Part 121 Conspiracy/I see you


The room is dark. I see people lying in beds. Some are moaning. The air is filled with misery.

I cannot speak. There is a tube in my throat.

People in white coats come and go. None stay very long.

Two primary nurses are in this room, although I see others that also pass through and assist. One is a blonde with hair just below her shoulders who must be in her forties but flirts with some of the patients in a youthful manner. I imagine her growing up in Dallas and probably being someone’s sorority sweetheart in college. The other nurse is a shorter-haired brunette of about the same age that acts as if she is in charge. She gives directives, and smiles, but in a sarcastic way, and there is a sternness to her that unsettles me. My instant impression is that she is my nurse Rached come to life from Ken Kesey’s “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”.

Becah is here. She asks nurse Rached a question. The nurse smiles and says something politely in response. When Becah turns her back, the nurse makes a scowling face and whispers something to the blonde.

Becah is gone.

A very old man with white hair and moustache is wheeled into the room. His relatives sit near his bedside. They mention that they have driven all night from somewhere in the panhandle to get here, and are exhausted. They fear the old man has very little time left.

A young college student appears. He has been injured, and seems to be barely awake. His mother, wearing an LSU jersey, sits nervously by his side, as another lady whispers comforting words to her.

Another man is in a bed. By his side is his estranged wife.

Back in a corner I see a man of apparent Arabic descent. He looks as if he is in his thirties. Nurse Rached seems very irritated with him, snapping negative remarks about him to the blonde and to anyone else who will listen. He apparently has refused to sign papers of consent for treatment. Nurse Rached cannot fathom how he was allowed in here without signing, and she becomes more livid as she complains to the other nurses. A physician comes by, and she approaches him indignantly. The doctor agrees that this is unacceptable. He will not stand for this. The Arab is drowsy, and he seems to drift in and out of awareness as the doctor and nurse Rached hold papers in front of his face and request his signature. Lying on his back, he stares at them, then closes his eyes and says nothing. They walk away, the papers unsigned.

I am having trouble breathing.

Visiting hours are over, the loudspeaker proclaims. The LSU mom stays anyway, talking desperately to her friend as her eyes never leave her son.

The white haired moustached man groans, then sleeps again. A relative holds his hand, lingering despite the directives that guests must leave. After all, they have driven hundreds of miles.

I drift off to sleep, but in this place, it will not be for long. I have trouble swallowing. Suction me.

Becah is here, and whispers something in my ear. I discover that I have a pen and note pad beside me to communicate with.

The Arab has a guest. Crouched beside his bed, with her face covered in a veil, is his wife. Her eyes dart, she is inquisitive, rapidly whispering to him as he lies semi-propped up in his bed and stares. I look again and she is gone. But more guests arrive, including a trio of large, stocky African American men bearing presents. The nurses take them and place them on a table nearby. One gift is a computer monitor. I think I see some wires coming from another portable electronic device.

The white haired man groans.

An older male patient has apparently been in the room for some time, lying behind a partition. The blonde nurse is trying to coax him to have a bowel movement so he can be discharged. She acts flirtatiously with him (why not with me?).

The nurses try again to get the Arab to sign consent. I am becoming more worried about this dilemma, and about him in general. Two tall, husky male nurses approach him with the papers to sign, and he sits up. But he quickly dismisses them with a wave of his hand and mumbles something rapidly to them as they walk away.

I sleep again. I wake. I cannot speak. There is a tube jutting out from my neck. I jot something on my notepad. A request for more meds? I need to pee. My mouth is dry.

A group of attractive female staff, one member holding papers, approaches the Arab. If strength and intimidation doesn’t work, maybe seduction will. But he doesn’t fall for this either.

Nurse Rached rolls her eyes, scowls, and fires off another directive.

Let me out of here.

Shifts change. Some new faces appear. Specialists carrying folders stroll through, looking important. But nurse Rached is still here.

I jot requests on my notepad and motion for a nurse to come look. Someone takes the pad and reads, but she cannot decipher one of the words and asks me what it is. I grab the pad and carefully re-write the word and hand it back. She still cannot understand what I want.

I want to be repositioned in bed. I want to pee. Mainly I just want out of here.

I ask Becah if there is a catheter in me. She responds once again “yes”. I still worry about peeing in bed, so I don’t pee.

Visiting hours are over. Suddenly the Arab’s wife is back, crouching beside his bed, with darting eyes and whispers. Is anyone in here bothered by this, or is it just me? A physician accompanies nurse Rached again to his bedside to see if his wife’s presence will encourage him to sign the papers. Still no luck.

Becah is here. Becah is gone.

More visitors greet the Arab, and more gifts amass on the table. Another computer monitor materializes. This is becoming too bizarre for me. They look like a group of radical extremists. What are all these electronic devices? Why are his visitors treating this patient like royalty? What does his wife whisper in his ear? Why does he feel as if he is above having to sign letters of consent? And, equally puzzling, why does the hospital allow him to stay? What are they afraid of?

I write more notes, quickly now, and they are colored in frustration and desperation.

Nurse Rached walks briskly by, holding up an IV bag filled with fluids. Someone has detected what looks like a map and some red letters drawn on the bag. It could be some strange code. She takes the bag around the corner and hangs it on a stand in front of a wall with lights turned on behind it to better illuminate the writings. Doctors, assistants, and staff suddenly gather and stare at the wall, trying to discern the meaning.

I can see them staring, but the bag is out of my line of vision.

Rached and the blonde approach the Arab again with the papers. Their backs are to me as they talk. Suddenly both ladies swirl around. The blonde abruptly draws her hand to her mouth in astonishment and suppresses a giggle, while an outraged Rached raises her eyes and storms away disgustedly. The Arab is lying on his side with his bed covers partially off, exposing his semi-erect member that hangs over his leg.

The white haired man is still. Someone comes and pulls a sheet over his head.

Visiting hours are over. I write more notes. I sleep again.

What is all the Elvis paraphernalia doing on the table in the center of the room? I see photos, what looks like CDs, and other items. I determine that today must be the anniversary of his death. I pick up my pad to ask about this, then look again, now seeing only the stack of computer monitors and other electronic items on the table.

A female physician also of Arabic nationality approaches the Arab. I thought she was his wife – the same lady as the veiled one that has been crouching at his bedside. But apparently I am wrong.

I close my eyes and drift off.

When I awake I see that the Arab is gone. The nurses finally succeed in having him removed for noncompliance. I worry that he and his band of outlaws will seek revenge for this. At least when he was in the room I knew he wouldn’t detonate the bomb, if that was his plan. Now he is discharged. Maybe he is walking the streets, planning some attack from outside the hospital using devices that his friends have already brought in. Sitting right under our noses.

Someone please get me out of here.

I hear voices outside the room. People are shouting. I am worried that a group is plotting hostile acts. I write on my pad, asking someone to check it out. I am informed that no one is outside our room.

I sleep. Becah is back. I sleep. Becah is gone. The Arab is back.

I see a male technician talking with Rached. He seems passionate about something. I write notes and motion him to come over. I ask him about the IV bag incident and ask if he knows what was discovered. I implore him to convince the hospital to monitor the patient more closely and have his gifts screened for any threats they may contain. He talks earnestly to me. I think he believes me and understands the gravity of all this.

The blonde nurse walks behind the partition and quickly exits, wincing her nose. The constipated patient apparently relieved his bowels and is ready to leave.


To be continued……








[“Envying Job” will resume on August 5]