A Meandering Mind

Stay away from jazz and liquor.
Richard Gere, "Chicago"

The cost of the weekend shows in her eyes - dark circles and dilated pupils. There is a sense of "poor me" about her, put upon and weary, despite a bright smile. She can't concentrate, can't stay focused on a task, her mind twitters from one thing to another like a butterfly and when asked a question, she has to think hard before answering. She speaks of being depressed and overburdened, overwhelmed by the effort of life and responsibility. She is always in the midst of some small drama that is more than she can handle and it overflows into the workplace, making her scattered, forgetful, inefficient. Communication is difficult because she stops paying attention, distracted by a stray thought or a loose thread. She has a meandering mind and the soul of fashion designer - useful for artists and poets, perhaps, impossible to dislike, but uncompromisingly fatal in her job as nurse assistant where accuracy and attention to detail are essential.

Can she change? the doctor wonders aloud to me and though I don't say it, I really don't think so. She is a fragile soul, drawn to the artistic side of life and the pretty things. Dates and times and diagnosis codes hold no interest for her, she is more comfortable with a pencil and a sketch pad than a keyboard. She is not a malcontent nor a complainer, not lazy, not incapable, not indifferent - she's just slightly soft focus and pastel in a sharply defined black and white world and she doesn't fit yet.

I will be sad if we lose her for the world needs flower children with melancholy and rose colored glasses. We are all the same except for what makes us different.