The Christmas tablecloth and placemats on the table help camouflage the two medicinal packages sitting on his side and my side.
Perhaps someday before Easter, I will change the tablecloth and accessories but for now, we are perfectly happy living with reminders of the Christmas that seemed to have taken place more than two months ago, give or take a day or so.
While Housemate’s pill organizer has been on his end of the table for several years, mine is only a month old, having become a necessary reminder since my recent hernia repair surgery, leaving me not only pills to take, but a lovely incision on my not-so-flat-anymore-stomach.
The pills in my seven-day, four-times-a-day container do not bear a fraction of the punch that the drugs I was given during my 10 days in hospital. Those drugs had magical powers, not only to heal, but to remind my friends and family that my hallucinatory episodes while an in-patient are things of legend.
Ten years ago, after a sponge was left behind during an appendix surgery, I saw terrorists climbing the walls of the tower at 15 Wing and eyeing the building known as the glass palace. I was there in an ambulance, to witness this drama, but I could not get one person to pay attention to my warning. The wing commander of the day greeted me later and said he hoped I was feeling better. He did not believe what I had seen.
On an ambulance ride to Regina a few years later, I kept the medical team amused with my rendition of one of the more desirable rodeo songs.
And this year in my time in hospital, my room became a meeting place for several of my long-deceased relatives.
My Aunt Ruth dropped by one day, bringing with her a friend. Neither lady talked directly to me, even though I asked my aunt about her one-legged goose and the snake that lived in a basket in the bathroom. I’m not sure why they stopped in if they didn’t want to talk to me.
Aunt Verna asked me about Housemate’s car and seemed disappointed to learn he and his car were unavailable for her inspection. She once left her nursing home room to look over his Prius and didn’t seem to care that the home attendants were on her trail.
My brother dropped by to invite me to go curling. He had a corn broom in hand and was wearing his curling sweater. He left before I could head out with him to the curling rink. I bet Bill and Melvin were with him ready to have a game.
Then one night I was the only one able to save the hospital and staff from a cadre of bag guys who were looking for the trailer containing the bodies. They had dismantled cell towers and eliminated all means of communicating with the outside world. But, wait a minute: I had my cellphone in my hand under the cover. I sent a message to Housemate via text, at 3 a.m., urging him to call 911 and report what was happening.
When I woke up and asked about bad guys in the hospital, the nurse on shift assured me there were no bad guys to worry about. Housemate could not make out the gibberish of my text and therefore, thankfully, had not called the authorities.
The same nurse looked after me the next night and once again, with a wide grin, made sure I knew she would not let any bad guys in my room.
Now, here I am at home, religiously taking the pills and waiting for them to send me travelling off in search of crooks and criminals, or deceased relatives with whom I’d love to have a conversation.
Instead, I have sweet dreams that I can’t remember in the morning. And Housemate, conversationally asks about bad guys he should report to the 911 operator.
Joyce Walter can be reached at [email protected]
