Maggie Whitson

When the hospital delivered me over here (in an ambulance, yet-undoubtedly so they could charge more), one of the nurses took me to my assigned room, helped me out of the wheelchair and into bed; then asked me to sit up so that she could examine my shoulder. I told her she could have examined it before she put me in bed. I didn't need to be in the damn wheelchair; I'm perfectly capable of walking with my cane. She told me that the rules required that a new resident be put in a wheelchair until they are able to assess the person's stability. I told her she could stuff the rules as far as I'm concerned. Unfortunately, this was a nurse whose feathers couldn't be ruffled. I was spoiling for a fight-why did she have to stay so damn calm? Did they give these nurses patience training or tranquilizers to keep them from responding like normal human beings? Anyway, I finally had to sit up because I could tell that she wasn't going to leave until she got her way. She pulled off the hospital bandage and exclaimed about the size of the cut and how large the infected area was. "It seems to be healing nicely," she said. "We'll just be watching it carefully until it's back to normal." She put on a fresh bandage and then, saying she'd see me later, finally left the room.

Well, isn't this a fine kettle of fish! There's no TV, I have nothing to read, they took my cane away and stuck me in this practically empty room. There's a bed, a chest of drawers, and an upholstered chair with a small table beside it. At least, the table has a lamp. There's an adjoining bathroom with about a zillion grab-bars. I will admit that I'm glad about the bars. After all, the only reason I'm here is because I fell in the bathroom at my place (got out of the shower, slipped on a rug, hit the edge of the marble vanity top with my shoulder and tore a long gash in it) and then couldn't see my back well enough to take care of it. After several days, I had to call Nabor to come and see about me because I could tell I had a fever. I wanted him to just take me to the doctor; instead, he took me to the hospital. I was there a week and a half until the antibiotics finally began to work, but even when I was better, they wouldn't let me go home. They wanted me to be somewhere with round-the-clock care. So it was come here or hire two full-time nurses to stay at my apartment. I don't like the idea of having strangers stay with me, so there wasn't a real choice. Nabor kept urging me to let these people take care of me for a while, but I didn't want to be subject to all of the silly rules that are there to control old folks in a nursing home. We talked about it for quite a bit and then came up with a plan I think will work. I don't have to do anything other than to heal. He, however, will be here today, presenting himself as Mr. Nabor, my attorney, who has come to protect my rights. I'm sure he'll be able to carry this off beautifully, as he was an actor when we first met. His name isn't Nabor either, but we don't want to use his real one in case someone might recognize it. Once, a long time ago, the man was actually my neighbor, so the fake name was a natural. I just wish he would hurry up and get here.

Since I have nothing to do while I'm lying here waiting as they won't let me get up unless they can put me in a wheelchair and I adamantly refuse to be put in a wheelchair, I got to thinking about the old days. Before I tell you about that, let me tell you about how I got to the bathroom a while ago. Since I've been in bed so much, I might be a little wobbly without my cane, so when an aide passed by my door, I called to her and made it sound urgent. I think I even managed a "Help!" or two.

The woman came rushing into the room, where I told her that I had to get into the bathroom-right now. She said she'd get the nurse; I told her I couldn't wait, so I slid off the side of the bed and she helped me into the bathroom. I closed the door, but when I opened it to come out, the aide had parked a wheelchair just the other side of the doorway.

"I won't use that thing."

"But it's safer."

"I don't give a damn. I'll stay here till I rot before I'll sit in that thing."

Thank God the lady wasn't stupid. She pushed the chair out of the way and helped me walk back to the bed. I gave her a sweet smile and said, "Thank you, dear."