A Room of One’s Own


Ok, well, not exactly a room. A table. Mom’s table. Do. Not. Touch. Anything. On. The. Table.
Do. Not. Put. Anything. On. The. Table. We have some rules around here, ya know. I’m making another doll. Why? who knows?

Work really blows. The neurosurgeon was nice to me, though. It’s always nice when a brilliant and famous person pours you a cup of coffee when he pours his own. My co workers suggested that I was over reactive when I FLIPPED out that no one hung the unit of blood that had been ordered at 4pm YESTERDAY. I guess I’m just funny that way. And the other patient, the central IV line that my very confused (head trauma) patient had when I left? Ripped out before I got to the parking lot. What is it about head injuries that makes people so very, very strong? I dunno- I mean I had him unrestrained, playing video games, and using the commode. (With his line in.) I got him back this morning tied down, chewing on his restraints, diapered, with no line. I looked at him, a big man sized person who was still really a child before his injury, and now, more than ever is child like, and I said “Damn, John, what happened?”
“I dunno, but I’m real glad to see you.” There is no sincerity like that of those who live completely in the present.

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