one note

A bitch of a day.

Beginning with breakfast at the Pom Pom Diner.  Another Miracle House resident, from Alabama, chats express non-stop about Southern warmth and her church choir while I inhale my mozzarella omelette.  I'm food and sleep deprived and I remember my father's words to me, before his death twenty years ago:  Don't waste yourself on idiots.

Then, arriving at the hospital.  Rich is sitting upright, in a chair -- good! first time since surgery -- but he's frustrated and in pain because OT and PT have worked him over and told him he might never again be able to lift himself and he believes this crap.

He tries to sleep.  No go; chatter from the nurse's station sounds like we're in Times Square despite signs posted everywhere:  "Quiet Helps our Patients Heal."

So shut the fuck up.

I don't say this.  Not to the people whose care he needs.

I try to make some phone calls.  To extend my stay at Miracle House because Rich doesn't think he will be ready to leave by Tuesday.  But phone is not working well...no surprise, really; I discover the antenna is missing.  So that was what I found in my pocket and threw out two days ago...who would have known?

I make food forays, eating randomly with emphasis on sugar and caffeine and some vegetables from the hospital cafeteria.

Rich tries to sleep.  Blood pressure bounces from too low to too high.  Drain from spine hemorrhages.  I do this, do that, and Rich is angry and frustrated at and wonders why I keep screwing up.

He's not an idiot.  I'm not an idiot.  But he's not good at being sick and I'm not good at caring.

As the afternoon spirals down, I make a final sugar excursion to the gift shop.  

An oat scone, please, I ask.  

Two are put in a bag.

Another idiot, I think; I'm not paying for two!

This is free, she says.  You need it.

One note.  That's all it took to lift away some of the pain.

Not for long.

It's a cold night in New York.  A nice warm room, a cup of hot tea...ah...

Sign in elevator as I ascend to the apartment:  No heat.  No hot water.  Management is working on this.

But I'm finishing my tea.  I have a nice warm comforter.  I can't call Rich because we have only one functioning phone and who knows what's next, but I hope to sleep and I hope Rich gets moved out of the neurological unit and I hope not to waste time with idiots such as myself.

Candace