The Patient Patient and the Ambiguous __________.

1/23/06

***The blank lines are there on purpose. They substitute for a particular word***

I sit here, trapped, surrounded by the dense cloud only true despair can bring. I gaze around, trying to penetrate the thick fog, searching for a metal clad knight that will come rescue me. But all I see are orange clad men and women, trying to rescue themselves. Sometimes, if I sleep long enough, the fog will lift for a couple of hours. Then I normally like to stare at the clouds. I would like to do other things, but they say I’m not ready yet to go out into the “real world”. So I just sit here, in my rocking chair, with silence for company. Occasionally, one of those white clad women will come and try to cram some food in my mouth, but I’ve noticed that if I sit silently, and sort of glaze my eyes over, then I can convince them that I am still in the fog, and they leave me alone. Those are the good days however. On the bad days, as soon as I enter the fog, I feel as if though I’m being suffocated. Fearful that I may be enshrouded in the fog, because of my inability to escape, I scurry around in it, trying desperately to find my way out, only to find failure at every turn. There’s one, she’s my favorite. Completely draped in fresh white cotton every day, she sometimes sneaks over and puts cookies or something sweet in my hand, and disappears quickly. I guess she knows I don’t like to eat when people are watching. I just sit here day after day, looking out the window, no matter the time; that’s because I try not to sleep. When I sleep I see all kinds of fantastic things. But sometimes, I see nothing, and instead I find myself stuck in the darkness only oblivion can bring. That’s the hardest for me. Sometimes, after they inject me, I feel a burning sensation sear through my veins. But I just sit there, sure to show no emotions. I just stare in the distance, hoping to catch sight of my knight. They’ve been giving me injections less frequently now. I hear them whispering in groups as they look over in my direction, but I can’t hear what they say. Sometimes I climb partly out of the fog, in hopes of being able to hear what they are saying to one another about me; though the voices always sound distant, like they are coming from miles away. All of a sudden, my family has begun to visit me with more regularity. They visited often before but now my grandkids will occasionally edge past the sides of my bed and my daughter will hug me with tears in her eyes. What bothers me most, is watching those tears, tauntingly race down my daughter’s cheek.  I want to wipe them. I try to wipe them, but my hands remain stubbornly by my side. This past week my favorite woman attired in white has been bringing me my favorite foods. They only send her now. I don’t know why though. She always seems to want to linger a little longer, almost as if though she wants to say something but then she hesitates and leaves. One time I think I saw something glint in her eye.…

            The needle punctures my skin, there’s no more good food for me anymore. I still get my favorite nurse; she’s the one who gives me the shots. Her hands always feel fiery hot on my skin, but I think that’s because I’m always so cold. I have to use three blankets now and I still shiver. My daughter only comes with her husband; they never bring their kids anymore… my grandkids. I miss them. I haven’t sat in my rocking chair in such a long time. Not since I had my last actual meal. I tried to ask my daughter if there were still clouds outside but the words wouldn’t get out. I couldn’t get them to escape my lips. Lately I have whole conversations in my head. I tell my daughter how much I love her, I tell my son-in-law to take care of her, I tell my grandkids to be good, but as hard as I try, I can never have these conversations out loud. They are constantly replayed in my head. To be heard and reheard eternally only by me, not destined to be said aloud, that makes me the most despondent of all….

            I see the knight coming closer now, I see him beckoning. Every time I reach out to him, I hear the rattle of a cart, which brings me back to a visionless reality. The one thing I could always count on before were those clouds, it’s been a while since I last laid eyes on them. Now even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to. I can’t see anything anymore. All I can rely on is my rapidly deteriorating sense of hearing. It’s hard to hear someone when you are miles away. Men in white coats come in to prod and tap me with something new every day. They strip me down and lay me on the table, and I lay there like a helpless doll. That’s what I’ve become, a helpless doll…

            Looking back, I realize how I took those sun filled days for granted. Thinking my life would continue eternally, very much like a never-ending line. A life in which one was always moving forward, never reaching the end. I remember those days spent at the carnival, filled with laughter, sweet nothings, and the thrill of adventure. I remember the knight… No, not the knight. I remember those hot days spent lying lazily on the porch drinking a tall, icy glass of lemonade. I remember reading books mentally following the journey of King Arthur and the _______ of the Round Table. I remember reading Sir Gawain and the Green ___­­__. I guess as one gets old, one’s memory begins to elude you. Oh what I wouldn’t give for some company. I sometimes get these sensations in my bones. They say that happens with old age. When all your other senses begin to fail you, you get new ones, and I’ve noticed that my new senses happen to be in my feeble bones. These new senses of mine always tell me when my daughter is coming. I just know she’ll come tomorrow. That makes me sad for some reason. A persisting, tingling continues in my bones, a feeling I’ve never experienced before. Maybe it’ll go away by tomorrow….

            She comes. She sits beside me. Speechless. It’s been like this for the last couple of visits. Suddenly, a new magnitude of clarity is manifested on the scene before me.  I see every detail on that lovely face of hers clearly. I notice the scar she got when she was stung by a bee on her left eyelid. I see the stitches on her chin, from when she fell off her bike in fifth grade. But how can I enlighten her about this new level of awareness churning inside of me? I can’t move, say or do anything. She sits there weeping, unaware of the changes taking place within me. Thinking me, to be already dead. All I can do is close my eyes and feign sleep. It’s about time I let her go on with her life. Where is that blasted knight? I remember making breakfast one time. The toast got stuck in the toaster. My favorite woman in white came in followed by my daughter.

“What are you doing?” asked the knight.

“Looking at the clouds,” I replied.

“There are none.”

It was at that precise moment that the unpleasant odor of burnt toast reached our nostrils, halting our conversation, as I realized something was burning. I leapt towards the toaster panicking. My daughter sat there weeping. The fiery, hot hand that had fed and clothed me for months inched towards the toaster plug.  All I could do was stand there in shock, frozen, unable to do anything except stare at the plug. The knight moved closer. The scorching hot hand grabbed hold of the plug and the knight, dark metal plates clinking and clanging, was less than an inch away. My daughter wept louder. The fire alarm went off, activated by the smoke emanating from the burnt toast still stuck in the toaster. And the fiery hand yanked the plug out of the socket. The knight enveloped me in a protective embrace. The fire alarm shut off. And my daughter ….. was finally able to move on.