Write in the morning when I first awaken. And during the night I think of what I’m going to write about and there’s a lot.
Then morning peeks in and all of a sudden somebody is calling me from a deep sleep, and it’s the CNA and food is put on the table and my fingers are shaking and the CNA is peeling the hard boiled eggs, in a frenzy and leaving bits of shell on which I’ll remove later and I have to be quick to remind her not to open the milk and to open the tiny butter pat and put it in the grits, and oh yeah, she’s put on double plastic gloves to empty the urinal sitting next to the prison gray pitcher which once contained ice water, and to make sure she doesn’t hang the now empty bottle on the bed rail because I can’t reach behind me, and make sure she hasn’t left the call Bell hanging or twisted in other wires, (sorry for the run on but I enjoy a long sentence at night ) And a million other trivial but important things, and as I’m about to wipe the shell bits off, the nurse asks if it’s OK to take my blood pressure, pulse and temp. And a stick goes under my tongue, a gizmo is on my left index digit, and the BP cuff is on my left arm.
Oh, don’t do that.
The CNA has poured fake maple syrup on half raw pancakes. Which means I can’t eat them with my hands which causes my BP to rise which is good because if the top number doesn’t break 100 I don’t get my BP meds, and I want them ’cause it’ s always low in the morning.
The urinal, now empty is placed back on the table. It has a glob of solid white paste (think Elmer’s) at the top because that was applied to my penis a few days ago to keep it moist and tidy, and you stick the penis in the urinal to urinate and so there you have it until you ask for a new urinal.
And you still haven’t touched the food when a Dr that you don’t know walks in and says, looking at your name on the wall: how are you feeling today Mister Berkerman?
Not a typo. They spelt my name wrong when I moved to this floor.
Oh, dandy as can be.
And you, I ask.
He seems surprised.
I’m well, thanks for asking.
The BP cuff is removed. Top number easily breaks 100.
No pain, I think. Just you.
And can I listen to your chest?
I’m still looking at shell specks.
Go right ahead.
The nurse is wheeling the BP machine out. Squeaking.
You need some wd40 for that, I say.
Please, don’t talk says dr X.
Take a deep breath now. Again.
Okay, nice to meet you, Mister Berkerman.
Likewise, I’m sure.
And as Dr x leaves Oscar enters with a…. More on him later. A woman is squaw
k ING ;oke somewhere and it’s getting too dark to see as I started this at sunset.
And the room is empty but for my demented roomie who is asking for his shoes.
Why do you want them, I ask.
I want to go home.
Ring the call Bell.
I dunno… Where is it? I want my shoes.
You can’t walk.
Just stuffin’ the first egg in my gob a la Cool Hand Luke when another CNA arrives to ask if I’m finished?