me.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m covering you up. You’re lying here totally exposed.”
“Leave it the way it is. The sheet’s too heavy on my wounded ass, mom. It hurts. It doesn’t matter how it looks. Do you think they haven’t seen it here a thousand times before?”
“Then stay that way. Good God.”
That reminds me.
“Can you please take down the crucifix over the door? It bugs me.”
“No, Helen, I won’t do that. Stop being so ridiculous.”
“Fine. If you won’t help me, I guess I’ll have to get up and do it myself.”
I start to move one leg off the bed, bluffing that I’m going to stand up, groaning with pain.
“Okay, Okay, I’ll do it. Please stay in bed.”
No problem.
She uses the lone chair in the room to reach the cross. As she’s climbing onto it, she speaks to me in an artificially friendly, sympathetic tone. I feel sorry for her. But it’s too late.
“How long have you had this condition?”
What is she talking about? Oh, right. The hemorrhoids.
“Always.”
“Not back when I used to bathe you.”
“So I got them sometime after I was too old for you to be bathing me.”
She climbs back down off the chair, holding the cross in her hand. She looks questioningly at me.
“Put it here in the drawer.” I point to the metal nightstand.
“You know, mom, hemorrhoids are hereditary. It’s just a question of who I got them from.”
She closes the drawer firmly.
“From your father. How was the operation?”
We learned in health class that divorced parents often try to manipulate their kids into taking their respective sides. One parent will bad-mouth the other in front of their kids.
What those bad-mouthing parents fail to realize, though, is that they are always insulting one half of the child. If you consider a child half the mother and half the father.
Children whose mothers constantly insult their fathers will eventually take revenge against their mothers. It all comes back like a boomerang.
So for years the mother has tried to get the child on her side only to have the opposite happen. She’s just pushed the child closer to the father.
Our teacher was right.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there—they used general anesthesia. They say it all went well. It hurts. Did you bring my avocado pits?”
“Yes, they’re over there.”
She points to the windowsill. Right next to the diaper container is a box with my beloved pits. Perfect. I can even reach them myself.
“Did you bring the camera?”
She pulls it out of her handbag and puts it on the nightstand.
“What do you need it for here in the hospital?”
“I don’t think you should record only the happy moments in life—like birthdays—but also the sad ones, like operations, illness, and death.”
“I’m sure it will be a joy for your children and grandchildren to look at an album of those pictures.”
I grin. If you only knew, mom.
I hope she’ll leave soon. So I can take care of my ass. The only situation in which I would want to spend more time with her would be if there was a legitimate hope of getting her together with dad. He’s not coming today. But tomorrow for sure. A hospital with your daughter in it is the perfect place for a family reconciliation. Tomorrow. Today: ass photos.
She says her good-bye and tells me she’s left pajamas in the wardrobe. Thanks. How am I supposed to get at them? It doesn’t matter—I’d rather lie here bare-bottomed anyway, with all those bandages. Air is good for the wound.
As soon as mom’s gone I ring for Robin.
Waiting, waiting. There are other patients, Helen, hard as that is for you to imagine. Here he comes.
“How can I help you, Ms. Memel?”
“I have a question for you. And please don’t say no right away.”
“Shoot.”
“Can you help me … actually, can you not call me Ms. Memel. It’s too formal for what I want to ask.”
“Sure. Happily.”
“You’re Robin and I’m Helen. Okay. Can you help me take a picture of my ass and the wound on it? I want to see what it looks like.”
“Um, let me think for a second—I don’t know if I’m allowed.”
“Please. Otherwise I’ll go crazy. There’s no other way for me to figure out what they did back there. You know, Dr. Notz can’t even explain it. And it’s my ass after all. Please. I can’t tell from feeling it. I’ve got to see it.”
“I understand. Interesting. Most patients don’t want to know. Okay. What do you want me to do?”
I go to the menu on the camera and set it to close-up. First try will be with no flash. It always looks better. I pull off the outer bandages and the plug of gauze. It takes a while. They’ve stuffed a lot of gauze in there. I carefully turn on to my other side, my face to the window, and hold my cheeks apart with both hands.
“Robin, now take a picture of the wound as close-up as possible. Hold it steady—the flash is off.”
I hear it click once and he shows me the test shot. You can’t make anything out. Robin doesn’t have a steady hand. Other talents, though, I’m sure. We’ll have to use the flash. And repeat the whole thing.
“Take a few pictures from various angles. Up close and from farther away.”
Click, click, click, click. He won’t stop.
“That’ll do it, Robin, thanks.”
He carefully hands me the camera and says, “I’ve worked here in the proctology unit for ages and I’ve never been able to see the actual surgical work. So I thank you.”
“No, thank you. Can I look at these on my own? And would you do this for me again if it’s necessary?”
“Sure.”
“You’re
