This is a picture of Marta, my favorite nurse, excepting all the other favorites, of course. She got me where the others failed, in the funny bone. She has a very serious demeanor that mixes unexpectedly with a delightful smile. The first day I was in the hospital I asked where she was from. She said, rather playfully, “Where do you think I’m from.” Well, she seemed tall, thin, had an interesting complexion with a base of freckles — at least I thought she did — and a reddish tint to her hair. She also had an accent that sounded vaguely north European. I thought I was on solid ground. “Norway,” I said. “Nope,” she replied in a thin, but distinct accent. She stood waiting for my next guess. I reached down deep and said, “Czechoslovakia.” She laughed out loud and said, as she left the room, “You need a map.”

It turns out there is no Czechoslovakia. In 1993, Czechoslovakia split into the Chech Republic and Slovakia. So, look all you want on a map, you won’t find it. But I needed one to figure that out. That or Google, of course. Marta came from the Czech Republic, a country steeped in mystery and beauty. But not a bad second guess, if you ask me.

I know neither her maiden name nor her married name. The hospital tries to protect the identity of its nurses or else it tries to maintain a casual, first-name atmosphere… or both. I remember getting a haircut from someone named Skipper years ago. It wasn’t his first name, or even his title, but a name issued by the salon. He was, in effect, the Skipper on duty. I think that lasted until the first state inspector realized all the names on all the licenses were covered over.

The picture above seems like an odd one to run with this post. It looks like I should have allowed her to get all the way into the room. But she’s not entering the room, she’s backing out, and hiding behind her computer. Of course, there could be something nefarious going on. She could be hiding in America to conceal high crimes and Czech misdemeanors, laying low as a nurse, a mother and a wife until whatever it was blows over. But somehow I doubt that. I think she’s in complete control, I just think she’s camera shy.

So I’ll leave Marta shrouded in mystery an beauty to tell you the only story I know about her homeland. It’s been told a thousand times. I’ll give you the shortest version I that I can. A woman dies and meets St. Peter at the pearly gates. She’s very tense about getting into heaven. St. Peter says, “Not to worry. Spell one simple word and you’re in. The word is L O V E.” After she does that he asks her to take his place for a few minutes. She notices her husband in line and finds out he died on the way home from the funeral in a flaming car crash. He too is worried about getting into heaven. She says, “Not to worry. Spell one simple word and you’re in.” “Oh, thank God,” he says. “And what word is that?”

“C Z C H O S L O V A K I A.”