The Hamper

 It’s funny how lucid and attentive I was, even when I couldn’t speak. It took just a few routines with the nurses and then suddenly I know the routine. And when the nurse on the next shift doesn’t do things in the exact same order, then I immediately start to think, “Did she forget to do X, or is she going to come back to it?” I swear to god, I think that, when we die, the very last sense to go isn’t the hearing, like they say, it’s our innate desire for quality control, at least in Bowens, anyway.

And everyone who came in to the room pulled on blue rubber gloves from the box on the wall. Often times they would do something, then change into a new pair of rubber gloves. They use a lot of blue rubber gloves in hospitals.  And then every time they would leave the room, they hit the wall-mounted hand sanitizer dispenser on the way out. 

And then the guy from PT came in. Of course, he’s got his blue gloves on. And I’m out of bed with the walker, and we’re heading towards the hallway. So, for some reason he moves the dirty laundry hamper that is directly under the wall-mounted hand sanitizer dispenser. So I do a lap around the floor and after I’m done with PT, I’m back in bed when the nurse comes in.

She grabs her blue rubber gloves, does her things, and as she is heading out the door, she hits the wall-mounted hand sanitizer dispenser. And when she does, I see that the tail end of the spurt, lands on the floor. Exactly where the laundry hamper used to be. And for some reason I think this is funny. And then the respiratory therapist comes in, does her stuff, and on her way out hits the wall-mounted hand sanitizer dispenser, and the tail end of the spurt lands on the floor. Exactly where the laundry hamper use to be parked. Then the nurses' aid comes in to take my vitals. And on her way out, she hits the wall-mounted hand sanitizer dispenser, and the tail end of the spurt lands on the floor. Exactly where the laundry hamper use to be parked.

And of course I want to fix it. And something in my mind thinks this is all pretty funny. (No I haven’t been on any drugs, sorry.) But all I can do is watch it. I can’t explain it to anyone because I can’t talk. All I can do is hang on to the story. But there’s no chance I’ll forget, because everyone who comes in to the room, on their way out, hits the wall-mounted hand sanitizer dispenser. Every time.

And all I can do is watch. And chuckle to myself at the inside joke that only I understand.