Question

Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, the woman rolled over in her comfortable bed, making sure she stayed within the cocoon of warmth she'd made for her self.
"Oh, no, not again!" she muttered. The little blue egg named Bob reported the time to be 1:30. "too early, too early!" her mind screamed. Yet, when she tried to slip back into the velvet darkness of sleep, that same, rebellious mind began to fill with all the things she DIDN'T want to think about while she was going back to sleep.
At the same time, her stomach decided it would be a great time to get up and eat. Which was a surprise, because, not 3 hours earlier, IT had woke her up by letting forth a geyser of hot acid into the back of her throat, which did not let up until the woman had to leave her warm cocoon, in search of the chalky antacid's she kept for just such days.
But I digress.
Moaning, she glanced again at her egg shaped nemesis. Damn. 1:50. She'd been laying there, courting sleep, for twenty minutes. But she knew, knew in her tired heart that her mind was not going to accept the plea for more sleep, and gentle dreams. It was awake, and needed to be entertained.
With a long suffering sigh, she rose, grumbling at the earliness of it all. Making her way out of the bedroom door, her feet began to vibrate with the "thump, thump" of her downstairs neighbor's music. "I wish she'd figure out how to lower her base" the woman growled to the three felines gathered at her feet, looking up expectantly. "What?" she asked them. "You have food in your bowl, I fed you before I went to bed!". Sulking, the three wander away, in the direction of the food bowl, in case she changes her mind, the big black one hissing at the skinny black one for getting too close to her.
Rubbing her eyes again, the woman shifts her gaze towards the living room. "Maybe if I lay down on the couch I can fall back to sleep" she muses. Grabbing the blanket so lovingly knit by her grandmother, she lays down on the couch, and clicks on the 'idiot box'. Finding something she's seen before, which she hopes may well bore her back to sleep she sits, and waits. To no avail. "Feed me!" grumbles her stomach, now fully awake, and wanting to rid itself of the chalky residual from hours ago. "Damn" she thinks again. Then she gets up, and has a bowl of Blueberry Morning. When she's done, she snuggles back into her couch, with her blanket. And a book. She knows she won't be going to sleep anytime soon. The book is better than the idiot box.
Lost in her tale, hours go by. Looking at the clock, she sighs deeply. It's now 5:30. Time to shower, and get ready for work. Work is more than likely what caused the acid geyser, and perhaps what kept her mind from settling into needed sleep. It had been a rough week, and she had just the one, 12 hour shift left before her "weekend". But those last 12 hours, they were traditionally loooong. Like the clock went backward's, instead of foreward. Sluggishly, she shrugs those thoughts off, and takes a hot shower. That works wonders in revitalizing her, giving her the burst of energy needed to get ready.
Leaning into her closet, she worries through all her selections. "No, I wore that same color yesterday. No, not that one, it's not comfortable." Suddenly her hand brushes something soft. A half smile graces her frowning face, brief, but it was there. "Oh, yes", she thinks as she lovingly removes the soft denim scrubs. The color of soft blue from multiple washings, they are the closest thing to pajama's that she can wear to work. Riffling through the rest of her work clothes, she finds a turtleneck to go under the denim scrub top. Night shift in the ICU is a cold place, especially in the winter. Quietly, she dons her scrubs, her shoes. Gathers up her stethoscope, her badge. Her courage. Says a prayer for a serene night. Gives her feline's some love before she leaves the door, trying not to look at the full moon.
A short time later, she is there. Walking in, she smiles at the other, obviously tired nurses reporting for the 7 pm-7am shift. Each go their way, to their respective units. Brushing her hand against her soft denim, the same, half smile graces the womans face. "At least I'll be comfortable" she sighs, and heads for the ICU. Her walk, though, turns into a run, soft denim flowing with her as she hears the dreaded announcement overhead
"Code Blue ICU 8, Code Blue, ICU 8".
Not the blue I had in mind when I put on my denim.
Yes, I wear it.
Even at work.

This post is written in response to a question posted over on David McMahon's authorblog. It's the first time I've answered one of his weekend questions, but this one brewed around my head until it forced me to sit down and post it. So much for my wordless wednesday. . .