Weird things those. They change so many things.

Yesterday, I heard something.
Logically, I should have...could have rather, felt bad, or sad about it.
I was just pleasantly happy for him.
Not in the defensive self protective, opposite acting out kinda way, but genuinely happy that he found someone for himself. I'd believed that I might feel bad about it. Expected so even. But time, wonderful thing that it is, has made it possible that it didn't matter to me at all.
He is no more an emotion. He is just a memory. A memory of interesting emotions once felt. Not even special enough to fondly remember much.
He is just somebody who once was.
(It is a possibility that we knew we were not right for each other, and hence I never actually registered him that much. Yet, I believed that I had cared enough to care. But no more. Which is a pleasant relief. :) )

Yesterday, my grandma slashed her hand. Early in the morning, as she opened the gate for me to leave for work.
At first it didn't bleed, but in 3 seconds, it was a blood bathed finger. In her right hand, that too! I quickly got the first aid kit, and left after she assured me that it wasn't deep and that it didn't hurt much, and with my sister in charge.
I get home in the evening to see that my grandmother, obsessive cleaner that she is, had done everything she would do on a normal day, and was soberly sitting with a very swollen ring finger. Especially with the blood still oozing a bit. Considering she's diabetic, and it had been more than 12 hours since she cut herself... Not a nice scene.
Queasy around blood, I've always been.
Yet weirdly, first aid is almost an instinct for me.
Not that I know exactly what to do all the time. But I do know how to get it done, and the will/ patience/ gut to stick around till it's done. No matter how much blood there is. No matter how queasy it makes me.
I guess it has a lot to do with all the time I've spent in the hospital as a kid. I remember at least 2 whole summers there.
It's strange that I hate the smell of hospitals... still can't get a shot/ get blood drawn alone, without my dad or someone close standing close to me, and letting me squeeze their hand, as my eyes stay firmly tightly shut. Still will not go to a hospital unless it's terribly serious, and I have no strength to stop.. no, fight the people (plural - requirement. Trust me) who are dragging me there.
And yet, I feel safest in a hospital. A place where people in white coats can make the worst news seem like something that can be gotten through, something that can be overcome. White coats with the power to give hope to the hopeless, and time to the dying. Sometimes, rarely, even life to the dying.
Yesterday, I spoke to my cousin who is a doctor, got my instructions, and when I was done with her finger 2 hours later (repeated ice compresses and cotton presses and whatnot) the swelling had completely gone away, and the bleeding stopped. As I wrapped it up for the night, I felt a feeling of accomplishment, more than I would do after 3 solid days of work!

Habits... ingrained over time, almost made as instinctive as a reaction
Time ... changing what once used to be habit, to mere memories

Strange things those.
Strange wonderful things.


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