Philip Naylor told me every day that I was his favorite nurse. And every day I would find myself in a more uncomfortable position than I was when he said it the day before. It seemed that every time I lifted the man’s sheets to replace his catheter, or dipped my sponge into a bucket of soap in preparation of cleaning the dirt from his fat rolls, he would decide— Ah yes, this is the perfect time to tell her. And then he would stare me down from between his spread legs and say, “Lorin, have I told you that you’re my favorite nurse?”
“Not today, Mr. Naylor,” I’d say.
Though in my head, I would be actively cussing him out—Yeah, asshole. You told me yesterday when I was sponging the inside of your legs. And the day before, when I was bent over, picking up a puzzle piece that you had so kindly asked me to retrieve for you.
I did not bother explaining that I wasn’t a nurse, that a nurse would never have as much “face to face” time with the patient—or “face-to-crotch” time, in Mr. Naylor’s case. Nor did I bother expressing my strong distaste for him and the real nurse who was constantly sending me to his room. Taking the time to explain these things would delay my arrival into Mrs. Mendoza’s room, who would say I reminded her of her granddaughter and would never try to hit on me when I changed her into her fresh hospital gowns. I normally lingered in her room when I visited her. I would settle into the chair that was normally reserved for guests—because she didn’t get many-- and let her tell me how beautiful I was. Not all of my patients were as pleasant as her. Most were too weak or too bitter to hold conversations with me, but they were, at the very least, respectful. Bouncing between each of their rooms, I would inevitably pass Mr. Naylor’s door a couple times a day. Each time, I would briefly peer in, and almost always find him with his smart phone glued to his ear—though he was never engaged in conversation. Even from the doorway, I could hear a dial tone blaring from his cell phone, coupled by his quiet pleas to whoever he was attempting to contact.
“Pick up, pick up…” I would hear him whisper, but they never would. Only on his weaker days, would he choose to leave a message.
“Hi honey,” he’d say into the speaker, “Look, I know you don’t really want to talk to me right now, but your old Pop’s not doing so good, and I guess I’d just really like to see ya.” And then he’d follow up by feverently reciting the hospital’s address and begging for a brief visit. I would almost begin to feel pity for him. That is, until, I was inevitably called on by the nurse, to return to his room and be promptly reminded of his vulgar behavior.
On the last day I was called to Mr. Naylor’s room, he looked sleepier than usual. I found his lack of energy comforting. He did not have the pizzazz to remind me of his favoritism, and his eyes were nearly shut, so he was not getting a very good look at my breasts, even if he was trying. He moved slowly as I prompted him to open his mouth for the thermometer. He breathed weakly as I listened to his lungs through the stethoscope. He just barely lifted his arm as I removed the velcroed cuff from his bicep.
“What’s going on, Mr. Naylor? It looks like we’ve got some low blood pressure today. Have you been eating the food we’ve been bringing in for you?”
He laughed weakly, and then patted his massive stomach.
“Do I look like I’ve been starving myself?” he said.
“Not one bit, my friend. But you know I have to ask. Let me just go and have a talk with the nurse to see what we can do to bring that blood pressure back up,”
I smiled in his direction, happy to be leaving his room for the very first time without being harassed. I had just turned to leave when he spoke up.
“No need to ask the nurse, sweetheart. I have the solution right here.” He held up the smartphone that had been resting in his lap. “I just read an article on this little contraption that said blood pressure can be raised by having an orgasm.”
Realizing that my smile was preemptive, I put it away.
“Do you think we can make that happen somehow?” He asked me.
“No.” I stated numbly, “We cannot make that happen.”
I left the room so disgusted I felt no need to discuss Mr. Naylor’s blood pressure with the nurse. Instead, I walked straight back to the comfort of Mrs. Mendoza’s room.
“Two visits in one day?” she said,” I must be the luckiest patient in this hospital,”
She smiled that comforting smile of hers, and for a moment, as I walked toward the seat in the corner of the room, I wondered if I would tell her. I wondered if I would allow myself to lean into her comforting aura, and finally be honest about the traumas of this hospital. And yet, as I observed her innocently watching the home improvement network, it occurred to me that this hospital was all she had-- and how could I possibly be the one to ruin it for her? So, I decided to let her presence be enough. It hadn’t occurred to me just how much of my shift had actually passed, until the nurse came in about an hour later. I was fully prepared for her to scold me—to give me a lecture about my work ethic or threaten to report my carelessness to administration—so I was pleasantly surprised to spot a sense of defeat on her face, upon her entrance to the hospital room I was hiding in. She spoke low and tired and avoided my eyes as she gently informed me of Mr. Naylor’s death. There was a sense of numbness and detachment in her voice as she broke the news to me. The manner in which she delivered the information seemed eerily similar to the way I felt as I heard it-- Numb. Detached. It occurred to me that perhaps I wasn’t Naylor’s only “favorite nurse.”
“I just need you to go to his room, and deal with the post-mortem care. Then you can go home for the night.”
I half nodded, and turned to make my way to Mr. Naylor’s room for the last time. Conflicted by the feeling of relief and guilt that pulled at my insides like a game of tug of war, I thought of my mother as I dragged my feet to my destination. She used to waitress at a wing joint at the corner of the street we lived on when I was a kid. When Dad worked late nights, she would bring me to the restaurant and set me up at a table in the corner with a bucket of French fries. I would watch as she made her way around to each of the tables, fidgeting with the rings on her fingers behind her back while male customers showered her in crude compliments and pulled at the strings of her apron.
“Why’d those boys touch you like that, Mommy?” I’d ask her on our way home.
“It’s just a part of the job, sweetie,” she’d say so matter of factly, you’d think it was common sense. “You have to play the part to pay the bills.” And boy, was she good at playing the part—so good that she nearly convinced me she liked having her leg rubbed and her apron yanked by strange men.
I never was as strong as my mother. I couldn’t handle the pressure of “playing the part.” I couldn’t put on a face and pretend like I enjoyed being preyed on by an old, dying man. And he died because of it. He died because of me.
The guilt rose in my throat, but as I arrived at the door, and took in the view, it was immediately washed away. I felt the nurse walk up behind me, as I stood, stuck in the doorway. The two of us peered into the room, silently. She grabbed for my hand, and squeezed it lightly. After what seemed like a moment of contemplation, she used her opposite hand to grab the handle of the door and began to pull it closed.
He was dead. We knew this for certain. And yet the tent-like form that the blanket made around his waist led us to understand that not all of his organs were finished functioning.
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