Occupational Hazard

My cousin Emily recently sent an email around to the family asking if anyone wanted a set of hand-painted pictures of dogs her parents had bought in Paris way back in the 50s. Her mother died earlier this year, eight months after her father, so she and her sister are slowly going through the old house, clearing away the dust and the past, one tchotchke at a time.

            “There’s so much to clear,” she wrote. “You can’t imagine how much stuff they accumulated over the years! We need Marie Kondo on the case!”

            My sister sent me a private message saying that the thought of having to go through a lifetime of belongings was giving her the hives. “As it is, I have too much junk of my own. I’d be absolutely insane to take on other people’s crap!”

            “You wouldn’t say the same if Emily offered you a Rembrandt!” I told her.

            “Well, that goes without saying, but I’m thinking it’s more likely Auntie Mary would have an Ikea print of a poodle than a Rembrandt.”

            Meanwhile, our cousin Nick, who loves dogs, said, normally, he would be the first to put his hand up for the pictures but he and his girlfriend were currently deacquisitioning. “We’re selling up the house in Boston and moving down to the farm to live a simpler life,” he wrote, a comment that led to yet another private email thread, this time with my mother who commented that if by a simpler life, Cousin Nick meant the two-story, five-bedroom, seven-bathroom farmstead in Vermont he had bought when he sold his hedge-fund firm last year for eight figures, then, she was all for it.

            “It must be so amazing to be able to retire at 38!” Amanda said with the kind of deep admiration she normally reserves for the release of a new Kardashian line of cosmetics.

            “He’s not retired,” I said. “He’s now training to be a nurse.”

            On the other side of the dining table, Saffy coughed up some coffee. “Wait, what?” she said, hurriedly dabbing the table with a napkin. “Nick Khoo, that tall, gorgeous hunk of gym-toned meat is training to be a nurse?”

            “How…” I began.

            “I follow him in Instagram. He’s always taking selfies in front of some random bathroom mirror. He’s shameless and hot. He’s literally got an eight-pack stomach. It’s just amazing. A nurse? Really? He’s going to hide all that hotness in a nurse’s uniform?”

            “Right?” Amanda said. “Plus, he’s a filthy rich hedge-fund manager!”

            “Who is having a severe mid-life crisis!” I said. “That’s what happens when you have so much money you don’t know what to do with the rest of your life!”

            To hear Cousin Nick tell it, he is never so happy as when he’s giving an elderly patient a sponge-bath, or inserting a catheter into the frail body of a cancer patient. “It’s given me such a purpose in life, you know?” he wrote. “Every day, I work with the sick and I really feel like I’m making a difference!”

            “I know how he could make a real difference,” Saffy said with some dissatisfaction as she read the email behind my shoulder. “He could marry me! Let’s start with that!”

            “He’s got a long-term girlfriend, Saf,” I said.

            Saffy’s bosom inflated. “Yes, but he’s still not married her! They’ve been dating for, what, seven years? If he’s not asked her to marry him after seven years, he’s never gonna, so there’s still hope for me!”

            “You have a boyfriend!”

            Saffy sniffed. “Who’s showing no sign of wanting to marry me either, so I need to have a Plan B!”

            My mother says it completely escapes her why anyone would want to go from being a rich fund manager to being a nurse. “I mean, I was a nurse for a brief second before I married your daddy, so I know from personal experience that it’s a tough slog! Really, what would be the point, especially when you’re that rich?”

            “It’s not for the money, clearly,” I said.

            “Speaking of which, he should just travel now and enjoy life!”
            “Saffy wants him to marry her!”

            “That’s not enjoying life!” Mother said immediately, a comment I decided not to share with Saffy.

            Meanwhile, the image of Cousin Nick squeezing his impressive pecs and biceps into a tight white nurse’s uniform haunts Saffy’s days. “He could give me a sponge bath any day,” she told Sharyn as she showed her Nick’s Instagram feed.

            “Wah liau,” Sharyn sighed as she scrolled up. “The world got such people, one, ah?”

            “Amazing, isn’t it?” Saffy said.