Читать книгу Condition Other Than Normal: Finding Peace In a World Gone Mad - Gary Tetterington - Страница 9

So much for bad foolishness. The morning after found me in Stanton Y.K. Hospital. There I was, perched high atop one of those stainless and sterile tables, like a prize and curious bird, while the good doctor was on the move, frantic and fraught and quite possibly wired. The man was fast enough to have passed as a strange mixture of speed and steroids. Not my problem.

Somehow, the man was able and managed to dispense a fair sized dollop of fiery anesthetic into my right eye. Immediate relief! I could breathe again and that confrontation was over. Then the silly bugger took to ranting and raving on about how 5 yrs. ago it was common for people suffering the same affliction to go blind and I should be more careful down in the mine and I was a fool for drinking so much and I had best change my ways. ‘Wonderful advice,’ thought I

See, I may have appeared a bit coarse, for wearing shiny blue jeans and having a 3-day beard and reeking of stale booze. Still half – lit as a matter of fact and looking like the ace of spades. So, the boorish little fellow hadn’t much use for me but that also was not my problem.

Anyway, I nodded indifferently. Hell, I believed but for the most part I largely ignored his tirade and instead could only wonder why the people in control of potions, the magical kinds which take the pain away, didn’t stock and sell them in large bottles, in the government liquor store, directly next to the rye whiskey. Those specific and special remedies and restorations sure would come in handy, those mornings I’d come awake beetle – eyed and bleary. Five days convalescence.

Hospitals are places of reverence to me and stations of respect. Even back in ’76, I had been thru enough of them to regard them with thoughtful appreciation. Broken bones and stitches mainly, a brief and hostile spell or 2 brought on by alcohol poisoning, once or twice a trumped – up case of pure loneliness, now and then an unpleasant vehicular accident, which had necessitated an uncomfortable operation, every 5 yrs. or so, all in all, a spectacular and sensational list of injuries. Today my face bears an uncanny resemblance to a baseball that has been whacked over the wall too many times. Today my mug will put a big man off or at least give him reason to pause and think before trying and testing me.

When you are down and out and walking the streets of a deserted city, a sojourn in a hospital isn’t such a bad notion. I would suggest and endorse and recommend the concept. As long as a man isn’t truly sick, an intermittent stay in a hospital is usually therapeutic and curative. To release the fears… to collect yourself. Hospitals care and take care of you. The idea of a pleasant intermission, during an angry flight and safari is always welcome. A hospital won’t intentionally harm you, you have no worldly cares, if you lay back and let them go, watch T.V., cut - up with the other patients and get stoned every 4 hrs. on good dope.

Also, when I have been gravely ill and knackered, the law couldn’t touch me, as I have always known and appreciated full well. Times were, when I was laid – up and ailing and it was all I could do to raise a weak and detractive smile at a lawman and maybe give the chump a feeble wave, as he was leaving my semi - private room. Which is a frustrating and bitter pill for any copper to have to swallow. An opportune sanctuary, such as a hospital has to offer, is hard to come by and other than the indisposed people who often inhabit such places and tended to bother me some, I am always prepared to do a short stay in a hospital. When I need to think and find my place on this pretty planet once more. To release my demons…

Stanton nurses were ladies so fine. Special. Unique. Closer to God. Yes.

Except for Dietrich. Dietrich was the head nurse in ’76, in Stanton Y.K. Hospital. She was the boss. She had a head on her like a bastard pig and she was hard to look at. No comedy in her world. Dietrich had a homely face and deep and timeless eyes and I easily pictured her in ’42, in charge of one of those special camps, chief of experimentation and comfortable in her chosen profession.

Dietrich had brass balls in ’76. Her shift was a well – oiled machine, with every move called and calculated and no faults or slips. Her nurses were on strings and she was the master puppeteer. On her tour of duty, no one dared die without her permission. Dietrich was some kind of horrible authority and absolutely necessary to Stanton Y.K. Hospital, in 1976.

Dietrich hated me. Which was largely due to the fact, as mentioned, when I did check into her hospital, I was real close to being an authentic crackers and crazy person. Because of my rough and unrefined condition and introduction into her methodical world, she seemed to be forever casting a suspicious eye in my direction.

When I was admitted to Stanton, half – smashed, I could tell, straight off, Dietrich had wished for nothing finer, than for her to have been allowed to run a full – scale research examination over my entire body and in my own amoral way, I too would have enjoyed an odd and unusual session with her. Like…

Strip her down, naked, except for her white cap, her white nylons and her white shoes. Bind her securely and facedown on a white sheet, on a white bed, in a white room. Then, go at her with a length of studded white leather belt and administer a sound and solid drubbing about her ribs and shoulders. Lambaste and pummel her into submission. She could have taken it. She may have enjoyed it. She may have enjoyed it too much. The humiliation and degradation may have been a welcome and satisfying diversion and she may have wanted more…

Hell, after a performance like that, Dietrich would have flushed with gratitude and satisfaction, at having found a man, a real man who knew and understood her needs. It would have been damned difficult to dump a dog like Dietrich after an operation like that and she would have followed me to the ends of the earth.

Anyway, 3 days go by and I’m positively laid back on my bed, arms above my head and sporting a white bandage over my right eye, when in breezed one of my nurses, Laurie, pushing the wanderer. I pulled myself into a sitting position and even with my one good eye, I could see in a trice, the man was not of this world. He appeared to be loaded on something outlandish and not in control. The young lady parked and placed him on the bed facing me and beat a hasty retreat. For a short while we stared at each other, both of us with arms crossed and legs dangling and moving slowly. The stranger was clearly confused and plainly puzzled. He was disorientated and in turmoil. What could I say? Perhaps the man was dangerous. A duteous nurse Dietrich’s portent and admonition that I behave myself. How was I to know?

The man spoke. “Where am I?”

“In Y.K.”

“Bullshit.”

“Straight goods.”

“I’m in Frobisher Bay.”

“Sorry pal. You got it wrong this time.”

“Truth?”

“Truth.” A pause…

“Well then, we must have a drink.”

Now, this was a conundrum worth considering. I was temporarily baffled. I mean, fine, let’s have a drink. But where, in our exciting and antiseptic environment, were we going to find one? That was the question. And another thing…

Dietrich was at an exceptional peak of doubt and suspicion that day since 3 of my rigorous and ruffian friends had almost caused a free – for – all on the ward earlier the same afternoon. Another tale but suffice to say, Dietrich was eyeballing me with extreme contempt and diligence, on the off chance those uncouth acquaintances of mine should return and slip me a fix and a rig. I would have to be careful.

Because… my water head roommate provided the answer to the question. The first clue was when I noticed a large steamer trunk, the kind people who mattered, quality people, used years ago, when embarking on a ship, to travel around the world. Amongst the curiosity and caution of the man’s arrival, I had missed this piece of luggage.

The man inaugurated a deep exploration thru that big old chest, sniggling and giggling and all the while tossing clothing and other possessions across the room and onto the floor. At one point, he was down so low; all I could see of him were the soles of his feet.

“Ripper!” was my response, as the man, now my man, came up with a large bottle of booze. Down he went again and 2 dives later, that ol’ salt buddy of mine had brought up the sum amount of 3 bottles of fine vodka. The rush was on and our room craved O.J. I felt like I was sailing. I felt like Jaques Cousteau.

Typically, we hadn’t put back the 1^st flask before we began walking the hallways and passing out and distributing a liberal touch of that damned vodka, here and there, to anyone who wanted or needed it. Word spread quickly. The T.V. room was expeditiously converted and became a bee – bop, Mardi – Gras saloon. Twenty or thirty people, each and every one with a different and debilitating illness, were showing full appreciation and were tanked to the tits and having fun. Good times.

The fevered and frenzied were swaying and swearing. The spastics were throwing off their crutches and striving to walk. The sightless could see. The mutes were making animal noises and trying to talk. The deaf were paying attention. It was certainly a diversion from mundane and commonplace tedium and it was a scene to behold.

I was somewhat shickered myself, crouched down at the back of the room, observing Stanton Y.K. Hospital loose and liberated and thinking, ‘Damn! This circus is not going to last long.’

I knew that fantastic array of stunts was doomed by the way one nurse, Carrie, was leaning stiffly against a far wall, her eyes white and wide with shock and I knew what she was thinking. ‘Incredible! Outrageous! On my shift!’

For sure it was done when my favorite nurse, Pearline, walked over to where I was hunched down and nervously inquired if there was anything she could get for me, “like more O.J. to go with your vodka?” Ouch!

Things happened fast. Everyone was dispensed and dispersed to their rooms and strapped and buckled to their beds. A speedy search conducted by nurse Dietrich turned up our last bottle of vodka. The little hummer had been tucked neatly and elusively beneath my pillow, while its companion bottles had found their ways safely aboard the low – slung roof of Stanton Y.K. Hospital. Dietrich was highly adept at finding contraband. It was part of her job description and a condition of her employ. I could as well have had that last and lonely bottle stashed up my ass and inevitably, she would have found it.

The comedy of the situation was correct and positively inspired. I have always had a knack for well - expressed insubordination and I’ve usually managed to jink and juke, to circumvent and avoid serious retribution. Evidence and attest, this pen is still moving intelligently, after all the years, flowing with the flotsam and jetsam of all the years.

The aftermath and mortification of the party was worthwhile. Dietrich, the good ol’ gal, was all for castrating me. She climbed on my case something awful. My head was ready to explode and I had to listen to, “Alcohol…! On my ward…!” she spit and sputtered. “You… you… irresponsible person! With everyone on medication! You…! You…!” Her rare and precious nurses were feigning not to tehee and titter or hiding it well. I thought the whole affair a merry prank and jest.

The doctor was called in at 4 A.M. and he did not even pretend to find the matter amusing. After he was done flailing and frothing, he had the audacity to ask me if I was an alcoholic. I replied that I preferred to be considered a drunk in search of the truth.

The doctor then asked me intently, just what did I think my sidekick was doing in his hospital? Here I had to remind the man that he was the doctor and I had no way of understanding my partner’s complaint. On hearing my judicious rationale, the man went on edge and was ready to eat raw meat. He was a disturbed dog in August. A facial tic was making him an excitable fellow. His arms were lashing on short – circuit speed and I dearly hoped the scalpels were locked away and under chain and key. The doctor was special pissed – off because that lush colleague of mine had been admitted to Stanton Y.K. Hospital for alcohol poisoning.

“Do you realize that just 1 drink could kill that man?” I wisely chose not to comment or to tell the doctor that his patient was comatose, the result of his having guzzled and put away the better part of 20 oz. of vodka by his own self and that he had long since gone into a deep alcoholic delirium and was horizontal on the floor of our communal room at that very moment. No. Best to remain silent. An observation of such substance would not have done much for my position. No.

Instead, I sat back, soundless and silent and wondered if it would be cattle prods or hair shirts or whatever means the good doctor used to control pest problems and irrational creatures like myself. I was ready for and expecting any lunatic cure and I felt like Jack Nicholson in the best movie of his excessive and extravagant life.

But no, it was not to be this way. Rather, the charade was over and even if I was an incomparable rascal, I had to give my solemn word of honor that there would be no more shenanigans or I could, “get the fuck out of my hospital and walk to Edmonton, for further care and treatment!” Cold, I would have to say. But an easy choice.

Two days later I was discharged from Stanton Y.K. Hospital and released onto the streets of Y.K. once more. Amazingly, nurse Dietrich herself returned and presented me with that closing bottle of vodka, still containing a goodly portion of drink. That bottle was mine, by virtue of having my name stenciled boldly across its silky smooth label. ‘Sensational,’ thought I.

With a thank – you very much and a neat click of my heels, I was gone. I was off and running down main street, pulling on that ugly and evil bottle, delving and dealing with demons and headed for Giant Y.K. Mine.

All is well.

G.B.T.