The Two Kinds of Decay

The Forgetful Nurse

She worked the morning shift and she understood slow, simple English. Every morning she came in to help me to the bathroom, and she grabbed my arm at the biceps and yanked it up. And every day she did that, I cried out because it hurt a little and because I knew that if the tube in my chest were pulled out, I would bleed out. I wouldn’t bleed to death, but I’d probably fall down, and she wouldn’t be able to pick me up to see where the blood was coming from, and I’d pass out from fright and blood loss, and eventually the wound would be found and pressure would be applied, but not before I’d bled out enough to cause myself even more trouble.

Every day, after that happened, and after I got back from the bathroom, she gave me a sponge bath and toweled me off. Since I wasn’t wearing a hospital johnny and the line in my chest was exposed, I wasn’t afraid she would knock it out of the vein or pull it out by accident.

But then she always took out a little container of baby powder and started shaking it onto my torso. And I had been reminded by the surgeons, every time one of them implanted a line, that nothing powdery should be used near the entry site, because the powder could get right into my bloodstream.

So then I reminded her, my voice raised, to keep the powder away from my line.

And both of those things happened every day she worked.