Steam pressed against the pristine white as hot water swelled, so translucent as to appear like a rich gloss upon the tub.

I learned to embrace self-care, letting it well within me, much like a bath. This was how I handled the emotions of working 6 months full-time in an urban emergency department as part of a nursing school internship. Before moving back to the city, I sometimes awoke at 4:40 AM, kept myself awake on the train by dedicating myself to writing projects and deadlines, forced down some coffee, worked from 7 to 7, forgot to eat, and would be lucky to arrive home by 9:30 PM, where I would quickly shower and sleepily attempt to review a foreign language lesson. My lack of energy led to fizzling patience. A creeping disconnect from my family and friends began to alarm me, even as they did their best to support me. I entered a career with the intent to care for others, but I was failing to care for those closest to me, and I was failing to care for myself.

My spiritual embodiment was recaptured by starting and ending my day reading Bible verses, my favorite passages tenderly booked from years ago, reminders of my initial motivations. I made a conscious effort to dedicate my days off to internal healing, so not to let the outward care sap all my energies, leaving me more useless than helpful.

Prayer, essential oils, sleep, yoga, music, healthy eating, exercise, art, massage, therapeutic conversation-there are a multitude of curative agents for stressed health care workers. Taking strides toward better care first requires strength upon one's own feet.

I attended an aqua exercise class with my mother, who always took a dedicated interest in ensuring I took care of myself. The class took place in a warm pool, the deep water reminiscent of the feel of silk, of velvet, and then I returned home to my bath. I savored the silence in being alone, especially when certain everyday encounters are things others cannot bear to hear. I appreciated the love and support of my family and friends, but sometimes I felt the need to internalize so to spare them the tidings of more pernicious observations.

I tapped my phone, and the soft trills of jazz (or nature sounds, depending on my mood) echoed upon the bathroom tiles.

The night before, I had pushed a stretcher uphill along the ambulance driveway after a nurse and tech pulled an overdosed man, a young guy, out of the back of a car while his friend screamed hysterically.

"I can't handle hearing about this."

The sharp sound of a saxophone cut through the reminiscence.

As the tub filled, my hand plunged smoothly into the bucket of coconut oil. Caked into a solid on this cool morning, I scooped a generous portion to plunge into my soak. The light oil helped to calm the frizz in my hair and dryness of my skin, floating in glimmering little pockets along the water. There was no designated amount to add, it was my choice.

I resented when other's choices became my issue: when people refused to vaccinate, and my coworkers and I had to report to occupational health following a potential exposure. Yet, even following a clearance, it was our time we dedicated.

That was their choice.

Where was mine?

Clinging to the poisonous particles which gripped each oxygen atom?

I inhaled the thickness of lavender-coated air, taking my breath, loosening my chest. I poured more of the purplish bubble bath into the already oil-soaked water (of which I knew to be careful when exiting the tub, and mindful to rinse down afterwards to prevent slipping). I aligned my mindset to concentrate on the healing power of essential oils and related scents. I might use a revitalizing lemon shower gel to energize in the morning. But now, on my day off, I only hoped to be enveloped in calm.

"Time of death has been called, stop compressions." I stepped back from performing CPR, arms trembling. I could not hold back tears upon clocking out.

"Well, my day at the office was long, too."

"Maybe you should decide if you can handle this."

I tapped my phone to slightly increase the music volume and tune out the reminiscence of random commentaries. I noticed, due to soreness, my hands were black-and-blue from the length of the code, the fourth this week.

Achingly, I stared at the hot water.

I was always on high alert at work, ready to spot an allergic reaction, run an immediate EKG, or jump over a wheelchair to keep a seizing patient from hitting her head. As a nursing student, I was anxious. Yet, when my concern was unwarranted, I became angry.

Following a bustling flock into the waiting room, an upset patient threw himself onto my leg. Another patient hid a needle in his pocket, which wound up sticking a nurse. Multiple times people lay down and roll around on floors, screaming and cursing when frustrated with the hospital process, and ultimately disturbing other patients. I was followed into a room with a mandatory 3-cop escort to take vital signs on a patient who was simultaneously demanding help and attempting to harm the staff.

I threw in a bath bomb, which erupted ferociously in a powdery, vivid blue. It hissed and snarled, changing the clear, oiled, and bubbling surface into a glistening blue. Slowly, the ferocity tempered, leaving only a strong, floral aroma to accompany the nutrient-rich water, already soft from coconut oil and lulling lavender scents. From the bath bomb, the deep water now swayed gently, almost in tune to the first notes of the next jazz song.