One More Night
The doctor is worried about my Urine Flow
One more night, the doctor said, standing at my bedside with Nigel and two resident doctors, as this is a teaching hospital.
Did I hear you right? You want me to stay one more night? I asked with a great deal of sorrow.
Yes, Mr. Hogg. I’m concerned you haven’t passed enough urine. Are you drinking lots of fluids?
At this point, I want to say something sarcastic. Be bloody-minded, even difficult. But I heard Gladys in my head. I cannot remember the whole thing, but it ended with, …blessed are good people, for they shall walk without a stain on their characters.
Fuck, I’m thinking.
I’m not a big fan of water, doc.
Well, I’d like to see you pass more urine. What about stools, any difficulty?
The temptation is to say that my stomach is an oven and baking bricks. Better now that I am allowed to go to the toilet. I had bedpan issues, I answered.
Yes, after anesthetic. The function is unsettling for a couple of days. However, I’m sure by tomorrow you’ll be feeling much better.
Then he turns to his students; Mr. Hogg was admitted with…bla la bla.
Ten minutes later, the three doctors leave. Nigel pats my hand like I’ve been the best child in the world and says, I’ll be back to check your vitals. Which leaves me wondering what the doctor had just studied.
I lean back on my pillows and deal with the disappointment. Jenny returns to the room, and I give her the information. Jenny has trouble showing disappointment. It’s a strength, I’m sure. But today, she could weaken, right? We talk about the grandchildren and their Christmas. There’s too much Covid to bring them to the hospital. So only Jenny is allowed in, and only for an hour.
Nigel arrives back with his sparkling eyes and gay grin. He looks at Jenny and winks. Then turns to me. It looks like I will have the pleasure of your company for one more night, Harry.
Fuck off, Nigel. Are you in love with me or something?
Darling man, I’d let your wife have me before you! So here, these are for being a good patient, and hands me a box of Newton’s fig bars.
Bloody hell, have you had her already?
She told me you become a little softie when you get what you want, and he looks at Jenny, who is smiling with embarrassment.
Nigel, ole’son, you’ve had my dick in your hands more than Jenny this past week, so I’ve earned these, I said, and closed my teeth on a sumptuous Fig Newton.
Jenny tells me, while Nigel has his way with me, she will go see Gladys.
Here, give me your finger! Nigel commands.
It’s 1:15 in the morning when I wake. I had set my iPhone to vibrate every hour to drink the goddam water jug! I’m typing on my iPhone when Nigel comes in. It’s his second shift of the day. The man is working two nine-hour shifts. The hospital is short of staff due to Covid and others are being called in from agencies, trying to cope, but it’s beyond hopeless even then. I hear the ambulances turning up at the ER.
It’s terrible, Harry. Six out of ten are toddlers. Others are elderly, half of them not vaccinated. I’m not paying much attention. Can I ask why you’re always on your iPhone? Nigel asks.
Oh, you know, passing the time, drinking water, and finishing the Fig Newtons, you gave me.
He smiled, still holding my wrist, rather limply, and said, I have a confession, Harry. I didn’t buy the Fig Newtons; Jenny did. When she arrived, she gave them to me, told me you’d be better to deal with if you had your favorite cookie by the bedside.
It’s not a cookie, Nigel; it’s a biscuit.
I don’t care; she was right. You’ve been very compliant since you got them, even friendly.
Oh fuck, don’t get your hopes up, Nigel. I’m already taking the blue pill to make love to my wife. For you, I’d need a gun at my head, a blindfold, and then I’d tell them to pull the trigger!
Harry, you’re so obvious. I suspect you quite like gay people.
Like’em not love’em!
And if I was your brother?
Fuck me, Nigel; what is this?
Just asking, Harry.
Yeh, well, you’ve been holding my wrist long enough.
Nigel picks up my piss bottle. I’ll empty this for you. The doctor will be happy with this improvement, he says, looking at the measure. How’s the leg?
I don’t know. I haven’t seen it since you wrapped it in fucking plaster.
Funnyman, how is it feeling? Can you wiggle your toes? Good. Is it okay to ask how you got the pin in your thigh the first time?
Can’t remember.
Really? When the doctor took it out, he told me it was made in New Zealand.
Is that so? Did it give away my name and address and sexual preferences?
Eat another fig Newton, Harry. I’ll be back in two hours.
After Nigel left, I wondered why I hadn’t shared with him what I wrote or simply why. I enjoy writing about my experiences, loves, life, and anything that crosses from reality to imagination.
Writing, for me, is a very lonely and heartbreaking experience a lot of the time. So many talented writers come and go on the earth and never, not one time, are celebrated with a published novel. Or get to see their article on space travel in a science fiction chronicle or their own Do It Yourself Guide to Fame and Fortune on the bookshelves. Yet writers are common enough to walk into any library to see how popular writing is. Doesn’t it seem like everyone is doing it?
Of course, this isn’t the case, and very few people, compared to how many write, ever do it well enough to receive enough money to live on. So let me just pass this along to you, writing takes courage, takes tenacity, and more than anything, it takes understanding, and guess what, it’s not the writer who needs these attributes. It’s the people who care for me.
When I write, I need the security of their love and understanding. I will be gone much of the time. Not out of the room, not across an ocean, just gone to worlds and places they will not, and when I return, I want to be confident and sure in their lives, to care for them because sometimes when I get back, I am damaged by what I have written.
Yes, writing is lonely, at home, in a hotel room, or strapped to a bed in a hospital. And yet writing is how I connect and how I love. Writing is my way to reach out and touch people.