Читать книгу Uninvented Stories of Invented People - Svetlana Isaenko - Страница 7

My love for daily duty shifts did not run out. Despite the years, the belief that the beauty of extreme psychiatry and human souls was revealed during shifts, remained an axiom.

Sunday, 8.15 am, 1200 patients are under my supervision. I am a single psychiatrist for the whole hospital and the city. It is beastly cold. Two winter jackets, felt boots (or “moon boot” to put it in a more fashionable way), a warm pullover and a white robe somewhere inside of that garment burger. That electricity saving simply kills, since it blows from every crack. As always, beset by case histories, I sit and write up everything, I didn’t have time to, as the work load is huge. Thirty patients solely for me. Annie is in love. She is almost invisible in the department. Sometimes, she is on a sick leave or vacation. Maxim has completely absorbed her. She has changed recently. She became twitchy and lost in weight quite a lot. Well, as it goes, “love is blind.”

Saving the world and the souls is a very noble occupation that, nevertheless, involves bureaucracy, where “you should file and log every patient not for yourself, but for the persecutor attorney. In psychiatry you’ve got to keep an eye out”, as our beloved Señor Pablo says. Sometimes it seems to me that there is something human and kind in him, but then some situation appears. Like, for example, a joint round over the department before elections. The Head of the Department, Annie and I coddle every patient. Pablo ceremoniously examines the entire department, checks the surfaces with white handkerchief, all the staff trembles, we enter the ward and he asks one of the patients:

“How are you feeling?” She is a complicated case – a moderate depressive episode, with a sleep disorder. She starts answering him:

“Oh, it’s all bad. I can’t sleep. When I close my eyes all the relatives, that passed away, climb into my head. The chest is burning, I feel sick at heart and see no future. Living like this is…“

Pablo interrupts her mid-sentence, puts his hand on her shoulder and says:

“It’s all fine, will you vote?“

At such moments, you realize: “Oh, Miss Clover, silly is the though you bare in your head. What was all that ‘human’ about?” I sit, write out endless amount of paper and, when it gets especially hard and I clearly desire to send everything to hell, I imagine that as soon as I am done, I’ll hear applauses. A handsome man in a formal dress will invite me to the stage and announce: ‘The literary award of the year goes to… Maria Clover!!!’ The storm of applause and standing ovation will follow his words and there I enter in a fancy floor skimming black dress with an opening over my leg. I wear gorgeous make-up. My short black hair is beautifully styled and as I walk my high heels through, all the men turn to watch me go. I wink at one of the handsomes, while entering the stage…

“Miss Clover there is a cardiac standstill in the Intensive Care! It’s urgent!” I hear one of our nurses crying from the other part of the medical checkpoint. I run out in one second and quickly head across the street and then to the third floor. Doorbell. The aid-man looks at me through the wicket. I clearly enunciate my words: “The doctor on duty, open up.” No hesitation possible, someone’s life has stopped. I rush into the intensive care unit and there the one is better than the other. The gentleman of around 50 lived his life brightly, drank heavily, though shoddily, therefore, the body has taken the decision to break ties with that unbridled joy. I start implementing resuscitation measures. “Adrenaline … 2.0. More … is dopamine done? … great … dexamethasone 4.0 … Live, start on, dear, come on … please, not at my duty shift.” After some time, the arteries begin to pulsate under my arms. “I’ve started him on”. The hands are shaking. The sweat is streaming. I fought for life. We managed to regain another one from the death. Although, was it really necessary? There, we are just the tools that possess certain knowledge and, then, the Universe is to take the final decision.

“Guys, can I have some water, please?”

“Sure, doctor, you are a Fury yourself, flew in and almost swept me off my feet,” the aid-man comments.

“Seems what they say is truth. We have a private joke that when you are on duty, you would not let anyone die, even if someone really wanted to!”

“Well, thank you. I appreciate your kind words!”

I am waiting for him to fetch me water and witnessing a picture.

There is one of our patients, lying down in alcoholic delirium, the ailment that people call 'the Blue Devils'. It takes place when one drinks vodka or homebrew booze steadily and heavily, or sips whiskey for quite a period of time, drinks oneself to death. The metabolism changes and, as soon as one stops drinking, the delirium develops the third day after. And there he is, our guy, extremely agitated, fixed (tied to the bed), hallucinating into the ceiling and imagining war.

“Shoot, you bitch, shoot… tanks… attack… fight off… ammos!!!! Fire!!!” While in front of him, there sits an Afroamerican chap, whose delirium has already passed. He sits on the edge of his bed with his head down, thinking of something to his own. The local one tears his gaze off the ceiling, stops twitching his arms and legs, turns to the Afroamerican and asks with complete surprise and indignation:

“Misha, did you paint yourself black or what!?”

The entire staff bursts out laughing. The Afroamerican is protesting with a thick accent:

“Why is he calling me Misha?”

And this actually adds more to the cuteness. “That’s it guys! Let me go. I am to rescue further…”

“Well, whatever ever, come along”, the aid-man replies in an old soviet cartoon ‘Once there lived a dog’ style, in a low woolly voice, “the resuscitator is anyways off today.”

“What does it mean, off?”

“Means, no one’s willing to work,” the aid-man shrugged his shoulders.

It is only in our country, that you don’t find a resuscitator medic in the intensive care unit. Whereas, a psychiatrist solves the issue by everything found in touch, like hands, breathing bags, brain and pain, since no drugs are available. For one injection of Seduxen, first of all, you are obliged to fill- out five-volumes of paper and no way other. And don’t you even dare not to “start up the engine”! You’re gonna encounter all the music from Pablo. Who cares that you are a psychiatrist and not a resuscitator? "Positive statistics is of the utmost importance."

Hands are shaking a bit. Heart’s beating. “We’ll get through this,” like my granny used to say. No sooner have I reached the checkpoint, when saw an ambulance on its way into.

“Holy shit,” sounds encouraging in my head.

A woman of about forty is accompanied by two mature aid-men. I run to the office. My beloved Marina is on duty with me. With her blue eye shades, gorgeous bosom and curves, and a bouffant over the head, she always exudes optimism and safety. She will always stand up for me when needed.

Ambulances often palm off specific patients. I don’t blame them, since it’s their cup of tea. Nevertheless, she is the one you can rely on, as Marina will always stand by you and help to fight off any trouble. Which, of course, are multiple.

There enters the whole ambulance squad and the patient. She is of a very nauseous unpleasant smell. Her eyes look scared. She is listening to something all the time, constantly crying and hiding her face behind her hands. She is extremely thin and exhausted. Her clothes hang loose. Lips are dry.

“Hello, what has happened with us?” I begin cheerfully.

The patient closes her ears and starts mumbling something similar to a prayer. No respond to questions. Due to severity of her mental state, she is unavailable to contact. I see, psychotic disorder, voices in the head. Dear girl.

“Miss Clover, this is our long-time patient. She has been receiving re- treatment with us several times. She is of the second a disability group, dwells with her eighty-year-old mother. She hasn’t been taken therapy for a long time.” About a month ago her mother died. It was cold outside. Therefore, the neighbors did not notice it at once. When the smell appeared, they called for police, thought there was no one in the apartment. No one answered the doorbell or knocking. They broke the door, went in and there was the dead mother and her daughter, lying on top of her mother. She was trying to feed her dead mother and take her to bed and to bathe her. In one word, when they tried to take her away, the patient resisted extremely, constantly repeating: “Mom, Mommy.” Apparently, she hasn’t eaten for a long time as well.

“Horrible. Blood pressure?” “It’s 70 over 40.”

“Well, what about the district, which department does she go to accordingly?”

“To seventeenth,” says Marina with a compassion.

“Call the department,” I command. “Let us examine her and she needs a bath.”

“Consider it’s done,” Marina responds.

I briefly fill in the clinical record. Severe cachexia. Into the treatment sheet, with caution, I write in lots of glucose, vitamins, heart supporting drugs and neuroleptics. I fear to reduce blood pressure, since she is already so weak. With the diagnosis of ‘paranoid schizophrenia of continuous flow, recurrence’, I’m sending her to the department.

I bid adieu to the ambulance. A terrible sound of the old local rotary telephone rings out. That is the one attached to the wall by a helicoid cord. This cannot be mistaken to anything. Every time it calls, it means trouble. I feel like sometime later this old telephone from 1940’s will regularly torment me in my nightmares.

I pick it up and hear on the other end of the line:

“It’s the nurse on duty from the 8th female department. One of our grannies is bad.”

“What’s there?” “She’s unconscious…” “Pressure?”

“It’s 40 over 0.”

“Oh, fuck,” I toss the receiver and pull on my down parka on-the-go. I cry to Valera, the aid-man: “Run!”

Snowdrifts are knee-deep, sweat flows an unpleasant stream down my back. I shout at the nurses:

“Couldn’t clean up the snow?” I rush into the ward.

A woman of about ninety’s lying down in the middle of the canteen, unconscious. No artery pulse is audible. I hit a precordial punch and scream for the entire life-saving cocktail to be injected immediately. After a couple of minutes, the patient comes to her senses. She opens her eyes and very deliberately, by weak, hard labor and ailment crumpled hands, pushes away mine and says:

“You, leave me alone!”

“Sorry, dear, but I’m not letting you go to the better world yet, not at my shift.”

I go outside and light a cigarette. Valera is with me.

“Ms. Clover, you were the tops, but I am not on the shift with you anymore. With other doctors on Sundays, we accept one patient at best. We drink tea all day long. Though, when you are on duty, the Mandora box is open…”

“It’s Pandorra, Valera, Pandorra box.”

“Who cares the difference? You won’t let a minute for a glass of water. I do respect you and stuff, but no shifts anymore.” “Whatever you say, Valera, deal.”

“It’s not that I want to offend’ya and stuff…” “I am fine.”

Climbing through the snowdrifts back, I feel my cell phone vibrating in the pocket before we get back.

“Hello, Miss Clover this is Karina from the eleventh.”

“My greetings, looks like you missed me?” “Of course, how’s your shift?”

“Just lovely, all nice and easy. I guess, you are relaxing at home now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I was baking a pie, will treat you tomorrow.”

“Will taste it with great pleasure. Can I be of service to you now?”

“Yeah, I have a small problem. My patient, most probably, develops a malignant side effect. We have no corrector drugs in the department. I wouldn’t bother you, but the patient’s mother is really scandalous. Could you come over there, settle it down and fetch the corrector? Please, help”.

“I will certainly do. Will be right there.”

Valera went his own way and I went in the other direction of the male department eleven. Five minutes to walk. Dear nut house is quite a multiple- unit facility and its units are located in five to ten minutes of walk from each other.

“The doctor on duty, open up.”

No sooner have I entered the department, when a screaming woman bumped into me.

“Birds of feather flock together,” runs through my head.

“You’ve destroyed my son. I will file a complaint against you, bustards, savages, whore heir!”

“Hello, hello, hello for a start! I am the doctor on duty and I am here to sort things out with your son’s condition. Calm down, please. We’ll fix him right away.”

“His voice is gone. He is dying and you are doing nothing.”

“If you let me pass, right now, I will take a very close look at your son and do my best to help him as quick as possible.”

“Stupid bitch.”

“Dear lady, could you be so kind and choose your words more carefully? There is a doctor in front of You, whom You are debarring the passage and, thereby, taking the time away from your son.”

I get in to the observation part. Shabby walls, concrete floors and absence of renovation, according to one version, are intended to stipulate patients’ motivation to accept the therapy prescribed and move to the care treatment unit as soon as possible. However, according to the other version, that phenomenon dwells upon the lack of state financing, or merely is a consequence of Pablo’s greed. There are about thirty huge guys, lying on wire mesh-based beds. Some are fixed, many hallucinating. In most cases, they are dressed in what kind people bring for charity or is given by the church.

The aid-man takes me to the patient.

It is a bloke of about twenty-five, standing and trampling from one foot to the other. His arms are elbow bent, clearly showing stiffness. His mouth is open and the tongue does not fit into, with saliva flowing out and down. His voice is hoarse …

“Well, this one is ‘stuffed’ well.”

“What’s his name?” I ask the nurse. “Kindly fetch me the case history and some water. Which drugs do you have in the department?”

“He is Misha. On my way,” the agitated young nurse runs to the nurse’s room.

“Michelle, dear, it will become better now, just take a pill and we give you two injections, and it will make you feel better.”

I do all the prescriptions, describe everything in the case history myself. I call for the nurse:

“Tell his mom to go to the drugstore and buy him the cheapest cough candies.”

“Yes, Mam.”

While in waiting of the drugs action I familiarize myself with the case history. Misha has been suffering a severe mental disorder since the age of nineteen. Repeated suicide attempts, ‘forced by voices’, is extremely resistant to the therapy. Now it is clear, why the medications doses are that huge. Poor boy. His condition improved after an hour.

“Michelle, how are you doing?”

Tears stream down from his eyes. He wipes them off by a dirty palm in a childish way and utters querulous:

“I want to hang myself, but they won’t let me do.” “Michelle, but are you feeling better already?” “Well, I can speak, but I want to hang myself.”

“Fine, let’s have a deal, you can hang yourself, but not on my shift, okay?” “Can I? Really? And when is it? After 20:00?”

“Yes, Michelle, and in the meantime, you will behave. Deal? Just this will be our little secret. Promises not to tell anybody?”

“Sure.”

I go into the nursing room and see frightened eyes of the nurse and the aid-men. I give explanations.

“You may take him out to his mom.” “Doctor, what should we do after?”

“You will tell him all the time that it is twenty minutes to eight. I have changed the therapy. His state should become better. Should it not, then sedate. I wrote everything on the treatment sheet. Strict supervision is a must! Keep an eye on him. Though, as you can see, we’ve fixed the voice and elevated the moods. He’s sitting and smiling.”

When I was leaving his mother grabbed my sleeve at the exit. “Were there the lollies, that helped?”

“Well, one could say so, I guess. This is the side effect of the drugs and, of course, Your kind concern.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” “Get well.”

I enter the sanitary inspection room. My feet are soaking wet and I already feel feverish because of cold and tension.

“The ambulance,” I hear Mariana from the far end of the inspection room. “What a day?!” What a Sunday…

The initial hospitalization patient is psychotic. It is the classics of genre, that may right away be shown to medical students. There are delusional ideas, paralogical thinking, incoherent speech and attentive listening to something in the air. Lost and clueless parents are making assumptions of that ‘this might have been caused by excessive computer gaming’. I try to calm them down and explain, but it’s all pointless. They are incapable to comprehend, yet.

“Your attending doctor will be here tomorrow, please come by 9.00 a.m. Before 9.00 a.m. there will be a daily briefing and a medical round. Do not worry.”

For some reason, almost all parents question the propriety of inpatient hospitalization decision at their child’s first psychosis. Everyone is lost and crying. When, in fact, it is the most correct thing to be done, because such actions will protect the kid from further disease development and disorder. However, after cutting the psychosis, at least 4 years of drug medication should be taken. Only then, it is possible that such thing will never happen again. Unfortunately, relatives themselves, in most cases, insist on drug medication abolition which in fact ruins their kids’ further life.

“Marina is there anything to bite or some sweet tea? I feel dizzy and see spots in front of my eyes. I haven’t eaten anything yet so far.”

“Shall we, probably, measure your blood pressure, you look kind of pale.” “We shall.”

We measure my pressure: It is 80 over 50. I see Marina’s worried look. “All right, no worries. I have no intention to have my obituary written like:

‘During the patient’s examination the doctor had suddenly turned pale and died.’ What will the patient do then?”

“Joking, ha? This ain’t good for nothing. Valera, bring tea and sweets, we’re gonna rescue the doctor. What if we inject some caffeine?”

“No, no, sweet tea will be just fine. Just got a bit tired.” “I can imagine.”

And there, in the middle of that dialogue, that very phone rings treacherously again. I twitch, everything grows cold inside. It is 18:00 just yet and still two more hours of work ahead. Only obscene words and expressions run into my head.

“Miss Clover, please proceed to the 29th right after you finish your tea. There is a high blood pressure patient there, but hurry not. If you decease now, there will be no one to save him.”

“Yeah, true,” I throw a candy in my mouth, take a couple of sips on-the-go and pull my parka on.

Valera cheerfully flashes his torch and steps ahead through the snowdrifts.

I precisely follow in to his footsteps. We enter the department.

I go to the observation unit. There lay a man of unknown age with slant eyes, huge hands, lean and with multiple scars all over. His speech is dysarthric. He is muttering something unintelligible and is dressed after the latest dear nut house fashion.

“Girls, the history,” I say to the nurses, “give me the pressure.”

I see the title page inscription: Michael Nameless. It’s a conspiracy of Michaels today, but a duty shift. Then, I start reading myself into the case. It turns out that Misha has been living in the department for about 40 years. The diagnosis is imbecility. It’s the congenital dementia or low IQ. Once he accidentally ended up in the hospital with no documents or life events available or known. He has been here for his entire life. Dear nut house is his home. The staff treats him with attention and compassion.

It is 200 over 120. So, let’s see.

“Michelle, let us sit, I need to examine you.”

People from the staff seat him up, but he’s unable to hold his back and his body leans aside.

“Lateral paralysis”

“Come on, dear, look and follow the pen with your eyes.”

It is complicated, since the congenital deformity does not allow the diagnosis anyway. The pupils seem to be of the same shape.

Show your tongue, let’s make faces.

I show by my own example as if to a kid in a kindergarten. Misha happily shows me his navel.

“No, dear, we need the tongue.”

From the twenty-fifth attempt the trick works out. The deviation is existent, the instructions are followed extremely difficult.

“Can you squeeze my fingers with your hands?”

Definitely, there is weakness on his left side. It is the “lateral” all the same.

Most likely, it is the acute cerebrovascular disorder. “Oh, Misha, Misha.” “Prepare him for transition. I go to disturb the hospitalization department,”

I instruct the staff, take Valera and we go to the inspection checkpoint.

I am dialing up the hospitalization department.

“Hello, this is the doctor on duty from the Clinical Psychiatric Hospital No.1. Can I talk to the adviser? We most likely have a transition.”

“What’s happened?”

“There is s patient of about 60, suspected to have a CVA³. We have a mental retardation.”

“Who’s ‘We’? Name?”

“’We’ stands for our institution where he dwells in with dementia. The name is Michael Nameless.”

“Are you joking me? About 60. How old exactly is he? What kind of a strange last name is that?”

“He is unknown, with no documents. The age is also unknown, eye estimated. No information available.

“Okay, the adviser is on the way.”

I was so tired that didn’t even want to engage myself into the controversy. The ambulance with the advisor arrived in 40 minutes. The neuropathologist confirmed the diagnosis.

“Well done doctor, good job. You have spotted. Yet he needs an MRI to be made.”

“Then take him and make it.”

After long disputes and scandals, through my bursts and manipulations like: ‘Document the refusal to accept your profile patient in the history. Afterwards, I will file a complaint and report against you!’ I managed to prevail and Misha had finally been taken for an MRI. I have never seen a person being so much happy while loaded into a car. Most probably, this would be his first car experience. He saw ambulances only in pictures and through the hospital windows.

“Miss Clover, what about tea?” inquires Marina thoughtfully. “With pleasure.”

It’s about 30 minutes before the duty shift ends up. I go to the break room and find an apple in my bag. It is merely divine by its taste. I guess the rule of haute cuisine is to keep guests hungry as long as possible before the meal. I smile to myself: “What a day! Well, it’s time to get ready for Alevtina’s birthday.” I’ve got my dress and high-heeled boot in the bag. I put my make-up on. The friend girls, that gather at her place will, as usual, be in fine dresses and pretty make-up, smelling of clean and freshness. All this is not an option for me today, but there is a chance to eat something at the birthday party. The gift prepared, an envelope of cash, always a good asset.

^{3 cerebral vascular accident (TN)}

She will buy what she wants to for the amount gifted. I change into a dress, put on the heeled boots and the coat, inspect myself in the mirror. I see tired eyes, pale face, but it’s fine. We’ll add some blusher and put some mascara on, somehow will match the event.

“The ambulance,” I hear Marina’s voice. I look at the telephone screen, it’s 19:55. What the hack is going on?

I go out to the admission. It is the correct denomination for the patient admission sanitary inspection facility, usually slang called ‘the checkpoint’. Misha Nameless has been brought back.

“Hello, why are you bringing him back?”

The ambulance doctor, clearly out of humor, begins to attack me right off the bat. One may clearly tell that it is obviously an ordinary ambulance squad, not a psychiatric one.

“So, in which medical institution shall we leave him? He’s a complete fool! Will you provide an escort? Will you provide your aid-men, to watch him? We’ve made the MRI. Nothing serious there, just an ischemic stroke. Therefore, you treat the guy. Neuropathologists have prescribed everything. They have concluded that patient has no need in their institution hospitalization, therefore, the treatment can be performed in your hospital.”

“But we are the psychiatry, where do we get the needed drugs from?” What kind of inhuman are you!?”

“Don’t care, let him kick off. What’s for us in him? It’s your patient, you deal with him. Who needs him anyway at all?

On that note I decided to interrupt the argument. “Will you drive him up to the department? “ “Drag him yourself…”

That’s the final straw for me. My personality has a peculiar feature. When being very much emotional, I don’t raise voice to shout, but bring it down to hiss. At that moment, I think, I can start splitting poison:

“Listen up, DEAR COLLEAGUE. The likes of you, in general, should not be allowed to people at all. Have you completely lost your human face? Do you at all have mother or wife, or son at home? Then just imagine any of them to get an ambulance with the same kind of… I don’t even have a proper word to name you… non-human, like you yourself. Karma is a Goddamn tricky thing, you know. It returns back all your bloody favors. Have you completely stopped seeing people behind earnings? Look at you, worked too hard, yeah? I’ll grind you down to death by complaints and reports, bitch. Pick your shit together and bring him to the department, now!”

The ambulance doctor waved his hand, turned around in an emphatic manner and left, but brought Misha Nameless to the department.

At these very words Ivan comes to change me at the duty shift. “Clover, why are you raging?” he asks kindly.

“Oh, it’s a nightmare, who the hell do they think they are?” I briefly retell the story to him.

“Sweetheart, this is what he is, what did you expect? He is to hand in the shift and there you appear with your imbeciles. Plus, you, our little sparky, sent the guy for an MRI. Well done, you are all passion to work, I was the same at your age. By the way, looking good!”

“Thank you, Mr. Willow, your praise is extremely valuable to me.” “Did everything go smoothly?”

“Well, what can I say? It was a bit complicated,” I narrate all the episodes, which in fact becomes my meeting report.

“All right, go and have a rest. See you tomorrow.”

Mr. Willow is the head of the department. I am overwhelmed by his erudition, literacy and clinical instinct. He has been working in the hospital for 30 years already. A true luminary he is. He is always there to help and to prompt. We work with him together in the same building. I respect him immensely.

“Sir, I left you an apple, on the table, to have a snack before bedtime.” “Marie, are you afraid I’m gonna lose weight?” he looks at me cheerfully with a squint. “I agree, 117 kg should be nourished properly, but don’t you worry, my Allie gave me a lunch box to go.”

“Oh, give the best of my regards to Mrs. Willow. Well, that’s it, have a calm shift.”

We have a superstitious belief that if one wishes the other good luck for a duty shift, there will be an influx of complicated patients. It seems no one wished me anything at all in the morning, but still, as usual, it turned out to be a multitask issue.

“I will definitely do. That’s it, go and have a proper sleep. You are as pale as

a ghost. Apparently, you endured the entire patient ‘impact’, which means todays I am going to rest. I love taking the shift after you. It’s all peace and quiet and I can even take a sleep. That’s it, child, until tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow Mr. Willow.”

No ‘good nights’ are pronounced also for superstitious reasons. Although, we are all definitely not superstitious, it works out at the checkpoint.

I say goodbye to Marina and Valera, thank them for the duty, while they are washing the floors.

“Take good care of yourself, seems you have grown completely thin. Eat, for the first thing, I can give a banana. Want one?” asks Marina attentively.

“No, thanks. I’ll go.”

Before leaving, I dial up the 11th department using that horrible telephone. “Good evening, this is the doctor on duty, how is Michael doing?”

“Oh, doctor, thank you so much. He’s asleep and everyone is happy!” Karina will come tomorrow and adjust everything. It’s great, means the therapy worked out. Fine.

“Goodbye.”

I am dialing up the 29th department. I inquire how Mr. Nameless is doing. “Well, not really good. He is lying down with high pressure. We’ve injected

magnesium, but there is nothing else we have in the department.” “Got it. Well, hold on.

Finally, I say goodbye to everyone and go out into the street. The air is fresh and frosty. The sky seems to be strewn with multi-colored bright lanterns. It looks beautiful and bewitching. I remember when a child, when I felt lonely, I sat down and gaze at one single star for a long while. I fantasized that out there, in some corner of the planet, there also was a boy sitting and looking at the same star. So, like that it became warm and cozy in my heart. You are not alone. Where are you? The Universe is very wise, but impassive. Everything comes exactly when it should.

I sit down into my cold combat ‘speed bird’ and start it up from the sixth try, wait till it’s warmed up. I see eight missed calls and one text message from Alevtina: “Are you comming?” Everything inside of me resists and turns over. But I have to go. Writing: “Leaving already.”

I can’t calm down because of the thoughts. At which point does a person loose humanity? We are kind and empathetic by nature, but for some reason we lose it all. Like that ambulance doctor. Millions of people I have encountered along my way, why do their hearts harden? Everyone wants love and it is only through love one may learn of the happiness. And I am not speaking of the generally accepted concept. When you bring love, the world becomes amazing. Love should be in everything. It is a bright emotion that inspires, lends wings and makes you want to share. It is literally everywhere, in people, dawn, books, profession, life. If we carry no light, the world will darken. Because, light and love are inseparable. They illuminate the path we walk, through the darkness of our everyday routines. It is only us to choose, whether to dwell in light on this planet or produce darkness and decay.

I go to the pharmacy and announce the list of medicines to the pharmacist. She obediently assembles the package and declares: “672 hryvnia, please.” I open up my wallet and there is one single 200-hryvnia bill in it. ‘And nothing on the cards, damn it.’ Then, it has dawned upon me: “Alevtina’s gift! Bingo!” I hesitate … I get into the envelope, take out the sacred five-hundred note, pay and leave.

“Misha’s in need of it more than Alevtina’s in need of a new lip-gloss.”

I go back to the hospital. Ring the door of the 29th department. A nurse opens up. I hold out the package.

“Today it’s Michael’s birthday. That’s his gift.” “What birthday, Miss Clover? We are unaware of…”

“Who cares? Let it be today,” I smile and say goodbye.

The nurse stands puzzled. I arrive at of Alevtina’s feast of life. Everyone is dressed up and in the full play, while I am hardly able to speak. I’m tired.

“Oh, Marie, you are not joyful today,” Alevtina notes disappointedly. “Hon, just after the shift and I am without a gift, will congratulate you

later.”

“No worries, sweety. That’s okay! It’s cool you could make it and you remember, I love useful gifts, preferably in cash equivalent,” she winks at me.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just I have forgotten your gift at home.”

“It’s fine, yet, in fact I was counting on the one from you. Anyways, on Tuesday, I will go to buy myself a present from all of you, guys. I’ve put an eye on such a purse in Symbol Boutique… It’s Gucci and it’s awesome. You’ll die of envy when you see it.”

“Of course, Al’,” I pronounce wearily and, sincerely, don’t understand what

I was doing there.

There is a great deal of people there, all beautiful, many go in pairs. I’ve greeted everyone. At the end of the table, I see a white shirt and a bald head and a bunch of young chicks in extremely short dresses around…

“Vova!”

I get up, hug him, we haven’t seen each other for three years. “Hi! So good to see you! How are you, my darling?”

“Ohhh,… Marie, hello dear. I’m cool and you don’t seem to be very well.

You’ve grown completely thin.” “I’m fine.”

“Wann’a shot of something?”

“Nope, I’m to drive home today. Can’t.”

“Come on, you are all out of face. You are not going to your Lyubomyrovka, drink one for Alevtina’s health, he leans over to me and adds in whisper: “Frankly, I don’t understand what I am doing here.”

“Vovka, frankly, neither do I,” I laugh.

Vova is a big shot. In his younger years he became the chief of the district police department. Quite a catch for any girl. He’s good-looking, tall, athletic, with blue eyes and money, unshaven, with a fancy car and stuff. Nevertheless, still no lady to be ‘the shape of his heart’. He smells of luxury life.

He pours whiskey into a glass, hands it to me and says: “Drink”. “Happy birthday, Alevtina. Whooha!”

We woke up in one and the same bed in the morning…