“I’m not getting any younger and I don’t accept foul language on my shift,” barked Fran. My first impression of Frances McNichols wasn’t impressive as the first words out of her mouth. The moment I first laid eyes on her, I thought she was going to be dead by the end of our shift. As she walked into the building, she shuffled along slowly with her right leg dragging behind her. By the time she got to the time clock, she was out of breath, and her face was flushed. I couldn’t believe that she was my charge nurse. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that her hands were mangled from arthritis and how agonizing it must have felt to even hold a pencil. The pain that it must cause her to start an IV and if the patient was in excruciating pain as well. Her hair was perfect though, not a single hair out of place, and her make-up was flawless. My first thought was that she must have permanent makeup and somebody that fixes her hair before she comes into work because there was no way that she would have been able to hold a brush for that long without being in pain. I worked with Fran that night and listened to her speak about her life. She was such a fascinating person and had such interesting stories. I would laugh at the way she would talk to the detention officers that shared the same shift and would grace us with their presence. To my surprise she lived alone. She was in her 70’s and was still married to her husband and had twins. Her husband lived in Washington because he hated the heat, and she lived in Arizona because she hated the rain. She lived overseas while her husband worked as an engineer. One night at work, I was in the boss’ office doing some filing that day shift left for night shift to finish, and I spotted a piece of paper with my name on it. “Fran, look that has my name on it,” I called to her. “What?! That isn’t very smart is it,” Fran answered, tearing the paper off the corkboard.