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(Trigger warning for suicide and trauma)

Some days, I like to tell myself that I could be a florist instead. I have no idea how to do a floral arrangement, but then again, I had no idea how to do a PAP smear last year, and now I do them all the time. I like to imagine the small, quiet space, surrounded by the plants and gentle smell of flowers. I would happily work away, snipping and trimming, matching colours and sizes, making pretty things all day.

I like to imagine this quiet life when I am particularly exhausted, or sad, or tired of pretending to be brave. These are the days when I would like no more responsibility than to pick out a nice combination of flowers.


Earlier this week, I walked into morning report to find one of our nurses missing. Usually this means that the night was so busy that the on-call nurse needs to sleep in and miss work in the morning.

“There was a completed suicide last night,” our nurse in charge tells us. “The RCMP found their body las…

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