"Lori"
Kimit had, during the day when I was there and keeping my CHW face on and murmuring those scary words into the ears of the administrators, words you've read me mention a dozen times: JCAH and Elder Abuse and Patient Care Agencies and organizations and groups and, once or twice, the cops, in order to get it, proper care. Not great care. Not even good care. (Except when Lori was there.) But I lurked in passageways and his room and the Gym and everyone knew that I knew what they were supposed to know, and they knew I knew they were supposed to be doing the things I knew.
We're a knowledgeable family. (Thanks again, Mr. Goldman!)
When Lori came into our lives during our stint at the Asylum, I began to breathe just a touch easier. But when I had to go home, that also meant Lori went home.
And Kimit was left to the mercies of the... employees who did God knows what in the lunar hours.
Early in his stint, K told me that his right thigh muscle had seized up, at nearly midnight, and he was screaming for pain relief, yelling for all he was worth, punching the call button, but no one came.
(Anyone who has had a loved one in the hospital knows precisely what I am talking about: leaving your loved one was hard enough but not knowing if they were getting the quality of care they got when you are there, peering and peeking during the day, at night. Night [and I have worked night shift and yeesh, some weird shit went on at 2 a.m., and I know whereof I speak] was when you were home, trying to sleep, and the crawly bugs roamed your brain, and horrid nightmares wakened you with a jerk as if you'd been doused with freezing water, and you wondered and hoped and prayed that all was well.
The night K told me about, when his leg cramped up solid as stone, he said that one of the aides, who always left at 2 a.m. (don't know why, I truly don't) finally answered his screaming and bell dinging and desperate cries for relief. Forgive me, sir, I do not recall your name, but he did go into Kimit's room, got the RN to bring Kimit Vicodin, and then stayed, massaging K's leg. This man used baby oil and finger strength to stay the pain and drive it off.
In the middle of the night. I personally tracked this man down and thanked him for doing that for K... after he'd been screaming for help for well over 45 minutes. And I realized what I had to do from then on: Stay sober, and come to the Asylum at midnight. And 1 a.m. And 4:25 a.m. The first time I did it? I walked in at 12:45 a.m. to see ONE RN at the front desk, asleep. I wandered around the area, and found five other nurses and two aides (just from K's wing) ASLEEP. Asleep in chairs in empty rooms, on beds in empty rooms, on the sofa in the break room, or recliners.
They didn't stay asleep for more than three seconds after I found them: I awakened them up using a vuvuzella (sp?); if you don't know what a vuvuzella is, ask a soccer fan from South Africa what those blaring noise machines are. I enjoyed watching the RN's fall off the bed or sofa or bolt out of a recliner chair when I shrieked my vuvu.
But it's what I had to do.
Because, and you know where I'm heading: these goons were now aware that I could show up, at any time, at any place.
And they got the message. Loudly. From my vuvuzella.
But I titled this chapter "Lori" for a specific reason. The specific reason was a short interaction (amid many, many, interactions with her that saved Kimit's life I don't know how many times) but this I will never forget: One late morning, K and I were in the Gym, awaiting his turn on one of the PT machines, and I had my arms around Kimit, my cheek resting on his warm chest, my eyes closed.
Suddenly I felt a small tap on my shoulder. I opened my eyes, and turned to see Lori. She leaned in very close to me, and whispered in my ear, "I have never seen anyone love their husband as much as I love mine."
That's quite a thing. I have to stop soon or my keyboard will be filled with tears but this last I must say:
Thank you, Lori. Thank you forever.
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