Timmy's After New Years ================================================================= TIMMY'S AFTER NOO YEER'S ================================================================= Here I am computer geeking away and I hear a thud and a crunch against the patio glass door. George has returned to the room and has fallen on his way back from the bathroom. George, I ask, Do you need help? He doesn't say anything. I hit the call button and immediately wheel out into the hall to track down a CNA. I see one at the desk and I call, George needs help. She stares for a long moment like a deer in headlights and then calls to another and they come rushing. They come in the room and pick him up. He's not damaged, but he is red in the face and then I smell the alcohol. It turns out he and Joe went across the tracks to the neighborhood bar and celebrated. George is drunk as a lord. Once the CNAs determine he is no worse for the wear, they set him back in his chair. He looks at me and gets this huge shit-eating grin on. George says, I'm all fucked up. He was out drinking tequila shots. He got in trouble for not signing out. They didn't seem to mind he got plastered. Anyway, he felt good all evening and slept better than usual. Later I heard he brought a small bottle back and was spiking his girlfriend Spastic Lady's diet cola. Spastic Lady Who Isn't Too Bad That Way likes to see me. She makes a point of drawing me into conversation whenever George is around because it makes George jealous. This is true to a point, but George is good-natured about it. I was telling them how I hated dinner last night. It was another goop meal based on what they call Bavarian Stew. All I could see in my bowl was what you get mixing and overcooking powdered milk and leftover frozen vegetables. I wasn't able to find any meat substance in it -- or any potato. Nearly as I can figure they tried to make potato soup without any ingredients. And they want me to think all my marbles are chipped... The flavor was that of overcooked starchiness and loads of salt. Inedible. Now it get it! They tried to make potato soup with powdered potato! Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. What really stupid idea is next? George and Spastic Lady asked how I liked my Hot Dog Soup. I'm not sure whether I got some slop made up for the diet-challenged or if I didn't get any meat in mine. Anyway it was awful. All I would have eaten would be the cut-up weiners had they been there. I threatened to go see the administrator about this crummy slop. George holds up a fist, smiles, and declares, You are a bitch. Spastic Lady laughs. Yes, George, I am a bitch. Sometime soon these people will learn the hard way not to piss off an old queen. It's Friday night and Miss Ralph is reigning in my room, hiding from the administrator. I asked Miss Ralph if she took my latest complaints about the food to the staff meeting today. Yes, she said, And they said What Is He Bitching About Now? Miss Ralph told them how I sent breakfast back because it was dead cold from being a half hour late. There was nobody here to distribute the food. It seems two out of four CNAs for this wing didn't make it to work on time this morning. I did compliment the kitchen crew on the New Year's Day lunch. It was real ham, a real potato and real unmessed-with frozen mixed vegetables sans axle grease. Of course, they made us do penance with that awful "Bavarian" cum soup at dinner. What does it take to read a cookbook and follow directions, anyway? Miss Ralph told me the Tastless Tale of the Tardfarm for this month. Seems a while back they had a retired CEO of a well-known bank here as a private patient in a room by himself. This cost a minimum of US$3500/month and likely closer to five grand. The old boy got stopped up and didn't shit for so long they had to "do digital" on him. Anyway, the nurz who did the honors must've had small hands cuz she got her whole fist in there so she could break it up into pieces that would pass. She reported that the old boy was getting off on being fisted. It was probably the biggest thrill his ole walnut had in twenty years. This just goes to show you how far bankers will take being uptight. My lunch was the last one out of the kitchen today, and nobody lifted a finger to get it to me promptly. It sat on the rack by the kitchen while a full dining hall grazed away. George was finished and back in the room before I ever saw mine, so I went looking for it. I raised holy motherfucking hell with the charge nurse about being last out and cold all the time. She had the nerve to connive with Gretchen, the nazi bitch (only we Germans know how nasty we are) to put in the log that it had just come out of the kitchen and was not their fault I was pissed. So they are going to blame the kitchen. Bitches. Gretchen is at the bottom of this. She was fucking around in the social dining down the corridor in the occupational therapy room where they still have that program going. It was inaugerated for the people who have all their marbles. They would eat together privately and not have to put up with the droolers in the main hall. With time, the company has deteriorated and changed. I have seen more bad temper and nuttiness in the social dining than in the main hall, which is why I bailed. I got more marbles than all of them put together. Mine are somewhat chipped and cracked now. Thank you, St Timmy's. Fuck you, St Timmy's. Bitches. So here I am sitting in the room, smouldering, and there comes a knock on the door. It's Queen Bee. She wants to talk. She saw me come through the dining room earlier in the afternoon like a dark cloud. I was on my way out to the big patio to use the crummy daylight in order to read small type. I'm checking off things in an organ music catalogue -- CDs, videos, books -- to make a wish list for when I get rich, ha. She's mad about the food, too. So far, Grace is mad, I am mad, and Bee is mad. But I am the only one actively complaining (and praising when something does go right). Queen Bee is talking to the ombudsman on Monday about some stuff. I know the one. He's the same one I consulted at The ERR. All he does is pour oil on troubled water. I didn't tell her he is on their side. She may as well vent and get it out of her system. I spent some time last week reading through my chart. They call it a chart when it is a binder of over a hundred pages. Go figure. The cardinal rule in the tardfarm is: If it didn't get written in the chart, it didn't happen. The corollary is, If it did get written in the chart, it is correct and a done deal even if it never took place. The state licensing investigators spend a lot of time determining whether what is in the books is complete and accurate. Of course by the time they get here, much of the history the chart represents is so old nobody remembers or has backup data to support any view of any kind. Among the interesting tidbits I uncovered are that even when I eat half a meal, I eat 80 to 100 percent of it. I always have medium or bigger BMs and rarely fail to make an offering once a day in the stainless steel offering plate. This is also news to me because I typically render unto Caesar once every two days and I render rather generously as a rule. In my off evenings I often play trombone solos at the offertory. I believe in keeping my nether throat clear. So much for the old in and out. My diagnosis is NIDDM, Non-Insulin Dependent Diabetes Mellitus, Amputation RAK, Right Above Knee, and Depression, Moderate. At least they got rid of the Phimosis bit. I didn't know having somewhat fixed dick curtains was clinical; I thought it was natural. But then one of the first quacks I laid eyes on at the big city hospital was a Jewish urologist who wanted to clip me in the worst way. He didn't get to do that, but he got to slit me without warning and without anesthetic so it would be really easy to poke a catheter in me. Nevermind how the catheter felt. I didn't notice it a bit. I was too busy screaming and calling him everything I could think of except a child of God. I found out later they did this so they could carefully monitor my fluid intake, in and out, because I was quite a sick puppy at the time. The Depression, Moderate bit is what keeps this shrink coming around who first started bothering me at The ERR. Since he usually shows up to make his $40-60 per victim per five minutes on Thursdays, I do my best to be out of the building from noonish to, say, three o'clock and ruin his game. I am frankly afraid to take him on. I don't know what sort and depth of power he has and I am flat out too pussy to challenge him. I have seen what psychotropics do to people around here and I know some of the sneaky ways they give them to patients. I prefer to have an ocassional private crying jag than to be a smiling, cooperative fool. While my life here has much in common with the sensation of fingernails scratching across a blackboard, much of my distress is caused by the constant pointlessness and misery I see all around me. We have the power to keep people alive long past their good to themselves or others and they suffer confusion, boredom, and pain because of it. But the law and the industry say they shall be preserved by any means necessary as long as possible. I should think many relatives would prefer to get to the Will except that after the law and the industry get finished with the resident, there is nothing left to mention in the Will. In modern America we confiscate wealth by ordaining a strained quality of mercy until the poverty of pocket and soul are complete. Then you may die if you able to do so. In other news, Queen Bee said she wanted the podiatrist to look at her ingrown toenail. She got the ingrown toenail because a former podiatrist doing his tardfarm milkrun cut her nails too deeply, just as the one at The ERR did to mine. The next part of this game is for the podiatrist to cut the nail more deeply or to pull the nail entirely in order to fix the problem he caused. And for each of these visits he whacks private insurance or public funds $40. This time the footquack told Bee she wasn't on the list to be seen this month and would have to wait until next month. She asked how much he would charge to look at her one problem toe if she paid him herself. He wanted $40 just the same! When I get out of here, I need to get a job where I can make up to $100 for five to fifteen minutes's work and up to, say, a thousand dollars a day for messing something up and then coming back later to fix what I fucked up. This is something you expect from chain store auto mechanics and not from doctors. The kicker is that Queen Bee (as you may recall) worked beauty salons for years. She knows hair and nails inside and out. But she's trusting and so got done just as I did. You mother told you never to cut your toenails so short there was no white top and you were to cut them straight across. If the corners were sharp, they were to be filed and not beveled with a cutter. This is the way to prevent ingrowth. My father didn't listen. It was I would had to cure him of his affliction by digging the ingrown corners out and sternly warning him to see that they remained free by checking them each evening. Then with two week's attention and cutting the correct way, he never had another one grow in. Where is my $40, Pops? We residents are put into a situation where we have to agree among ourselves on things and help each other out. Queen Bee has a small appetite. They push her to eat. They do not push me to eat. In fact, because i raised so much hell about the grease, I think they may make my trays somewhat unappetizing either to piss me off or see that I don't eat much. Well, I prefer a diet cola and some corn chips anyway a lot of the time. Today they sent me a hamburger for lunch. They fried it almost to the point of cremation. I thought from its appearance they finally brought out the beef. The first bite told me it was bird as usual. I spit it out. Queen Bee brought me a cheese sandwich and some graham crackers she didn't want. This was an excellent substitute for the ground turkey butt. I was glad to have it. Bee gives away part of her food because she doesn't want them to know how little she eats. She is afraid they will force her to eat. We all know what this means, don't we? At ERR it meant the Hazel Treatment, the Hose in Your Nose. Here the threat is worse. They ship you off to St Monica's down the road where the gut doctor cuts a hole in your tummy and puts a tube into your stomach. Then you get to live on Sustacal-like tardfood. The coffee is getting to be another failing. At breakfast, one cup was normal and one had color and no flavor. Yesterday one cup was tasteless brown water and the other was clear water. At lunch and dinner today both cups were brown but tasteless. How tasteless were they? So devoid of flavor that putting in the aspartame resulted in warm aspartame beverage. Someone needs to tell these folks to change the grounds more than once a day. The other thing I learned from reading my chart is that my rehabilitation prognosis is poor. As nearly as I can tell, this means I have not made the adjustment to walking on my stovepipe leg. Who knew! I can bathe myself, dress myself (it helps to have a third hand but I can get by without it), and get in and out of bed myself. I would be showering if there was a bench shower or a shower chair with moveable arms. I get in and out of standard cars with minimal assistance. Since there is a driver, he can hold onto my pants as I slide so I don't put on a free show. Miss Ralph likes to feel my butt anyway. The next thing is using the porcelain throne. I would be doing that except I do not trust a skinny little dykelet of an occupational therapist to catch me if I am less than successful moving from my throne to the throne, so to speak. I am going to speak to Miss Ralph about obtaining the services of a couple of big burly butch OTs for, say, four sessions of potty training. I have no trouble with taking a leak because I have Mouth and I have Mouth's cousin in the closet just in case of theft. Someone might want a souvenir? I am also going to get back on a pipe organ bench sometime in the next six months if I have to be drayed with a block and tackle. Stand by for Trio Sonata for Two Paws and One Hoof. A friend wants to reopen an old project of developing a powered wheelchair of an unusual design. I have plans to be the crash test dummy and to put it (and me) through paces in the most gimp-hostile city in the US, San Francisco, where all the curb cuts are an afterthought or are better for beer deliveries I have plans for me, and they do not include any tardfarmery. =================================================================