Shanny-Poopshoe

Shanny-Poopshoe

When you work as a registered nurse as I do, you are constantly surrounded by vivid characters. On the rare occasion I’m stricken with writer’s block, each new day and shift worked provides a plethora of opportunity for provocative story ideas. 
         
On this particular day one of my patients was a beautiful little lady of 96 years and a mere 92 pounds named Rose (her name has been changed for privacy reasons). She’d been refusing to eat more than a few bites of each meal, and because the dietician was concerned that Rose’s caloric needs weren’t being met she ordered supplementary shakes between meals. The idea was that these shakes, packed with calories, vitamins, and minerals would make up for what Rose wasn’t getting otherwise. “I like chocolate the best,” Rose said, a perfectly charming, girlish smile spreading across her face. She would make such an endearing character for one of my stories, I thought.
         
Rose required assistance with her meals, and by the time I was done feeding her her afternoon shake I knew her whole life story: she’d married at seventeen, had her first child at eighteen quickly followed by two more. She’d lost her husband in a work-related accident in 1933, so at the age of twenty-three she became a widow trying her best to singlehandedly raise three small children smack dab in the middle of The Great Depression. I was enthralled! I was so enthralled, in fact, that I hadn’t even noticed I’d dripped some of her chocolate shake on the tip of my left shoe.
         
For the rest of my shift I replayed each word, each line, each character, each story in my mind in exquisite detail so as not to forget them, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how the heck I got poop on my shoe! Working in a hospital I know that anything is possible and stranger things have been known to happen, but soon everyone was calling me Shanny-Poopshoe. This is a nickname that will spread like wildfire! I thought. I must take immediate evasive action to minimize the damage.  
         
Hours later Rose called me into her room, tugged gently on my shirt and whispered in my ear, “I was so enjoying your coworkers teasing you that I didn’t have the heart to tell you earlier that you’d dripped some of my chocolate ice-cream on your shoe.” She leaned back, her tiny hand covering her mouth in an attempt to conceal a devilish grin.
         
I smiled, then chuckled, and before I knew it Rose and I were laughing until we cried.
         
To this day I’ve kept it our little secret. Rose is gone, but the stain and the nickname remain. I have grown to love my nickname--it reminds me of a beautiful lady who led a truly amazing life and inspired me as a human being, as well as a writer, more than she could ever know. Because of her I am Shanny-Poopshoe!
         
Thank you, Rose.