By Jan Alarcon
A week after my car accident I enter an extended care facility. All but one of us is here to heal our broken bones. Rest and wait for your x-rays to change. A furry snowball will surround the break; then disappear; a solid white line will replace it. Be of good cheer. A bone never breaks in the same place twice. I wait for two months for my twenty-seven lines to appear.
Lena has no broken bones. Lena, on compassionate care, has an inoperable brain tumor. She’s thirty-one. Commensurate with her status, Lena has the sunny corner room with glass walls and views of both gardens. A trolley cart, replenished daily with home-baked goods, resides at her door. Her children visit every morning, her church every evening. All link arms and pray around her. Lena’s eyes open and express concern, forgiveness, prophecy; the interpretation is up to us.
Her husband visits nightly at the end of his shift, never before 10:00 pm. That gives me time to sneak into her room unnoticed and shave the stubble off her chin— I’m tired of the float staff calling her Sir.
Her husband wails loudest on his drunkest days. His pleas to God rock me to sleep, startle me awake and invade my dreams.
All the broken ones leave during my second month. A Compassionate Care sign swings above the nursing station, squeaking throughout the night. The halls contain distraught loved ones with wish-you-well cookies. I can’t avoid wheeling over fallen chocolate chips.
Their medical charts are blue: do not resuscitate. Mine is gray: resuscitate if you can, she might still heal.
Nobody dies …until my birthday.
An orderly gives me my first Happy Birthday while emptying my bed pan. I spend the daylight hours wheeling myself around the hospital grounds, blocking out thoughts of my chair and uncertain future.
I return for supper to a ward in commotion. Lena’s bed is lying in the middle of the dayroom. Lena’s room is temporarily assigned to Margarite so that Margarite’s family can celebrate her 96th birthday with balloons, banners, and a mariachi band.
The nurses ignore Lena’s irate husband and giggle while wheeling me toward the table, a pink sheet cake in its center wishes the best to Margarite and me. All sing: Happy Birthday dear Jan and Margar…
Loud speakers interrupt: Code Blue. Code Red. Any Doctor. Staff and machines rush into the corner room, family and balloons rush out.
“Mama’s dead,” a daughter tells me as she ties balloons on my handles. “Died on her 96th. Bet you’ll do the same.”
Enough cheeriness and death! I leave the table to join Lena.
“Come back!” An otherwise hygienic nurse wipes Margarite’s name off the frosting with her blue-gloved hand. “This cake is for you.”
Five birthdays later I think about the car accident only when climbing up stairs. I no longer worry about Lena and her hairy chin. But I am still plagued by the image of Margarite in her body bag.
Every October 9th I buy a pink sheet cake with Margarite written on it. I wipe her name off with my bare hand, count how many years I have left before ninety-six, then swirl the letters around my fingertips as they drop to the ground.
Jan Alarcon is a licensed clinical psychologist. She taught American Sign Language for 9 years at Cabrillo Community College. She is interested in giving a voice through her writing to the homeless, mentally ill, and disenfranchised. Jan is a member of SLO NightWriters, for writers of all genres and levels of skill. Find them online at slonightwriters.org
