored for over three years, through the blood and urine tests, and much more importantly -- how she had influenced Heather.

Each and every change the hospital enacted -- that made my appearance more feminine -- had been Jenna’s idea, carried out by Heather.

Heather is actually Jenna’s pawn! “Does Major Wreath even exist?” I asked.

“He does,” Jenna claimed, her eyes going wide. “He’s a real person. I suggested to Heather that we could convince people that a Major would want everyone to look the same. . .like in the Army.”

“So you and Heather decided to change me, into a female, to protect me from myself?”

She looked stricken. “Not exactly. Heather had decided years ago that you wanted to be a woman. She told me she had diagnosed your ‘illness’ right after you switched majors at Yale. She said that gender identity disorder was the only possible explanation, for why you didn’t become a doctor. She wanted a divorce way back then. But she thought it would stall her rise through HealthWing’s ranks.”

Oh my, we’ve been living a lie for years. “Did Heather jeopardize her position at the hospital to help me achieve what she thought was my goal?”

“I wish I could tell you that.” Jenna looked pained. “Heather is a very self-absorbed person.”

I’ve noticed. “Go on.”

“She’s interested only in what will advance her career. All I had to do was convince her that all of those changes, would enhance the hospital’s bottom line. Early on, when the profits ticked upward, she became a very willing participant. I got her to believe that as long as she could talk you into making the various sacrifices for HealthWing, everyone else would go along.”

“I suppose you and I were working together, at least subconsciously. Then you worked on me, to make sure I would go along with what I thought Heather wanted . . . very clever. But, it’s unfair to blame Heather for changes you wanted to make in me. . .that I readily accepted. In many ways, you and I forced her, to where things are today.”

“I couldn’t ‘force’ Heather to do anything,” Jenna explained. “I just played on her fears.”

“What ‘fears?’”

“Heather lives with horrible anxiety. She thought that you being an effeminate man would put a ceiling, on her career, before she achieved her goals. It haunted her.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. If she was so afraid, why would she conspire to make me look and act like I am today?”

Jenna drew a deep breath. “Remember. . .Heather diagnosed you with gender dysphoria when you were at Yale. In her addled mind, gender dysphoria is a treatable mental disorder. She readily accepted what I got her to acknowledge as the lesser of two evils. You physically had to match your mental image, which will never change, with a female exterior.”

“Do I have a mental disorder?”

“Nooooo. . .!” Jenna said with great exasperation. “You’re the most centered person I’ve ever met.”

“I get it now. Heather was merely reacting the way she was trained as a doctor at Yale, by treating my symptoms, without regard for the real person.”

“Precisely.” Her mouth twisted before she spoke again, as if she was undecided whether she wanted to tell me more. “It was pure happenstance, at times, that her actions aligned with what needed to be done. For example, I even picked your name.”

“It’s not such a bad name,” I admitted. Olivia is Greek for “olive tree.” It seems to be a sturdy name, yet feminine. . .like me.

I glared at Jenna. “But what was in it, for you?”

“I care a great deal about what happens to you, Olivia,” she cried. “I think of you as my older sister. I loved you as Jim, and I love you now. You’re my best friend. My brother had been my best friend. I couldn’t stand the idea of losing you . . . like I lost him.”

“But, I was happily married.” Or, at least I thought I was.

“Really? Are you really going to try to tell me you were happy? Heather barely thinks of you. She hasn’t cared much what happened to you, in years.”

“That’s not so. In her insanity, Heather does care. Consider the four nightgowns that I found in the moving boxes containing all my things. Heather included a card that said something like, ‘Olivia, think of these nighties as a birthday present. I will miss you, as strange as that might seem to you now. I still love you very much . . . but not the same way I did years ago, on our wedding day.’”

Each of the nighties was much more feminine than anything Heather had ever worn. They were . . . utterly fabulous and I hadn’t been able to resist slipping into a scrumptious, long satin peignoir set that first night on my own. The tactile pleasure they gave me had diminished my sorrow . . . although only slightly.

“I’m so-o-o sorry,” Jenna said, through tears.

“You don’t have to be sorry for your part, in changing me. I’m happy with who I’ve become.”

“No,” she sighed. “I’m sorry I have to tell you that it was me who sent those nighties. You had hit rock bottom and needed a psychological boost.”

“I was pretty low,” I admitted.

“You’re such a sweet person you don’t see how incredibly egocentric Heather is, and why she did what she did. Getting you those high heels to wear in the evenings was also my idea. I went to the store and picked them out. Heather was very much against it at first, but I worked on her, and she relented.”

“But . . . what about my pearls. . .those she gave me?”

“I bought them, wrapped them, signed her name on the card, and gave them to her, to give to you. She didn’t even know what was in the box.”

Even though I had suspected something like that had occurred, it felt like a trap door had opened, beneath me.

“What was the frozen sperm thing all about?” I whispered.

“I was 99.9% sure about what you wanted. The frozen sperm was an insurance policy, just in case I was wrong, and you actually wanted to become a father.”

For a split second, I grieved for my lost manhood. My eyes misted and I had to wipe them with my index finger. “Do you ever think about what you did by destroying ‘Jim.’”

“There was no ‘Jim.’ You had built a vast illusion.”

“I’m sure that’s true, although I wonder how many people would ever agree with you.”

“Honey,” she said anxiously, “I didn’t do anything to you that I wouldn’t do to myself.”

“That rings hollow,” I said bitterly. “You have no idea what you put me through.” No one knows what my life has been like.

“It’s time for me to be totally honest.” She pulled at her wedding band until it finally came off. “Have you ever wondered why you’ve never met my Charlie?”

“That’s not so strange, with your schedule and his job making him travel so much.”

She rubbed her eyes and then looked intently at me. “The truth is. . ..” She tossed her ring in the air and then snatched it with her other hand. “I made him up. I’ve never been married.”

“But, you and Charlie. . ..”

“There’s no Charlie,” she said sadly. “I made him up, so that men would leave me alone. I’ve never had the nerve, to even go out on a date.”

“Why? There are a lot of guys who would. . ..” She’s cute, fun, smart. . .. I don’t get it.

“I’m like you,” she said. “After my brother, who was a year younger than me. . .left us. I knew I either had to face up to my true gender – or eventually I would do what he did.”

“I don’t believe it!” Yet, that would explain how she knew so much. . .maybe. . .sure! She really is like me. “But you’re so pretty.”

“Not half as beautiful as you’ve become. You’re one of the most striking nurses at HealthWing. Heather is very jealous of your looks.”

Heather is jealous of me?

Wait. . .. Jenna is like me! “Aren’t you lonely?”

“Horribly,” she admitted. “But I’m deathly afraid of starting a relationship, because of my secret.”

“Oh. . .I see. And now you’ve condemned me, to a similar fate.”

“Not at all,” she said quickly. “It’s completely different, with you. Everyone knows . . . and a lot of men have expressed an interest.”

My stomach lurched. I don’t want “a lot of men.” One-night stands are icky. I want a family. I want a monogamous relationship. What have I allowed Jenna and Heather, to do to me?

“There’s something else,” Jenna said, with obvious trepidation.

I narrowed my eyes. “Tell me.”

“She’s engaged to Major Wreath.”

I closed my eyes.

“They’re to be married as soon as your divorce is final.”

I never would have guessed. The last string holding me to my old life has been cut.

*****

The next day, I called in a favor, to make an immediate appointment. I met with a Gender Specialist at HealthWing. I told my story without implicating anyone who was involved. I then started on a pre-op hormone regimen under her supervision. Not at all surprising to me, the prescribed drugs were almost identical to what I surreptitiously had been taking.

The specialist told me about several case studies, which caused me to quickly and completely forgive Jenna for following her heart. What she had done was despicable in many ways. But in my case . . . exactly the right thing.

She had helped me avoid those very confusing years of conflict, guilt, panic, and purging that others in transition experienced.

I had adapted my life to my female self -- long before I realized it. Without knowing it, I made the lifestyle changes necessary, to accommodate the acceptance I had for my true self.

By allowing myself to be tricked, I had avoided the trap of overthinking. Unlike many other transsexuals, I hadn’t become stuck for years, in the false belief that physical form alone determines gender.

Looking back at my childhood -- it was obvious that I had given into the desire to be “normal” sometime around eight or nine. I had created an artificial male self so that I would be seen as being like everyone else.

My efforts had been so successful I fooled even myself. The lack of fulfillment I’d felt daily, until recently, had been rooted in my inability to reach normal life goals . . . for a female.

Jenna had pulled me out of a downward spiral that was leading to nowhere and despair.

I extended my personal leave, to a six-month sabbatical.

*****

Months later, Jenna and I were celebrating the completion of my electrolysis. What had started out a few years back at the hospital salon as “a few hours” to remove all unwanted hair, had grown to over seventy painful hours, at a private salon. Most of the hair on my extremities and torso had diminished through the chemicals in my body.

But there were a few areas . . . around my nipples, my underarms, and my private areas – that needed electrology. I had used a weak solution of phenol, plus antihistamines, and erythromycin, between treatments, to reduce and counteract the inflammation, weeping, and other skin problems.

The hours in the chair, at the electrolysis salon, hadn’t been wasted because we had multi-tasked. The woman who worked on me was a licensed beautician. She spent the time teaching me the beauty tricks I should have learned years ago, from my mother. I received an undergraduate degree in make-up and hair.

Jenna had given me complete details of the procedures she had undergone, during her surgical transformation. I was undecided as to my future.

“You need to cut your nails before you go on duty Monday, at HealthWing,” Jenna remarked. We were sitting together, at the bar, of the restaurant, waiting for a table.

I looked at my sparkling crimson talons and sighed with regret. “I also need to tone down my normal daytime make-up, to meet the hospital regs.” My cosmetics drawer was overflowing with what I had found absolutely necessary, once I studied the art of war – paint.

My dangly earrings had been sending feminine tugs to my lobes all evening. “Do you think pearls are too much with this simple dress?” I had decided that I wasn’t going to allow anyone . . . and especially not Heather . . . to make me feel ashamed of who I had become. I didn’t belong in a closet and neither did my pearls.

“You look fabulous! Your dress is lovely, Olivia.” Jenna had picked out the restaurant and was looking me over, while we waited for a bottle of rather expensive wine.

“I wanted my first dress to be special -- so I indulged myself. I found this dress at Marcel’s.”

She wouldn’t approve, if I told her it cost $1,500.

I closed my eyes and breathed in my exquisite scent. Very Irresistible Sensual Perfume by Givenchy is like Grace. . .on estrogen.

“Your taste is impeccable,” she gushed. “Money is a handy thing to have. Just look at you, in a Gucci little black dress. The stretched mesh in front is perfectly situated to show the world that your breasts are full and perky. But you’re not showing too much.”

I could feel my face burning. But I also felt intense pride in my body . . . something I never felt during the first almost four decades, of my life. “My skin has finally adjusted to my smaller frame. I lost a lot of muscle. I feel like showing off my shoulders -- now that I don’t have all that loose skin hanging from me.”

“That dress was made for your milky skin. You’re so lucky to be so small. All the really pretty things are just a little too tiny, for me. I could starve myself and I’d never be a size 4, like you.”

“Uh-huh. But you look darling yourself. You always do.” I hadn’t known my dress size until a few months before. “This isn’t really my first dress. I bought a double-breasted white uniform, to wear to the free clinic I’ve been volunteering at -- three days a week. I like the traditional nurses’ uniform much better than the scrubs we wear at HealthWing.”

Jenna’s nod agreed with me. “A candy-striper’s uniform was my first dress. I volunteered at a hospital, during my real life test – but I know what you mean about whites. I always loved the side seam pockets and the way the shoulder pads accentuated all the right things.” She leered. “Girl, if I had your legs, I would wear nothing but dresses.”

My legs! Maybe Steve will like my legs? I shuddered when I thought of the daunting tasks I had ahead of me.

For four years, I have been moving steadily toward a new and baffling existence. Through their covert actions, Jenna and Heather have caused me to question . . . everything. In some ways, I’ve changed profoundly.

However, it’s what hasn’t changed that gives me the most to think about.

“Jenna,” I gushed, “I’ve made a decision. I want a family. I love children and envy every parent I’ve seen at HealthWing for the last fifteen years. Nursing certainly has offered a great opportunity to me to serve and to feel fulfilled, but parenting is my true calling. I want to be a mommy.”

Jenna laughed. “You’ve got a bad case of Paula Sue-itis.’

I joined her laughter. I leaned closer toward Jenna. “From a financial standpoint, my parents set me up for life. If I don’t work another day, I’ll still have enough money to get along quite comfortably. I have options available to me that others would find terribly envious.”

“One look at you tonight and I would say you have more options than even you realize. Did you spend all day in the salon having your make-up done?”

“Aren’t you sweet! Actually, most of my day was spent walking and thinking. I did take about ten minutes longer than usual doing my face. Thank you for noticing.”

“Olivia,” she said with a huge grin, “I’m going to dinner tomorrow evening with Manny, the MRI tech.”

The tall, cute, MRI tech!

“Really!” I raised an eyebrow. “How did that happen?”

Her face brightened – even more. “I decided to quit living in the shadows. It was my secret that was holding me back. I came out at work. I’ve lost a few so-called friends. But I’ve gained so many new and real ones, who love me for who I am.”

“Like Manny?” I asked mischievously.

She smiled shyly. “It’s wonderful. He knows and it’s meaningless to him. I’ve wasted years because I was afraid. But that’s in my past.”

I watched her fingering her wedding band. “Now that everyone knows, why do you still wear a ring?”

“Habit, I guess.” Then she smiled wryly. “No. . .it’s much more than that. Fabricated or not, Charlie was a good husband. I can’t just run out on him.”

I shook my head. “Here I am laughing at your silliness, when my marriage, to Heather, was just as fictitious as yours, to Charlie.”

Our waiter came to show us to our table. He openly flirted with both Jenna and me. Making a ritual of it, he poured a glass of water for each of us and lingered long enough to let me know that we both looked attractive . . . to at least him.

After he left and Jenna teased me about collecting men like Ken dolls, I continued my announcement of what I had decided. “I could move to another state and find a job working in a children’s ward. For a while, I thought a clean start would be best.”

“What about Steve?” Jenna gave me an impish grin. “I know you haven’t seen or heard from him, for months. Have you forgotten him?”

Not hardly! After Heather removed herself from the picture, my heart ached to be with him. At my request, Jenna had told him I was taking a leave of absence and wanted to be alone, to make some personal decisions.

I had spent a great deal of time thinking of every conversation I had ever had with Steve. What he had said. What I had said. How we had selected our words, and what our eyes added, to their meaning.

“I want to be with Steve.” The words leaped from my tongue as if they couldn’t wait to be part of the world outside of my brain. “I want to live with Steve. Love with Steve. And – I want to adopt babies. Am I crazy, Jenna? Do you think I could ever have a chance?”

I’ve come a very long way.

During my youth, my pear-shaped body had been an embarrassment. I had fervently wished for more of a mesomorph body and less of an endomorph. In med school, I had learned that I could lift weights and change my body appearance a bit. But the idea of spending precious time moving metal dumbbells, with no real purpose, seemed absurd.

The soft-roundness of my body had become what I hoped was an asset. The “fat” on my chest had formed into shapely breasts. So much so, that I had decided earlier that evening to forego a bra, for our night on the town. I like the way my body looks -- and feel sure Steve will like it too . . . if only it’s meant to be.

I stared across the table at Jenna waiting for an honest answer. “Do you think I have a chance?” I asked again.

“You’ll have to ask him.” She nodded to our left.

When I turned . . . Steve! . . . was already approaching our table.

I let out a gasp. I should run away! But my strappy, four-inch, Giuseppe Zanotti heels aren’t made for sprinting.

“Hi, Olivia,” he said, with what I hoped was enthusiasm.

“Olivia” is a perfectly beautiful name . . . coming out of his mouth.

My stare morphed into a gawk. I blushed.

Jenna rose. “My work here’s done. You two have a lovely dinner. Olivia, you’re still coming back to the salt mines at HealthWing on Monday, right?”

I think I nodded. But didn’t take my eyes off Steve. “Goodbye, Jenna. Seeya,” I mumbled.

“You look great,” he said. His eyes locked -- with mine.

He said I look ‘great!’ Oh gosh, I shouldn’t have done my own face. That darn Jenna. I could just slap her. I hope my lipstick isn’t smeared. He makes me feel like a bite-sized Dove chocolate . . . ready to melt, in his mouth.

“May I sit down?”

“You called me ‘Olivia,’” I said stupidly.

“I heard about the nametag. Actually -- Jenna’s told me what I believe is the whole story. . .hers and yours. ‘Olivia’ fits you.”

“Better than ‘Jim?’” I asked shyly, afraid to open the conversation I knew we had to have.

“Ohhhh,” he laughed, “that reminds me. You and I had been working together about five weeks -- when I asked Dr. Weckel if he knew of any woman, other than you, with ‘Jim’ for a name.”

“Really,” I asked in a whisper, “did you really think I was a woman.” That was almost a year before all the changes were made at HealthWing. That was before we even started wearing pink scrubs. “It must have been embarrassing for you when you found out, about me.”

“I’ve never been the slightest bit ashamed of how I feel about you. You’re perfect. I loved you the minute I first saw you and have only fallen deeper and deeper in love. . .the more I’ve learned about you.”

Love! My mind reeled. “Are you saying you really thought I was a woman when you first met me?”

“No . . . I’m saying I knew immediately that you’re the woman I want to marry . . . from the first second I saw you. You’re a woman who thinks she has a small birth defect – when really she’s already perfect. You’re a wonderful woman who will be a terrific mother for my children, once you agree to marry me.”

He’s still standing, waiting for me, to invite him into my life. “Sit down,” I said happily, while handing him a menu. “Let’s get started.”

My mind went into erotic overdrive, fantasizing about where our evening could go and how delightful it would be.

*****

It did . . . and it was.

The End

“Friendly persuasion, thee is mine,
Though I don’t know many words of praise,
Thee pleasures me in a hundred ways.
Put on your bonnet, your cape, and your glove
And come with me, for thee I love.”

- Last verse of the title song from the 1956 movie “Friendly Persuasion”

Thank you to Gabi for helping me with this story.

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a kudos and a comment. They mean a lot to me.

Also, Erin has made several of my books available through Amazon. She retains one hundred percent of the income from these books to help with the maintenance of this site. Please check them out. If I were to read them, I would do so in this order:

The Handshake That Hides the Snake
Perfectionists
The Novitiate
Uncivil
Baseball Annie
Peaches
Sky
Shannon’s Course
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Ma Cherie Amour
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Basketball Is Life

The following have been donated by me for Hatbox content:

The Ninth Fold
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Voices Carry over Water
To Alleviate Suffering
Residue