Talk to Me

I have taken care of stroke patients in my career. I always wondered what went on behind the eyes. I was sure some of the time they could hear and understand me. I always talk to them and try to reassure. I let my imagination go and came up with this. I hope, you that read this and should encounter a loved one or person in this situation will remember, and talk to them.

Talk to me

Copyright© Andy H. Sweet

July 2014

The lights were too damn bright. That much I knew. Everything else was a little fussy. Some man stood over me, I felt a burning in one of my arms. Funny, I can't tell which one. I tried to raise up, but couldn't move, tried to talk, but nothing came out of my mouth. A man leaned over me.

“Hey, you. What are you doing?” I heard nothing, maybe my mouth moved a little bit. I decided to try and shift my eyes back and forth. Maybe get his attention.

I heard a female voice. “Whatcha got?”

The man answered. “Stroke. She's nonverbal.”

Oh my God! I've had a stroke? I can't remember. “Sir...excuse me. You said I had a stroke?”

“Such a shame. She doesn't look that old.”

“Old? See here young woman. I'm haven't even turned fifty yet.”

They didn't answer. Neither of them. The machine loomed over my head. I couldn't see the man or the woman now. Shutting my eyes seemed to help with a sudden wave of nausea. I felt like I might throw up and why was my arm burning?

The ceiling was moving when I opened my eyes again. The bright fluorescent lights whizzed by like the white lines on a highway caught in headlamps. Then all stopped.

I heard the same woman speaking. I couldn't see her.

“Hey Brad, what's up?”

A young man spoke. Different from the other one. “Not much. Fixin' to be off. Aren't you nearly finished? Maybe we could grab a bite?”

I heard her giggle. “Yeah, I just have to get this one to her room. I'd love too. I'm starving.”

“Hey people, remember me?”

From the corner of my eye I could see him now. He leaned across me, his weight pressing on my shoulder.

I can feel that!I can feel his weight!

His voice was lower, but I could hear it. “Maybe after eating—we could—you know...”

I swear I heard a smacking noise. “Geez folks...get a room.”

“Meet me in the cafeteria. Okay?”

“You bet Brad. Just as soon as I unload.”

“Unload? Unload? What am I, dry goods?”

The ceiling started moving again. Another stop, I heard a chime, then we entered a stainless steel room. I could see two other people in it, one of them asked, “Which floor?”

My traveling companion answered. “Fourth, thank you.”

The nausea was returning. I shut my eyes. Another chime, the sound of doors swooshing open and then the lights in the ceiling—marching by unconcerned.

“Got one for you.” I heard her announce.

Another woman, older, she had the prettiest eyes, framed with silver glasses. “I've got the room ready. Swing her in here.”

“I got your swing lady.”

The room was bright, the contrast from the hall made me want to squint. I sensed other people in the room, then a lift and tug slid me over. From where I wasn't certain.

Then I saw her. My daughter. She was at the foot of the bed. Worried eyes roved over me. My heart leaped in my chest and I cried. Where are the tears? I feel the cold air on my eyes. Why can't I feel my tears?

Jessica moved to my side. Took my hand. Sweet Jesus, I can feel that! It was warm, reassuring. She let go. Her eyes met mine for just a moment, then glanced off.

“Please! No. Don't let go!”

“Oh, Mom,” she whimpered.

“Baby, it's okay. I'm okay.”

I know my mouth should be moving, but I perceived it not to be. My voice was absent. And my daughter left the side of the bed. Her and the lady with the silver framed glasses met at its end.

“The doctors aren't telling me much. What's wrong with her?”

“Ma'am, I don't have that information yet. I'll let you know as soon as I get it.”

“I really have to get back to work. I don't know what to do. Is she going to be all right?”

“We should know more in twenty-four hours or so. Can you stay long enough to answer some questions?”

“No, I can't. There's a presentation I'm responsible for. God, this is such bad timing. I just have to be there.”

“Your telling a stranger why you cant' stay? What about me? Talk to me!”

Both of them glanced my way. Did they hear?

“Listen. My brother will be here in a couple of hours and I'll be back this evening. Maybe it can wait until he gets here?”

“What about her husband?”

There was a pause. My daughters voice trembled. “He passed away last year.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am. At least he'd be talking to me. Jack wouldn't leave me alone.”

Jessica left the room. The nurse put her stethoscope to my chest, then stomach. She asked me to move different body parts, touched me and asked if I felt it. I did, but I couldn't answer. Same as before. Almost, I can feel now though. That's something isn't it? Oh Jessica. I know how hard you worked to get where you are. I know how important this project is to you. But, Sweetie. I'm your mother.

The nurse completed her assessment of me. Turned out all the lights. The bright lights that hurt my eyes went dark and now the only illumination seeped in around the door.

I was alone. I wanted the light back.

With every bit of strength I possessed I forced all my power on the mouth and throat which had abandoned me.

“Talk...to...me.”

I heard my voice. It was ragged and sounded like a croak.

No one was in the room. And it was dark.

G.I. Blues 'Don't eat the pancakes.'

There I was. In the kitchen again. I had a lot on my mind. Young wife, infant daughter and oh yeah, Vietnam. Have any of you ever cleaned those huge stainless steel bowls? I guess bowls is the word, at least that describes the shape. I'd say their diameter was something in the order of three feet. If memory serves I washed about eight of them along with an assortment of pots, pans, and culinary accoutrements.

Thing is, you have to clean them with lye soap. Now, my information says this is manufactured by boiling down animal fat. Maybe, I don't know. I do know that after washing, the pots come out with a greasy film. After scalding hot water.

The mess sergeant was livid. Screamed, hollered making sure I was aware that the fate of the free world depended on my getting these things sparkling clean.

I washed them again.

Same result. Greasy, filmy pots and pans. This time the sarge was ecstatic. "Great job", he says. "You're gonna be a hellava soldier, " he praised.

The damn things were still greasy.

But that's not what I wanted to talk about. It was later when IT happened. What was the code in "A Few Good Men. "  Unit, corp, God, country. I'm sure I got the order mostly wrong, but I'm sure unit came first. Keep that in mind.

I was taking something into the walk-in cooler. Balanced precariously on one of them big stainless steel cereal bowls I was talking about was a shallow tray of French dressing. This pan was probably about 18" by 36".and maybe 3/4 " deep. Why put dressing in something like that? And why stack it on top of the next morning's pancake mix? Not nearly as important as me brushing it and knocking all that tangy French dressing into the batter.

I consider myself an honorable man. I take my lumps, own up to my mistakes.

However,I am, or at least was, sane.

No way am I going to say. "Hey Sarge, I just knocked the French dressing into the pancake batter."

I did the only honorable thing I could do under the circumstances. I stirred the mix so nigh a trace of the offending dressing remained.

Of course, keeping the CODE in mind, I told all of my comrades in arms "DON'T EAT THE PANCAKES.

My platoon ate eggs. But we were entertained by the others, You have to eat fast in the Army.

All their faces screwed up in puzzlement as they ate their morning pancakes?

PRICELESS!

Some more Army blogs.
http://drewadamsauthor.blogspot.com/2014/06/happy-hump-day-wednesday-not.html
http://drewadamsauthor.blogspot.com/2014/07/how-i-spent-fourth-of-july-in-1972.html

Balance! Stop name calling.

A while back I did something I rarely do. I engaged in a political argument. I learned some things. For one, some of my information was faulty, so I changed my view a bit. The important thing  I came away with is that you can present a viewpoint without calling your adversary names or labeling them. I can, and I don't consider my intelligence superior, just 'run of the mill', but I do have  'some' intelligence.

To make a short story long, I've decided I hate labels, and I don't have much for those that insist on using them. If their pov is so weak they feel they must attack people to make a point then maybe they should do more research or better yet, take up a hobby.

God gave us a brain, and some of us use it. I do not need a political view or stand to make up my mind about something. And I'm starting to realize that facts can be spun to suit almost anybody's agenda. My mom always said " If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, probably it's a duck."

You shouldn't decide an issue based on whether it is  right wing, left wing, liberal, conservative, democrat,republican, or any other reason other than just the facts,without spinning them and please, without putting a label on them. And really, that's all you need. Anything else is sludge and better off left in the septic tank.

Balance is the key. Extremes are almost always bad. Somewhere there is middle ground and it is most likely greener. At the risk of using a label, I will say I consider myself a conservative, but I am open minded enough to realize that there are multiple sides to any story. For example, I'm not a 'tree hugger', but I don't want companies filling our rivers with waste just to make the plastic in my cell phone cheaper. Balance!

I didn't write this blog to start anything. Rather, my hope is it might end some of the useless bickering. If you disagree. Great! It's you're right and I wont call you a name. In fact, I doubt if I will respond at all. This is just how I feel. It's not open to debate. At least for me.

Someone did say that they thought I just liked "stirring the pot". Well, if you don't, the food will burn.

My first book, IN print!

I got my paperbacks, first edition. I am a fan of E books! They give both authors and readers opportunities like we've never seen before. Readers are no longer restricted to what some editor/publisher thinks should be made available. E books puts the decision in the hands of those that buy. Not those that sell.
Now, having said that. I love the feel of an actual book. Can't help it. And this, to be able to hold a book that I wrote. I can't adequately describe it, except to tell you if feels...freakin' awsome.

For those of you who would like to buy one of my real books. They should be available on Amazon in the future. Meanwhile, the E-books are available. Below are the links.

http://tinyurl.com/ndcl75h

http://tinyurl.com/m5qy96t

http://tinyurl.com/nm8cx6d

From top to bottom, Ghost Reaper 2.99, Scizo 2.99, and A Lonely little Christmas Tree (A lengthy short story, good for all seasons) for only 99 cents.

BIRTH CONTROL. RELIGIOUS FREEDOM. REALLY?

I'm going to step on toes a bit, so I hope some of you have on good shoes.

Birth control. A religious bomb shell. I'm not talking about abortion. I believe once conceived, it is a life. Period.

Population is now a concern and will be critical in a few years. People need to plan their families in today's economy. You know longer need a multitude of children to help in the field.

It should be clear that it benefits society and the individual to be able to plan their families.

God gave us the gift of reproduction and said "be fruitful and multiply". Well, we did that, have the T-shirt. Not every seed is meant to take root and not every egg meant to hatch.

Now is the time for common sense.

He gave that to us also and I'm pretty sure somewhere he told us to use it.

I had to add to this...damn! Oh well here goes.

What if a company had religious convictions that all healing must come from God with no interference physicians or medicine. There are those who practice this.

So, is the Supreme Court going to rule that they do not have to provide medical insurance based on this belief?
Just saying.

I'm a poet and didn't know it.

I keep a file which I call "Journal of Lamentations". My daughter says I pull this stuff out of my ass. Maybe...since probably my mouth knows better. Anyway, this is one of my little doodles from the journal and written into the second novel of the Ghost Reaper series,
 Lucifer's Children

At death's knock I did answer and answered did die.

Yet I live as a dancer, chasing the knock, I cry.

Oh for life's sake the door awaits to be opened,

My life, no more, once pried.

(Journal of lamentations)

DID WE ALL REALLY COME FROM ADAM AND EVE? REALLY?

 I'm not a theologist, and I know I'm about to send all those 'bible thumpers' out there to fetch their tar and feathers, but how many of you really believe we all came from Adam and Eve?

Now, when I say 'bible thumpers', I'm not speaking to all the good people out there that read the scriptures and enjoy them. I'm talking about those that pound on the venerable scrolls more than read them.

That said, I do read the scriptures and have spent significant time in study. It's really fascinating when you get into the word, especially if you slow down, divide it, and...well...it doesn't hurt to check the translations out. You might be surprised.

Take the first born, whose descendants are characters in my series of novels...hey...the picture to the left.(shameless plug)
Cain slew Able and ran away to another land and married a woman there.

So, where the heck did this woman come from? Some theologians have suggested that life spans were so long back then, that she was an offspring of Adam and Eve as well. Do you buy that? I'm a little short on cash, so I'll have to pass.

What I noticed was this. Read Genesis. On the sixth day, God created "men and women". Plural? looks like it to me. ON the seventh day, he rested. Now, I don't think the days stopped or jumped around here, but on the eighth day (there are indications that a day to God is a thousand years, food for thought), God noted that he had no one to tend his garden. He then made Adam and afterward took a rib from his creation (actual translation, curve), DNA? Whatever, he had a pair, and the rest is history...actually...a blood line called Israel that produced Jesus

Interesting...uh.

My series of  "Ghost Reaper" novels are fictional. Many little tidbits like this will be explored in them. All of the scriptures are from the King James version of the bible and the translations from a Greek/Hebrew concordance. Again, they are fictional...so hey...go easy on the tar and feathers.

JUST PEE IN THE POOL

Recently on 'Live with Kelly and Michael statistics were revealed concerning the number of people who have urinated in the ocean, lakes, or pools. The figures indicate most of us have. The urge hits, you look around, let 'er rip and then ease to a different spot hoping no one notices  the rise in water temperature, or worse, the dreaded blue dye. Hell, they put enough chlorine in most pools, it's a wonder people don't come out of them a platinum blond.

So we're on this vacation. Headed toward San Antonio Texas, it's summer, hot and a dip in the pool sounds great. Thing was, everybody else had the same idea. The motel's little pool was swamped.

Our kids were young  children then ,the oldest, our daughter maybe seven years old and our youngest, THE son, five or so. The four of us jumped in the pool, ah, cool, clear, refreshing.

Earlier that week we had visited some sort of display site. THE SON, Scott had went to the bathroom there, alone. We were in the lobby of the place. Suddenly there was this blood curdling scream. Both of us knew it was Scott, or Marcus, as he was called then. We rushed to find out what terrible fate had befallen him. Turns out it was one of them facilities with two doors. An entrance and exit. He couldn't figure out how to get out and thought he' let us know. Well, he did that and we were quite confident about letting him explore his surroundings after that. As long as he was in hearing range, we knew he could alert the dead.

Oh, yeah. I was talking about the pool. There I was, enjoying a dip in 'blue heaven' and Marcus floats over, whispers to us that he needs  to go. My wife whispers, "just go in the pool."  I seemed to remember a funny look on his face. Oh well, maybe not.

He floats on off, we resume our refreshing public bathing.

Murmurs rise across the pool's recreational denizens, We look up...and see THE SON.

Standing on the edge of the pool, his bathing trunks around his ankles, like one of those statues of little cherubs peeing in the fountain, was THE SON, doing just exactly what he had been told to do... just going in the pool. 

You'd think an ensuing, clamorous, exit would have taken place, but no, people kept on keeping on. The area he had polluted was notably vacant. There were a few glares, some giggles, but all in all, just another day in the now, urine saturated pool.

My wife sprang into action, gathered her charges and informed me we would be leaving.

Sigh...it was just getting good to me. I relieved my own self and with reluctance, joined them.

IN THE ARMY NOW! WHO...ME?

Happy Hump Day! Wednesday not particularly notable to me, as I rarely worked a standard work week. That is, until the Army. Once past the dreaded basic training, I was stationed at Ft. Myer in Arlington. VA. That's was the first time I realized some people actually get two days off in a row.

All you persons in the military, I send my praise and thanks to you. I know you are humping it on this Hump Day.

Yep. I got this letter in 1972, from Uncle Sam. It started out with the word "Greetings" and went down hill from there. I was the last group drafted into the armed services, and I went. Reluctantly, but I went.

It was just I didn't much want to get my a$$ shot off in Vietnam. Ironically, the closest I came to an injury during my time in the service was when they announced they were taking only volunteers to Vietnam. I nearly hurt myself stepping backward.

Aw well, basic training, where they tear you down to build you up. One of the tearin' down things was kitchen duty...you older vets knew this as KP...worse, they had something called "Stand by KD". That was seventeen hours of grueling, greasy, nasty work that you didn't even know you were going to have to do. Here's how it worked. Primarily on weekends, they would assign some of us as standbys.  Now, if you had an off post pass, you could still go off post. If your bunk was empty...well...they'd just go on to the next one. This search for victims usually took place around 3 am. Weird thing was...regular kitchen duty ran about ten hours, but if you were caught as standby, it was seventeen hours. Go figure.

So there I was...I had an off post pass, but couldn't afford to go anywhere. I was content though, to hang around, read, maybe catch a film at the post theater. I was on standby, but they hadn't had a round up in sometime.

Saturday morning, I heard them. The barracks were divided by a long row of tall standing lockers and on the other side, I heard them. Rousting for Standbys. Panic raged through me like a sickening current of electricity. This can't be happening. What can I do?

The bunk above me, we'll call it Charley's, was empty, he was off post and not on standby. With little regard for country or honor, I jumped out of bed, made it up so tight you could bounce a coin off of it, and leaped up into Charley's bunk. All, I might add, in the length of time it took them to make the other bay and come around the corner to mine.

There I was, in the bunk above mine, covers pulled up over my head, not daring to even breath. They stopped at my bunk. "Well, he's gone," I heard one say, then the sound of paper rustling on a clipboard. The sound of footfalls echoed down the bay away from me. Near its end, they got one. Poor sap!

Now, you may think me a shirker, but I did everything I was ordered to do while in the service. The job I was doing was even offered to me as a civilian as my discharged loomed. Had I been called to go wade across rice patty fields, dodging punji sticks, mines, and sniper's bullets, I would have done it. I was raised that way. I wasn't raised to be the dummy caught in the sack and doing seventeen hours of crud on my day off. But that's just me.

OUTHOUSE WITH BIDET, NO CATALOG NECESSARY.

This is a whole new concept in bidets. You know...those pluming contraptions that leave you squeaky clean. Haven't had the pleasure myself, but, in the late fifties, my father experienced one with...shall we say, a twist.

At that time, at least in Oklahoma, outhouses were common place. My Aunt had one and my grandparents had a double seater. I always wondered about that. I mean, who would want...well, never mind. The following is a true story and although I was too young to remember it first hand, I was told the story and actually saw the home movies featuring the aftermath.

You know, my father always said, "if you don't go when you gotta go, when you finally do go, you'll find out you've already went." I can picture him stepping out on my Aunt's back porch. A board was nailed on a post, level enough for a box of matches to sit, underneath an old lantern. He got a match, struck it and lit the lantern and headed toward the venerable old outhouse to do his business. He opened the door to the facility carefully, scanned the interior for creepy crawlers. That part of Oklahoma was home to tarantulas as big as a man's hand and red and black centipedes as long as his forearm.

Satisfied, he entered, dropped trou, twisted the little board latch (Remember them, a little board with a nail driven in the center. You could turn it up to unlatch, perpendicular to latch. Sometimes they actually worked) and sat down.

I can't imagine what he felt as he experienced what most people would count as a life changing experience, but my Aunt said he busted out of the little privy without bothering to turn the latch. He made quite a commotion when he ran into kitchen and told my Aunt. "Mae, you've got an automatic butt wiper out there!

Well, you can imagine the whole troop, armed with additional lanterns, went to see this marvel of modern plumbing.

In the hole...you know, the business part of an outhouse, hanging on for dear life, was, what looked to me after seeing the home movies, to be a large St. Bernard dog. When my dad sat down, well, it did what dogs do...lick.

Another thing indigenous to rural America at that time was conference calling. Of course, it wasn't like you had a choice, or pushed a button. It was called a party line. Thirty minutes after Aunt Mae's call to the sheriff, that was just what was going on. A party. It was hard to believe that many people lived in the area, but quite a crowd gathered to see this large hapless mutt saved from a crappy end. Pun absolutely intended.

No one wanted to do it, the local VFD won the job and got the poor pooch out. The home movies detailed the mess the animal had been in.

So, maybe it's not only important to look before you leap, but just as wise to survey before you sit.