Letters to My Mom, Part III
My room is dark. The curtains
are drawn, and it is my fiscal 10 o'clock in the morning (about 5 pm, Chico time
and 7pm Minneapolis time).
Grandpa is downstairs in his
chair and alternately smoking cigarettes and fiddling with his new
oxygen-respiration machine. It makes a noise like an alarm clock when it is
first turned on and can be heard throughout the house.
Last night while I was at
work at my new job at the Esplanade Manor, a board and care facility for
mentally disturbed adults, Grandpa had a bit of a hard time catching his
breath. Steve found him standing hunched over and turning blue at one o'clock
in the morning (nothing too extraordinary about this except for the turning
blue part. He's never done that before).
An overnight hospital visit
ensued with the upshot being that he must have oxygen nearby at all times. He
even has a portable tank he can use while driving. He is not going to stop
smoking, however, except while the machine is on. He has asked Steve and I, in his
own endearing manner, to be here to cook for him or take him to the diner. Not
that I have anything better to do or anything.
Except to work for 40 hours a
week, graveyard shift, as an attendant to 36 or 50 crazy people. Their cases
range from mild neurosis (like Tim), to full blown schizophrenic psychosis. One
lady appears normal except for occasional delusions that she is a Martian.
Another very well-behaved older woman is there because she murdered her husband
with a shotgun and stabbed her best friend in the back with a fork. Others
creep around peering into the office windows, giggling.
On my first night, a tenant
threw a chair through the office window two feet from the spot I had been
sitting just five minutes earlier. The police did not want to arrest him
because of the paperwork but finally took him in after we filled out a citizens
arrest form. He returned at 7 am the next
morning and was discharged and given the remainder of his medication (about 2
months worth, 70 or so capsules of Elavil) which he proceeded to take all at
once with a twelve pack of beer. He then passed out and was taken to hospital
where he was in a coma for a week. Other than that it was a quiet night.
So, what are my duties?
Cleaning ashtrays, mopping floors, taking out the garbage and vacuuming, all of
which takes me an hour and a half per night. The rest of the time is my own to
read, play cards, listen to the radio and converse with the other night
attendant, Arvada, who has been there 10 years. Naturally, the pay is minimum wage.
I have to go now to drive
Grandpa to The Diner. C-ya.
Well, I'm back, and here I
should note that Grandpa hasn't lit up a cigarette the whole time since we went
to the restaurant. He had another episode when we first got there, and he had
to stand crouched in his football stance for about fifteen minutes, and then
the waitress brought him some hot water. The whole trip took an excruciating
hour and forty-five minutes. Guess we should have taken the portable oxygen
tank.
He mentioned something about
funeral arrangements and said that he guessed it was the beginning of the end.
At least he's coming to grips with the idea of checking out. I hope I go in a
more expedient manner. Like bungee jumping without a cord.
Steve's out with one of his
friends, and I am alone in Buckwitz Manor with Mr. Excitement himself. Although
I am working, I have still not gotten paid yet and am so far in the hole as far
as people feeding me and paying my way that I dare not show up anywhere without
some green in my hand. My job is not giving me that instant respectability that
I so desire.
On to other subjects of interest.
I went to get tested for TB, so I could get this job. You are familiar with the
procedure: They talk real nice to you, send in their prettiest nurse, she rubs
your arm and tells you look over there ... and Blam! It’s over. She's already
injected the protein into your right forearm. Couple days later you come back,
they read it, like an astrologer looking at your horrorscoop.
Anyway, the tests were
negative, no festering ooze. But simultaneous to this, I began developing a red
irritating allergic itching patch about the size of a nickle on the opposite
forearm in approximately the same location. It has been a week now, and it just
isn't going away.
My question to you is: Could
I have a neurological problem with one of the hemispheres of my brain? All
other motor activity is normal. Three or four years ago, I was prescribed
Deconomine for similar allergic reactions on my feet, ankles and shins. I never
found out what I was allergic to, and after taking the medication regularly for
two or three months, it went away, never to return.
The expiration date on the prescription was 1/1/91. Do you think I should try taking them again? That
bladder infection hasn't returned, as I have stopped drinking cheap beer.
I'm not in school this
semester; I'm taking time to get adjusted to this working schedule. If I can
ever come up with a plan of action, this job could be perfect for getting schoolwork
done at work. That is, provided no more chairs come through the window.
I think I should like very
much to be a writer/director/actor/editor. Or a singer/songwriter/performance
artist/comedian. Or a painter/sculpter/hairstylist. Or a guy with a good job in
the health care/plumbing/auto/electrical/food transportation industry. As long
as I could have a dog.
Well, as for my advertisements
in the local classified section, they have proven fruitless. You just can't go
looking for it.
There's not much else to
report other than that I have been going fishing every week and wearing a
helmet when I ride my motorcycle. Please tell me another emergency room story
about head injuries. I really miss that. Well, say hi to the rest of the Tribe.
Ciao!
P.S. I really like this
typewriter! Thanks!
