January

I have a crack on my thumb, by the nail, on the right side, it radiates pain like a just-bumped bruise. In and out of lukewarm water, I wash my hands ten, fifteen, twenty times a day. Put lotion on, it starts to heal, wash my hands again, it opens up. It is miniscule. The tiniest annoyance. It feels enormous. I cradle my hand against my chest, thumb in, while I sleep. By morning it has healed. By lunchtime, it is red and oozing again.

He lifts the electric kettle off before it has boiled. You know, it shuts itself off when it's boiling, I tell him. Isn't water for coffee better just before it has boiled? he asks. I look back blankly, a beat, two beats. I don't know, I tell him. Do whatever you want.

The patient starts yelling at me the second I open the door - I saw what's written in my fucking chart! What the hell do you people know? You think you know me?! You don't fucking know me. I'm going to sue whoever fucking wrote that.
My heart pounds. I oscillate - fear, rage, panic, despair. Hi, I say calmly, same as I always do. My name is Caitlin, I'm one of the midwives.
Nice to fucking meet you, she says. Get that fucking thing out of my chart.
This continues for five minutes. I stand up. I'm the picture of serenity. Inside, I am seething.
You can either reschedule this appointment, or you can work on calming down. I understand you're upset, but it's not okay for you to scream and swear at me.
Miraculously, it works. She takes a breath. Apologizes. We listen to her baby. I'm forty minutes behind now. Later, her therapist calls our office - what happened in her appointment? The patient is threatening to sue.

I wake up every few hours all night long. Everything aches. By morning, my nose is running like a faucet, my lymph nodes are tender, and my throat is so sore I can't swallow. He gives me a hug as he leaves for work, kisses my forehead, tells me to feel better. Don't leave, I whisper. Stay with me. The lock clicks on his way out.

My dad is sick. Again. An infection gone haywire. IV medications at home for two weeks. Something wrong with his left kidney, nobody knows why. Each day, a new complication and a change in plan. I walk the dog in the freezing cold, my words garbled because my cheeks are numb, I talk to my mom, What can I do? Do you want me to come home? Seven hours away is too far. There's nothing I can do. I shiver in the bath, my heart pounding while I grit my teeth and will it to slow down. Fear, rage, panic, despair, rinse, repeat.

January is the longest month.