LITMIR.BIZ

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the stuff got thrown out instead of “properly disposed of.” It would make him seem more human and less like a robot repeating orders. He hands me the baggie but doesn’t leave. But I’m only going to open it when I’m alone. I hold the baggie in my hands and stare at Peter until he finally leaves. My pizza is getting cold. But this is more important—and besides, I’ve heard real gourmets don’t eat things really hot because it masks the flavors. Really hot soup tastes like nothing at all. It must be true of pizza, too. If you make something poorly, just serve it as hot as possible and nobody will notice it tastes bad because they’ll all have charred their taste buds. It’s true of the other extreme, too: cold. You drink nasty drinks—like tequila—as cold as possible so you can get them down.

      The baggie is see-through, zipped shut. A little slide is all it takes to open it. Inside is another bag, smaller and white instead of see-through. I can feel the cut-out piece inside it. No more packaging. If I just pull it out it’ll make a mess here in the bed. I rip off the top of the pizza box. It’s easy. It’s perforated along the edge, probably for just such a situation. When you need something to put a bloody piece of flesh on. I put the cardboard box top in my lap beneath the baggie. Do I need rubber gloves to pull this thing out? No. It’s from my own body. So I can’t catch anything, no matter how bloody it is. I touch what used to surround this clump of flesh—my gaping wound—all day long without gloves. Okay. So out it comes. It feels like liver or something else from the butcher shop. I lay out all the pieces on the cardboard. I’m disappointed. Lots of little pieces. No wedge. Notz’s description made it sound as if it would be a thin, oblong piece of flesh that would look like the venison filets mom makes when we have guests in the fall and winter. Dark red and slick before being roasted, kind of shiny, like liver. But this here is goulash. Little pieces. Some pieces have yellow spots—the infection, no doubt—that look the way freezer burn does in commercials. They didn’t cut it out in one motion, not all together in one single piece. Of course, I’m no dead deer, but a living girl. Perhaps it’s better that they took care of it in small increments. And paid attention to the sphincter. Rather than carving out a magnificent anal filet just for the sake of a good presentation. Relax, Helen. Things are always different than you anticipate. At least you tried to picture something, imagined the smallest details, asked questions to try to verify things—and now you know more as a result. I learned that from dad. To try to figure things out so thoroughly it makes you puke. Anyway, I’m happy to have seen the pieces before they’re cremated along with the other medical waste. I don’t repack the pieces into the baggie. I just put the baggie on top of them and push it down so it sticks to them. I put the box top with the pieces of flesh and baggie on it on the metal nightstand. My fingers are covered with blood and goop. Wipe them on the bed? That would make a real mess. Not on my tree-top-angel outfit, either. Same mess. Hmm. Well. It is all stuff from my own body. Even if it’s infected. I lick my fingers off one at a time. I’m always proud of myself when I come up with an idea like that. It’s better than sitting helplessly in bed and hoping somebody happens by with wet wipes. Why should I be disgusted by my own blood and pus? I’m not squeamish about infections. When I pop pimples and get pus on my finger, I happily eat that. And when I squeeze a blackhead and the translucent little worm with the black head comes out, I wipe that up with a finger and then lick it off. When the sandman leaves puslike crumbs in the corners of my eyes, I eat them in the morning, too. And when I have scabs on a cut, I always pick off the top layer in order to eat it.

      I eat my pizza by myself.

      I don’t like eating alone. It scares me. When you stick something in your mouth, you should be able to tell someone else what it tastes like. My ass begins to twitch. What have you learned, Helen? Don’t suffer any more than necessary. Ring the emergency buzzer. Peter comes in and I tell him I need painkillers because the pain is starting up again. He looks confused and says there’s nothing about overnight pain medication on the chart he’s been given. With a big piece of pizza in my mouth I say, “There must be, Robin said all I had to do was ask and I’d get them.”

      This can’t be happening. I finally ask before it gets bad and now I can’t get any for the entire night? Help. Peter leaves to call the doctor at home. He says he doesn’t have the authority to do anything that’s not specifically listed on the chart. I’m feeling sick with fear. I was operated on today and I can’t get any pain medication on the first night? I open both beers with the handle of the fork. I’m one of the few girls I know who can do that. Very practical. Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work I go. I drink the beers down as fast as I can, one after the other. My ass is getting worse and worse, and my insides are cold from the beer.

      Peter, Peter, Peter, hurry up. Bring me medication. I close my eyes. The pain is getting stronger and I’m beginning to cramp up. I know this drill. I cross my hands on my chest and I’m nothing more than my ass.

      I hear him come in and, with my eyes still closed, ask whether I’ll get something.

      “What are you talking about,” says a female voice.

      I open my eyes and see a woman in a nurse’s uniform but one that’s a different color from all the others here. The others all wear light blue and she’s in light green. Maybe she had a laundry mishap.

      “Good evening. Please forgive me for disturbing you so late. The rounds took longer than usual today. I’m a candy striper.”

      What? She must have broken out of the psychiatric ward. I just look at her. She must be crazy, I think, and I’ll leave her to believe what she wants. My ass hurts bad. And it’s getting worse. That’s the only thing I could possibly say to her. That would be a great conversation: “I’m a candy striper.” “Yeah, and my ass hurts.”

      I watch her with tired, half-open eyes like a grandmother. It seems to me she talks very slowly—each word seems to echo.

      “That means I’m a volunteer. I try to make things more comfortable for the people here in the hospital. We candy stripers”—there are others!—“run errands for patients, get them phone cards, pick up their mail, that sort of thing.”

      Very well.

      “Can you get me painkillers?”

      “No, we’re not authorized to do that. We’re not nurses. We just look like them.” She snorts. It’s supposed to be a laugh.

      “Please leave me alone. I’m sorry, but I’m in pain and I’m waiting for a nurse and some medication. Normally I’m nicer. I’ll call you if I need anything.”

      As she leaves, she asks, “Where would you call?”

      Get out. I need peace and quiet.

      I’m not going to be able to keep it together much longer. I take deep breaths. And blow them back out loudly. My hand wanders down to my pubic mound and I pull my knees up toward my chest. Although this position hurts, I stay in it. Into the pain with you, Helen. The other hand I put over my ass crack. This is bad. The kind of pain that makes you feel extremely lonely and scared. I think to myself, no patient should have to be in pain in a country as rich as this; I think, there’s enough medicine for everyone here. I ring the buzzer. Peter comes running in. He apologizes that it’s taken so long. He couldn’t reach the doctor at first. He found out that the day shift had made a mistake. I was supposed to get an electronic device so I could self-administer pain medication. They were supposed to have the anesthesiologist attach one that would allow me just to click with my thumb to get doses of the medicine through the catheter in my arm. They forgot. Forgot? I’m at their mercy. Forgot. And now?

      “You can have strong tablets upon request all night long. Here’s the first one.”

      I pop it into my mouth and wash it down with the dregs of the beer. Peter clears away the pizza box. He’s probably forgotten he’s responsible for the medical waste. Hospital of the forgetful. My painkillers forgotten, my rectal goulash forgotten. We’ll see what else gets forgotten. The half-eaten mushroom pizza sits on top covering everything. My goulash ends up in the normal trash. I like that. I don’t say anything. He also throws out the beer bottles, very carefully so they don’t bang against each other. Very delicate, Peter.

      Because of the pain, my shoulder muscles

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