Thursday, July 2, 2015
The door crept closed after Clay hurried through it only to fly open again as a new shift nurse entered. Fingers of Creator’s intention grabbed at the message telling me to return and do something but relaxed at seeing a new person.
“Look at you all perked up and ready to go,” said Nurse Macy, her badge displaying a name.
“What the…hey, did my buddy smack into you as he left?” I asked.
She ignored me while swapping out a flattened empty bag on my pole with a fresh one.
“Doc will be in shortly with the results of your brain images. Oh, and I bet you’d love having that catheter removed.”
Before I could say a word, Macy had my sheet tossed aside and gown hiked up to my chest. She very gently pulled tape from the tube extending from my man-spigot.
“Only one way to do this, quickly, so on two I’m removing it. One…”
I crowed like a young rooster and surely got the entire ward awake and panicked.
Exasperated I asked, “Hey you medieval-torture maid, what happened to number two!?”
Macy disposed of the waste and left me holding my crotch with one hand and pulling the gown down with the other.
My wife walked in at that moment with Doctor Radantmann on her heels.
“Wonderful, you’re out of that coma. Speedy recovery for a twice-baked guy,” said my wife Daisy, “and good grief, you were only gone a week. No need to be doing that to yourself.”
“Hokey Pete dear, not in front of the doc,” I said, my face glowing red like a toaster oven heating element.
“Nurse Macy ripped my guts out through my…well; she removed my pee bag just before you got here. Say, where’s His Favorite Gal? Clay said she was coming up with you hon.”
My embarrassment was more for my wife than me. Her remark was very unlike her, a woman who disdained sexual references or innuendo. She tolerated my coarseness at best.
“Sorry to interrupt Mr. Thunder,” said the doc, “I’ve updated your wife on what appears to be an incredible change in your condition minus what we found in the results of your brain scan. The neurologist will be here shortly to discuss those findings with both of you.”
The brief report and its veiled reference to possible issues with my brain caused mixing of several emotions, none sweet. The doctor scurried away in a manner reminiscent of Chong the roach, motivations equal no doubt.
“Don’t worry Big Bird,” said my wife before kissing my briny forehead, “you’ll be just fine, I know it. Oooh, sweat salt, I need to sponge your face. I guess they haven’t had time to do it since moving you from ICU to this private room.”
I had no recall of the move and assumed it happened after I was in the coma and stable. My wife’s touch was an amazing source of comfort but her choice of words touched a nerve.
“Listen Daisy, you call me Big Bird when you’re trying to reassure yourself about something and project it on me. You’re a nurse. Did the brain scan news unsettle you?”
Pulling a pale-yellow sweater from her carry-all bag, she replied, “It’s not that.” She put the sweater on, sat down, and folder her arms. “It’s something else, something that is already working itself out. Aren’t you cold dear? They keep these rooms so chilly. It isn’t summer yet so why are they running the air conditioning?”
“I’m okay, I said, “but maybe they overfilled my oil pan when giving me blood. I’m warm enough. Hey, what about Gal?”
“Are you telling me that Clay contacted you?” she asked, “because that isn’t possible. Clay is fading fast.”
My wife, slyness having whispered in her ear, winked at me.
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