The mom of Voxx came on the second day.
She came in like a bat out of hell. A large woman with the poodle perm and a cane like her daughter’s, the old gal had a mission: to tell Voxx and anyone else who would listen the exact dollar amount of all their delinquent bills and how much money they do not have in their bank account. Voxx and Ethan Frome owe over $600 to Nicor. That’s a lot of gas. And they are really really late. But they only have $64 dollars and some change in their bank account. And not one iota of this is something that I should know.
Our very sweet and patient Phillipino nurse, Bandaid, came in announced Movie Tuesday! She let us pick a DVD and she ordered us some popcorn from food services. The mom of Voxx pulled up a chair and the two us enjoyed a little Meg Ryan/Kevin Kline French Kiss, while Voxx shaked with the DT’s. I actually really enjoyed her company. She was my second favorite visitor.
The only problem was she just couldn’t stop talking about Voxx and Frome’s financial situation. I was actually starting to sweat and get he DT’s myself. I was withering and writhing to hear about someone else’s uncomfortable and unfortunate financial troubles. And when mother of Voxx insisted on calling Comcast right from the room, I decided to go try to take a shower . All my trials, Lord, will soon be over.
The shower? Not successful. I washed my hair with what felt like nail polish remover and was I really clean? I mean REALLY? Was I? I felt like as I was standing in there, little amoebas of germ nasty sprung from the walls of the institutionalized shower and stuck onto my flesh.
But it was fun in there compared to pity payment party in bed area two.
Mother of Voxx left and the damn woman took with her Voxx’s hand lotion. Shit. I heard about that for the next 7 hours. She told me about 9-10 times. She told Bandaid. She told One of the many annoyed and perplexed doctors who rotated in and out of our room. She told the food service lady. She called a lot of people on the cell phone, too. In the end, I gave her my lotion. I think she threw it at her closet later on but that’s okay, she can go ahead and keep it. I’ll get more.
On Day three, I woke with a migrane. I have no idea why. Hm.
I have never have one like that before. I even rated it a sad face number 10 and I have NEVER picked that one in my life. Every flicker of light was a BBQ skewer in my cornea. Every sound was a swinging bat over my head. It even hurt to move. So, it was so frickin awesome when Voxx’s Kenyan Physical therapist came in the room for her workout session. BECAUSE HE TALKED LIKE THIS AT ALMOST SCREAM LEVEL AT ALL TIMES IN A VERY THICK KENYAN ACCENT AND APPARENTLY HE ALSO THOUGHT MAYBE VOXX WAS NOT JUST A DRUG ADDICT BUT COMPLETLY 100% FUCKING DEAF. FOR ONE HOUR. Who was the one whimpering now? Me. I did. I whimpered for 60 minutes.
This was about the point that I realized that this is not really happening. Like scenes like thisare made for movies or books, just so fucking ridongulous that they are a cliche.
A cliché is a phrase that is so overused that it has lost its meaning.
My existance in that room was a true dead metaphor. I was worse off than when I got there, but I needed to leave now more than ever.
Here came the groan. I heard her stretch and moan in pain for the curtain. She ripped it back and then I had to look at her sagging tits again hanging out the sides of her hospital gown and she thrusted a pencil at me with a menu that had a piece of macaroni and cheese on it. “Write your address on the back.”
THINK MAN, THINK.
I gave her my name. I gave her my address and my phone number. I even gave her my email address. The good one. Because I had nothing left.
I am home now. Every time the phone rings, I do a Voxx check. She hasn’t called. Which…is sad.
And I really hope she is okay.
But I really, really, really need to start taking vitamins so I NEVER end up in the hospital again.