we are trying to work—Jasmine stares at us as if she has never heard such a request—she tells us that she always watches TV in these rooms—with exaggerated politeness verging upon hostility she asks if she can keep the TV on—Turned low?—in her white nylon uniform that strains at her fleshy hips and thighs sitting now in a chair beneath the TV gazing upward at the screen rapt in concentration at antic darting images as if these images were of paramount importance to her provoking her to suck at her lips, murmur and laugh to herself, draw in her breath sharply—Ohhhh man! Uhhhh!—until after some time—twenty minutes, twenty-five—as if the magical screen suddenly loses its attraction Jasmine turns back to us with renewed enthusiasm—as the TV crackles and drones she resumes the bright-chattering bird-shriek that makes me want to press my hands over my ears even as I am smiling—smiling so hard my face aches—not wanting Jasmine to be insulted by some lapse in my attention or some failure to respect her personality which in some quarters has surely been praised, encouraged—as Ray shuts his eyes in misery—trapped in the hospital bed by the IV tube in a vein in the crook of his bruised right arm, nasal inhaler clamped to his head—forced as in an anteroom of Hell to listen as Jasmine begins to repeat her monologue of a former patient who’d been really nice to her—really really nice to her—and his wife as well—they’d given her real special presents—sent her a postcard Dear Jasmine! from the Southwest—really really nice generous people—an older couple—really nice—as I listen to these boastful yet accusatory words a wave of dismay washes over me—a stab of fear—is this nurse’s aide employed by the Princeton Medical Center retarded? Is she mentally unstable? Disturbed? Deranged?
None of the other, older nurses resemble Jasmine in any way—Jasmine seems to have wandered in from another dimension, a Comedy Central TV program perhaps, except Jasmine isn’t funny—Jasmine is deadly serious—I try to explain that my husband is tired and would like to rest—trying to smile—trying to speak politely—in dread of upsetting the excitable young woman—finally saying in a forceful voice Excuse me—Jasmine—my husband is tired, he would like to sleep—provoking Jasmine to stare at us in astonishment—for a beat unable to speak, she’s so stunned—insulted—a look of exaggerated shock contorting her face as in a children’s cartoon—Ma’am!—You are telling me to be quiet? To stop talking? Is that what you are telling me Ma’am—to stop talking? Jasmine’s shiny eyes bulge behind the thick lenses of her glasses. The whites of her eyes glare. I tell Jasmine that my husband tires easily, he has pneumonia she must know—he doesn’t sleep well at night and should try to rest during the day and if he isn’t able to sleep at least he could close his eyes and rest—as Jasmine continues to glare at me and when my voice trails off she retorts by repeating her account of the really nice older couple for whom she’d worked recently—really nice, generous—Liked me real well sayin Jasmine you a breath of fresh air always smiling—sent me a postcard sayin Jasmine howya doin—until at last I cry Please! Please just stop!
Now Jasmine’s jaw drops, she is so insulted.
Jasmine sits heavily in her chair beneath the TV. Jasmine sighs loudly, muttering to herself. Her fleshy face darkens with blood, her eyes glare whitely. She is sulky, sullen as a furious child. There is no subtlety in her hatred of us who have insulted her by failing to adore her. The thought comes to me I have made an enemy. She could kill my husband in the night.
My heart begins to beat quickly, in panic. I have brought my husband to this terrible place, now I can’t protect him. How can I protect him?
Whatever happens, I am to blame. I am the one who has arranged this.
Outside the room’s single window, it’s night. I think that very likely it has been night for a long time for night falls early in this perpetual winter dusk. I tell Jasmine that she can leave now for her supper break, if she wants to—a little early—this is a good time since I’ll be here for another hour or more.
Jasmine has been rummaging through a large cloth bag on her knees, panting with exasperation. At first she doesn’t seem to hear me—in the friendliest tone I can manage I repeat what I’ve said—Jasmine frowns, glances up—Jasmine pouts and glares—then Jasmine smiles.
Jasmine shuts the large cloth bag with a snap and smiles.
Ma’am thank you! Ma’am that is real nice.
February 14, 2008—February 16, 2008.
Those days!—nights!—a Möbius strip continuously winding, unwinding.
This nightmare week of my life—and yet—during this week Ray is still alive.
“Don’t worry about that, honey! I’ll take care of that when I get home.”
And: “Just put it on my desk. Next week will be soon enough—I should be home by then.”
At his bedside. Breathing through the nasal inhaler Ray is reading, trying to read—one of the books I’ve brought him from home—I am reading, trying to read—with what fractured concentration I can summon—the bound galley of a book on the cultural history of boxing which I am reviewing for the New York Review of Books. It’s a mealtime—but Ray isn’t hungry for hospital food. It’s time for his blood to be drawn—but the nurse has difficulty finding a vein, Ray’s arms are bruised, discolored.
The air in the hospital room smells stale, used up. Outside is a wintry-dusk February day. This afternoon there is a reading at the University sponsored by the Creative Writing Department—readers are Phillip Lopate and a visiting Israeli writer—of course I can’t attend, nor can I attend the dinner afterward with my writing colleagues. A hospital vigil is mostly slow time. Stalled time. In such stasis dread breeds like virulent bacteria.
And then—this happens—Ray begins talking about something I can’t follow, in a slow drawling voice—a confused tale of needing to get something from home—to bring to “Shannon’s house”—Shannon is a favorite nurse—Shannon has been friendly with Ray—somehow, in the way of dream-delirium logic, Ray thinks that he isn’t in the hospital but in a “house” belonging to Shannon—he is her guest, and I am, too.
So quickly this has happened, I’m not prepared. When I’d brought Ray to the ER a few days before he’d said a few things that were baffling to me, that didn’t quite make sense, but now he’s speaking to me as a sleepwalker might speak and this sudden change in his condition is shocking to me, frightening. Quickly I tell Ray no: he isn’t in Shannon’s house. He’s in the hospital—in the Princeton Medical Center.
Ray doesn’t seem to hear this. Or, hearing, discounts it.
His concern is something I am to bring for him, from home—to use here in Shannon’s house. He has an “apartment” in Shannon’s house.
Calmly I tell Ray no: he is not in Shannon’s house, he’s in the hospital where Shannon is a nurse.
“Honey, you’ve been very sick. You’re still sick. You have—”
But Ray is irritated with me. Ray will have to argue with me to convince me, yes we are in Shannon’s house.
“Honey, no. Shannon is a nurse. You’re in the Medical Center. You have pneumonia—you’ve been very sick. But you’re getting better—the doctor says you might be able to come home next week.”
How long we discuss this absurd issue, I can’t recall afterward. I am shaken, disoriented. This man—this slow-speaking stubborn childish man!—is no one I know.
At
