cruelty of old
tortures the flesh and spirit;
fight, Lady Justice
I almost hit a medical attendant while at the hospital… And I feel no guilt about the fact that now I’m wishing my first impulse had smacked his stupidity right in the teeth.
I was pacing at the ophthalmologist’s office. The doctor had just given me something to numb my eyeball, but the pain around my eye socket was still blinding. Walking back and forth, with my eyes closed, while massaging the area with a bit of pressure helped soothing the hurt.
The cry of a man—who seemed to be hurting way more than I was—made me open my eyes and glance through the glass doors separating the eye clinic from the hallway.
“It hurts. I can’t,” the man said. “It hurts.”
I closed my eyes again, and refocused on my eyeball; when you spent enough time in a hospital, you kind of start to get used to a scream of agony or two. But there was a third and a fourth cry of pain, so I walked out to the hallway.
I ran into a medical attendant who was telling an old man, “Just lift your fucking feet.”
“I can’t,” the old man said over and over, his lips stretched in an expression that showed he only had a couple of teeth left.
I noticed that one of the old man’s feet was caught on the front wheel of the chair. “His foot’s twisted under the chair,” I said to the attendant, assuming that he hadn’t seen it.
He gave me a frustrated look, and continued talking to the old guy. “Lift your feet. Didn’t you hear me? Lift your—”
“He can’t,” I said a bit louder. “And you’re hurting him.”
“This is my patient. I know—”
“I don’t care if he’s your servant,” I shouted. “You’re hurting him and you need to stop.”
The man ignored me. I asked him for his name and he refused to give it. I asked him again, and he yelled, “Who are you?” Then he turned towards a woman who was with him and told her to bring the car to the front.
“A concern citizen,” I said. (I’m just realizing how cliché that sounds… ) I told him that he didn’t have to give me his name, but he had to accompany me to the Patient Advocate Office.
He tried to wheel the old man away from me. The old man screamed in pain.
“I’m calling security,” I yelled at the attendant. His eyes opened wide, and I thought my threat had scared him. A hand squeezing my left shoulder made me pay more attention to my own body—I was holding my umbrella like a baseball bat… and aiming it at the attendant’s face.
“Lower the stick, Devil Dog,” said the man with his hand on my shoulder. “The VA Police is coming. They’ll handle this shitbird.”
I lowered the umbrella.
The VA Police asked the attendant to go with them to their office. The attendant started shouting at them and saying that he didn’t have to go anywhere. It took three VA Police Officers to walk him to the office.
After my doctor was finished with my eye, I went back to give my information for the formal report. I was shocked by some of the things I learned about the entire situation. First, the pile of feces pretending to be a human medical attendant said that the reason why I reported him was… wait for it… “because [he was] Black.”
I wish I had been there when he said that. Or maybe not… I might not have been able to keep my umbrella from poking his eyes open enough for him to figure out that I’m Black, too… and that the cruelty of his soul has nothing to do with the color of our skins. But that bit of ignorance wasn’t the worse of it; the woman (whom I thought was a friend of the attendant) was the old man’s daughter. I wished I had smacked her. I mean, what in the world is wrong with that woman!?!
Anyway, that was the last exciting episode in the life of my funky eyeball and me. The doctors still can’t figure out what’s wrong, but things are improving. One small miracle at a time, right? Thanks so much for the energy, the love and the laughs, my Wicked Luvs!
my umbrella remains in hiding
so I borrowed this one from Archer Adams’
*cough, cough, cough*