I worked 3 jobs just to pay for nursing school. I was a waitress at a greasy spoon from 5 a.m. to 10 a.m., a library assistant during my lunch breaks, and a night janitor at a local gym.
My hands were always raw from bleach, and my eyes were perpetually bloodshot from reading anatomy textbooks by the dim light of a broom closet. I didn’t care about the exhaustion because I had a vision of wearing those blue scrubs and finally making a difference in the world. I was three months away from finishing my final semester in a tough program in Birmingham, and my scholarship covered the tuition, but my three jobs covered the life I was barely living.
Then my sister, Meredith, got sick, and my parents forced me to be her unpaid servant. It wasn’t just a flu or something that would pass in a week; she had developed a severe autoimmune complication that left her bedridden and in need of round-the-clock monitoring. My parents were already struggling with my dad’s reduced hours at the factory and my mom’s worsening arthritis.
They looked at me not as a daughter with a bright future, but as a free medical professional they didn’t have to hire. My dad sat me down at the scarred wooden kitchen table, the smell of boiled cabbage heavy in the air, and delivered the news like a judge passing a sentence. “You’re young, quit school, it can wait,” he said, his voice flat and tired.
I felt the air leave my lungs as if he’d punched me, the years of scrubbing floors and serving coffee flashing before my eyes. I cried, “My scholarship won’t wait!” If I dropped out now, I’d lose the funding, and I’d never be able to afford the final exams or the licensing fees. But they didn’t want to hear about my dreams or the “piece of paper” I was working toward.
For the next two months, my life became a blur of changing Meredith’s bandages, crushing her pills, and cooking meals she was too weak to eat. I was her nurse, her maid, and her emotional punching bag, all while watching my classmates post photos of their clinical rotations on social media. I felt my soul eroding, replaced by a bitter, jagged resentment that made me want to scream every time I heard my dad’s heavy boots in the hallway.
Meredith was the “golden child,” the one who had always been a bit more fragile and a lot more pampered. Even as she struggled with her illness, she would demand things with a sharp tongue that made my blood boil. I spent my nights sleeping on a cot at the foot of her bed, waking up every two hours to check her vitals.
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