Noodle and Me: A Heart Hijinks

All was routine until Noodle showed up.

Any day the wheels will come off. I close my eyes and hold my breathe without moving my ribs. Slowly I sink further and further into a daydream where my legs fuse together. Like a sleek seal I glide in the depths of my imagination, away from the searing pain, the question

s, the dressings, the morphine.  

The more I can overcome the visuals in my mind, the more I can push out the traumatic memories from that fateful moment that landed me here. Often the most unrelated thing will trigger my mind, often such a fickle thing. The headlights, the point of impact, the sirens, it all sends electricity up and down my spine and then a jolt that sends me into a physical aftershock of the why. Truthfully, I’m lucky to be alive.

And just like that, a soft knock on the wood door shatters the mirage, sending me into a second wave. Although the first shock is always the worst after I escape into the depths of my mind. Med check is here.

I try to maneuver myself around to face the door with the one good appendage that still works – my dominant right hand. What a small blessing in disguise. I can push a button to

scooter around at the rate of a sloth.

A fuzzy warm figure stands in the doorway, backlit by a hallway of dim dismay and dismal prognosis.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Says the night nurse. “You must have written another note. You know, Tracy is such a softy. I’ll have to have another word with her.”

Not being able to talk well has its’ draw backs but the silver lining is that they let me keep a note pad and I can make out the occasional muffled word. The shakiest of symbols and short sentences are all that I can muster at this point.

She disappears briefly. I hold my breathe and count until her return. In retaliation, my ribs pulsate when I appear to the surface by exhaling.

While she’s gone, I visualize Tracy getting an earful at the nursing station. The door is ajar. I navigate the scooter towards the door with the finesse of an elephant playing a video game. The joystick is more stick than joy. Whoever donated this scooter to the hospital should have to be bandaged in a body cast and must navigate a corn maze. Maybe then, they will decide to upgrade to the things that count.

I make it to the hallway. The glimmer on the linoleum dazzles with the reminder that the cleaning staff may very well be   

Can’t wait to make use of those crutches that lean up against the wall, taunting me. My whole-body aches as usual. When the pain meds wear off, throbs intensify switching to shooting pain. If anyone asks, the pain is an 8.

I close my eyes and visualize the day when I take my first step. Physio is a long way off.

39 days in long-term care and counting.  The one thing that can get me out of bed and keep me out of bed is the ability to wheel the halls. The long-term care lounge has every bell and whistle. At this point, the people watching is what I want out there. Although my scooter has a mind of its own, I somehow make it. Snails would mock me at that rate. Nurse Tracy comes by with a frantic look on her face. “Back to bed – PLEASE!”

I ignore her and play dumb and scoot past her. Suddenly my scooter discovers it has double the horsepower and revs away. Okay, so it might look like a golf cart at full speed but tell that to my achy body.

My best defence against a nurse that fears the dark. Chances are they are just irked now.

In all my cleverness, I don’t notice that the nurse has been joined by another nurse and they take off running at full tilt in the opposite direction. This must be why they all wear sneakers.

Not a prerequisite to be a sprinter but definitely a perk.

A security guard whizzes past radioing for back up.

Now I need to find out what is going on. In stealth mode of course. I awkwardly manoeuvre around the corner in the direction of the lounge towards the nurses station. That’s where all the tea is spilled inadvertently. Just stop there and try not to look pitiful. If you play up the injuries, they might divert their duties to me. Right now, I definitely do not want that. My curiosity is quelling my pain.

Nearing the office we lovingly refer to as the fishbowl, I manage to stop in the shadow of the propped up door that is ajar.

I strain my ear to hear a concerned voice say, “we have another dump and run. They speculate that they didn’t have a place to take grandma before they took off on vacation. And here we are, trying to keep up with grandma. Turns out no one speaks Sinhala or Tamil here.”

Another voice scoffs and says, “Let’s hope they come back for her.”  

Not what I was thinking I would hear but here we are.

The adjacent lounge is a big open space with a high ceiling. Long term care is where it’s at if you ask me. The space doubles as a cafeteria where we can eat.  There is a space for reading in the corner, crafting during classes, puzzle, or work out in the farthest wall closest to the doors that lead to the inner courtyard. There is a kitchenette on the right, couches and a TV in the back right corner and a wall of glass and a door on the far left that leads into the courtyard. Most importantly, the expansiveness allows for people like me to feel like we have autonomy despite being stuck wheeling around in scooters or traditional wheeled vehicles.

I back away slowly and head towards the library nook. At least if I’m found there, less questions get asked.

For once, something exciting is happening. I will pretend to doze as I nestle in against the wall next to the bookcase filled with ancient stale smelly paperbacks.

Smells of the percolating coffee arouse my nostrils. Apparently, the best part of pretending to doze, it usually turns into reality – at least these days. Not completely disappointed, I tilt my head slightly forward. Pain is also back, just like clockwork.

A line up for the drip coffee station has formed. Breakfast mush will arrive soon. Better get a seat at one of the tables. Thankfully, the care team takes pity on my state and bring my food to me. Sometimes, depending on what it is, they’ll feed me.

Just as I well to face the courtyard glass menagerie, the doors open and not one, not two but three security guards stand with a frail looking thing that has apparently absorbed all of the moisture during the last rain fall. No small task given that the west coast is one big giant rainforest.

All three guards look exhausted. The culprit of the escape looks like she can’t be any younger than 75, pulls a twig out of her scraggly hair. It has almost as feisty as the glint in her shifty posture. She is ready to dash any second. On high alert, her eyes dart from side to side.

Impressive, grandma. Her great escape landed her on the high alert equal to that when a fights break out on the ward. Don’t ask how I know this. We’ll chalk it up to too much time on a hospital ward.

Not one, not two, but THREE security guards? Impressive stuff Gma.

Still curious, I pretend to make my way over to make myself a tea across the open area next to the lounge. Part of me feels interested enough to make a coffee but that means more unwanted visits by the nurses.

Ding!

Like clockwork the trays arrive. The staff one by one, set out the trays at the various tables lined up around the room. Little by little, the groggy hospital stayers saunter in and find their designated tray. The guards mumble to one another and bring over their ward’s food. I try to pour my own drink. One of the orderlies assigned to breakfast sees my plight and rushes over to help me to prevent what we all know might happen next.

“Here,” they say, “Let me help you with that.”

Rather than help, they just take over. I try to smile and bow my head in acknowledgement of their help. Weak as it may be, it is my best effort to show appreciation.

Considering my current circumstances, I truly hope they can understand.

I sidle up to the escapee attempter and point to the orderly to show where I would like my food. A nurse bustles up to my table and begins to try to feed me. I watch the escapee intently. One of her security guards: lanky and a bit dopey, is watching everything other than their patient. Another one is watching her so fastidiously she can barely do anything. This guard is almost as high strung as their patient. One hand on their radio as if to draw it as fast as possible in case anything might happen at a moments notice. Their bird eyes will catch any minutiae as their head swivels back and forth like a creepy alert doll. The third guard is meanwhile flirting with the nurse that is handing out the various trays of food. No one wonder it takes three to watch this spry one.

I open my mouth as far as I can muster as my nurse nudges me to open up. My morning sustenance, mush with fake sugar. Yay. Just as delicious as the fake coffee that they serve.  

At least I can swallow this.

My nurse motions to the tray to grandma as if she’s playing Charades, acting out eating.

Grandma squints even more than before, sticks her nose away from the nurse and pushes the tray towards mine. This pushes my tray directly off of the table onto my lap. My apple sauce and oatmeal sail and plop. Everywhere, all at once. Simultaneously I groan and gasp as my body tenses. Not so much at the sensation, more at the realization that this means a bath. Something I so loath in my current state. Anything to get out of more nurse activity, especially the intimate kind.

As a team descends on me to clean up the spill, out of the corner of my heavy eyelids caked with mush, I spy another nurse walk by with the medications for Grandma. The nurse tries to hand them to Gma. She slaps her hand and they go flying.

Immediately, the team of drones, busy bees and guards descend on Grandma. I can no longer see her as I’m wheeled away to the dreaded sponge bath area. This means a new dressing and more pain on less pain meds. Hooray! Can hardly wait.

I feel for Grandma. As much as I am terrified of not truly being in charge of my faculties, at least I understand why and what is going on. People can let me know what is happening. If someone dumped you at a hospital in a foreign country and you didn’t know why you were there, how would you feel?

As I pass the nurses white board next to the fishbowl, I see that Linda is on. Surely that is a woman in her 40s or 50s.

I squeak out a measly request for Linda to sponge me clean. She pops her head out of the office and sees that my nurse for the day is Colin. She nods knowingly and agrees to swap my name to her rotation.

Off we go to the bathroom behind the fishbowl down the northwest corridor to the star.

 They wrap up virtually everything that can be and unwrap anything that can be unwrapped. It is kind of an ordeal at this point.

Being dirty just means I get itchy. Being clean just means I have a hard time regulating my temperature and have more brain power focusing on my pain. Both are just as annoying for entirely different reasons.

About an hour later, I’m unwrapped, redressed, dried, and and ready for a nap.

I ask to be wheeled to my room. We enter the lounge for a bit. I look over and see Grandma huddled in the same chair that she was in before. Only this time she is holding her legs to her chest with her chin resting in between her knees, still with a perplexed distrusting gaze shifting back and forth like before. To be that flexible would be lovely again. Somehow that is my takeaway in all of this morning’s ordeal.

I’m back in my room.

Linda asks, “Want to be put in bed?”

I shake my head no.

“Blinds up or down?” She says.

I say, “down, thanks.”

Slumber overcomes me as I fade, somehow content despite the fact that my meds were in my mush and painted across the floor, my lap and the landscape of the lounge.

I wake up and awkwardly maneuver myself out back into the lounge. Bumping and bouncing against each surface as I go like I’m in a bumper car race with myself.

Across the lounge next to the vents and the doors stand the guards with their back to Grandma. Grandma, fast asleep, drapes in her chair like a spaghetti noodle that has been thrown to see if it will stick. Sleep finally has stuck.

At the table next to Grandma, someone has left out paper and crayons.

Suddenly, I get an idea.

As stealthily as I can, I make my way to that table. I take a piece of paper from that table and a red crayon.

With my good hand I shakily begin drawing. Once I am done, a shaky off centre heart and arrow are on the page. I whir over to Grandma. Security guards completely unaware and chatting up the nurses at the station behind me.

She is out as I am louder than I would like. I place the paper in front of the sleeping noodle on the table. I rotate my chair in the direction of the lounge behind, in the far southwest corner of the open centre of the care floor behind the kitchenette. It’s a great spot to spy as people forget you’re there unless they are in that spot with you. I pretend that I’m interested in the daytime television show that is on low. Slowly I back up my chair so that I can visibly see what will happen when the noodle wakes up.

Sure enough, about half an hour goes by. Grandma wakes up to a long noodle-like stretch. Linguini looks around and then down and startles as if she’s performing a mime performance. She then hurriedly looks around to see where the note came from. I pretend to doze in the discreet corner. I can tell she doesn’t suspect a thing from me.

Then Grandma does almost the unexpected. She grabs her food tray that is still in front of her. Gingerly she opens the lid to find food underneath. Surprised, she still seems distrustful of free care and kindness. She pulls out a spoon and assesses her mush with a dainty bite. Then she scarfs the whole thing in record time when she discovers it is good.

From the fish bowl in the north end of the lounge, a nurse looks over the ledge out into the lounge.

In no time, the nurses file out into the lounge one by one.

“She’s eating!” Says her nurse. “Quick, get her meds. See if she’ll finally take them.”

The security guards hang back and bashfully scratch their heads at this sudden turn of events.

Grandma Noodle lifts the glass, her hands steady despite everything. In an instant, it’s empty, and her pills are gone with it.

“What do you know?” murmurs a flabbergasted nurse.

Yes.

What do you know, indeed. Perhaps Mark Twain was right: kindness is a language all hearts understand. In the swirl of chaos, pain, and small victories, I realize that even fleeting moments of connection make the struggle meaningful. Somehow, the chaos of this hospital morning had given me a glimpse of something profoundly human, a heart hijinks if you will.

 This story, inspired by true events can also be found in audio form on YouTube.