In View Of Me

This is story about me. It was contrived by my dithyrambic imagination. It's a story of when I'm well past retirement, sick in my body, as well as my mind. When giving a shit doesn't matter anymore. When I just want to sleep, left alone and in peace. A time in my life when I'll do anything to be able to do just that.
On a bad day at work, this is me, standing at the foot of the bed. I have the evil look, with the pleasure-filled grin, and I swear my hair has lightened a few more shades of gray. Some patients can push you to that point, but there are some who can't, don't, or won't. God bless them.

There are some patients who just sense that things are not good in your world. They catch the vibe, and they tread lightly. Some, who are especially keen, can whip off a good one-liner and actually make you smile. I love the patients who know how to help you relieve your stress. I aim to be one of those patients... at least for now, while I am still in my right mind -- or while I still give a shit.

Right now, I'm a model patient. However, I'm still in my right mind, and I still care about other people. That, however, is changing. Slowly, I'm evolving, I fear, into something a little less human. Maybe, just maybe, when I don't have to work anymore, the metamorphosis will go into remission, allowing me to remain human, in compassion and actions, as well as appearance.

When I turn 70, and either I'm crazy, or I don't give a shit anymore because for the last 55 years of my life I've given, and given, and given -- and there's nothing left -- that might be a different story. I've had lots of examples and role models for being a horrible patient. The kind of patient who's name is never forgotten, and the nurses and nursing assistants fight about who's going to take the admission when I am returning again, to your floor.

How bad of a patient we will be is often a running joke between nurses. I must confess, that I think about it, and sometimes, I dwell on it... Probably too much, and my subconscious mind has taken over the dwelling, pre-determining my behavior when I'm well past my prime.

This is how I picture myself.

70, head full of dark red hair, with a full gray root system. I tell you that I'm forgetful because the gray you see on my head is actually my gray matter oozing out from my many years as an RN. You laugh, but your face isn't laughing. Because you know. You KNOW! You've seen people like me before.

I'll pull the call light as soon as you walk out of the room. I'll keep doing it. I'll keep thinking of the most ridiculous things you can help me with. I'll do it so much that you'll have to go get one of your cohorts to go in my room the next time because you're ready to sharpen your skills at "pillow therapy" and are willing to practice on me. You're co-worker comes in and immediately goes back out without saying a word. I hear her snickering in the hall as she calls for you. I hear the whispering, more stifled giggling. I hear the words fingerpainting and shit. A few more hee-hee's waft in, but they're not coming from you. From you, all I hear is a disheartened damn followed by a painful sigh.

You enter the room, the look on your face in unmistakable. I've done something, haven't I? Something wrong. Something that has upset you. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. I just had an itch," I lie. I point to my wrinkly, sagging ass and lower my voice to a whisper, glancing around to make sure we're alone, "I had an itch down there." I look at you. I act innocent. My eyes are big and sappy. I squeeze a big tear from one. "I really didn't know, it just itched, then I itched everywhere. I just started scratching." I reach out and put my poo-streaked hand on your sleeve giving it a gentle tug. "I didn't mean to, please don't be mad at me." You quietly tell me it's okay, that you're not upset and that you'll help me get cleaned up. I think you're lying. You're very mad at me now, you're going to do something to me. You'll show me how mad you are at me - even though you'll never say it, not to my face. You're angry, no, you're pissed, and now we're gonna have to have a pissing contest... I'm going to win.

You get the little yellow plastic basin and start running water into it. (It's cold, I just know it.) You've gathered the soap (probably lye), washcloths (hard and scratchy, no doubt), and towels (probably still damp). You've even retrieved clean linens (hard and starched stiff). How nice, but you're up to something. You're plotting your revenge on me. I can't see it, I can't hear it, but I can smell it... your disgust with me is a vile stench. Oh, yes, I can smell it. It smells like shit.

You start with the bright over-head light. "Ouch, those hurt my eyes, turn them OFF!" I cry. I slap both my filthy, feces-crusted hands over my face.

You pull them away, "Please, don't do that, you've got poo on your hands!"

I pull away, and slap at your arm! "DON'T DO THAT!"

"I'm only trying to help you, let me see your hands, I'll clean those first."

"NO!!!" I hide my hands under me -- reloading my brushes with ammunition. "There's nothing wrong with them! GO AWAY!" The fun has officially started. Oh, the joys that overwhelm my derelict mind! Hopefully, it won't be long now. They'll come in with the syringe full of the good stuff. The Ativan, the Valium, or the Geodon. The stuff that will make me sleep.Then, I won't have to play these games with you... and you can go torture some other poor soul. My wicked mind can then rest quietly, undisturbed. What are you doing? Those are my blankets you're taking! "Hey! Give me back my blankets! I'm FREEZING!" I grab for them. I miss. I put my shitty hands all over your nice white jacket, again. As you reach for my defiant five-fingered weapons, I plunge them back under me and into my endless supply of glorious brown ooze.

"Please, let me see your hands, so I can clean them. Then you can use them to cover your eyes." You hold out your hand, hidden beneath a soapy rag. The rag, now cooled beyond comfort, is dripping icy water on me. "GET AWAY FROM ME! HELP!!! HELP!!! SOMEBODY COME HELP ME!!! THEY'RE TRYING TO KILL ME!!! THEY ARE STARTING THE WATER TORTURE!!"

More people, all in white coats and mostly men - big scary men, come to help me you. They pull at me, my arms, my legs, and I scream. "RAPE! HELP ME!! THEY'RE GOING TO RAPE ME!"

You look across the bed and ask one of the large, scary men, "Will you go see what PRN's she has and get me the strongest one, please. Something IV." The scary man nods silently and quickly scurries out, glad to get out of dodge. One down. Damn, I'm GOOD!

I know that somewhere down the hall there are more nurses, moving around busily, trying not to listen -- trying not to hear me. They're thinking, I'm so glad she's not my patient.

Somewhere, down that long hall, there is another old lady, small and sweet she is, still in her right mind. A little old lady who still gives a shit. She shakes her head with genuine concern and asks her nurse, "Oh, my! Is that lady going to be okay?"

"Yes," her nurse confirms, "She'll be okay. I'll keep your door closed until she calms down."

"Thank you, dear," this little old lady smiles with relief and pats her nurse's hand. The little old lady thinks, I'll never act like that.

Hopefully, she'll always be able to give a shit.