What the Doctor Ordered

When she arrived at the hospital, he was still in the intensive care unit.

Seven days since an ambulance brought him writhing with the pain of an intestinal blockage.

Five days since the operation that cut away the small section of knotted obstruction.

Two days since a nurse snapped an oxygen mask over his nose and parted lips. She explained he needed the assistance; he was a “mouth breather” and his shallow inhales did not feed his lungs.

One day since he looked at her with eyes narrowed in disapproval.

“If you came earlier, I could have gone home with you,” he said and pointed a tremulous index finger at her. “You missed the window of opportunity. I know it was on purpose.” He turned his head away from her.

Though she tried many times during each visit, no amount of cajoling or explanation could disabuse him of the notion that nurses hated him and waited for family to leave before a daily ritual of torture. Doctors told her confusion and paranoia were normal in patients his age – after all, he was still under the influence of disorienting painkillers.

After several hours of sitting and watching him sleep, while listening to the whirls and pings of machinery taking care of his bodily business, she stood.

“Leaving?” he said after pulling the mask from his face. So he was feigning sleep, she thought.

“I'll be back tonight,” she said.

“Don't bother if you're not prepared to take me away from here.”

She kissed his forehead and helped him put the mask back on his face. He closed his eyes and did not say goodbye.

As she left the unit, she nodded to the hospital staff who looked her way. Torturers? She smiled at the thought. Tonight she would return and listen to his complaints and know they were fueled by irrational fears that he was never going home.

Always was a bit of a diva – for a man, she thought and laughed.

She walked the maze of halls that were very familiar to her now and stepped out into the sunshine.

Upstairs, the torture continued.

It's All In The Cards

She stopped reading and rubbed her eyes.

“Is that it?” she said, and sighed and shook her head when her assistant pushed five more envelopes across the desk. Part of the job, she thought. The hard part.

As Director of Admissions at an elite college, she spent many long days sharing coffee and discussions with her team. There were too many qualified teenagers with similar credentials vying for the limited available spots still unfilled. Now, she needed to make final decisions on this last batch of applications left in the Yes or No pile.

Opening the next envelope, she read the name on the cover letter. “Ah, a male applicant,” she said. “We need more males to balance the freshman class.” Her assistant nodded and wrote in a notepad.

The letter consisted of eight sentences: My transcript shows I am an excellent student and more than capable to continue my studies in a stringent college environment. All awards, civic activities, inclusion in sports teams, summer employments, and teacher recommendations are attached as well.

As for my personal essay, when I was in first grade, my teacher had us write on note cards as part of an assignment. We had to say something we admired about our fellow students. Enclosed are the cards written about me. They were true then. They still are. Thank you for your consideration.

She shook the envelope, and a confetti of brightly colored laminated cards fell onto her desk. She glanced at her assistant, who held out her hands palm side up and shrugged her shoulders. Spreading them as if playing a game of solitaire, she looked at each one.

-Brian is smart and reads lots of books.

-He is fun and loves to sing.

-Brian knows lots of big words.

-He is kind and knows how to fix things.

-Brian helps anyone. Even if he doesn't like you.

-He brings good snacks. He shares his lunch if you forgot to bring one.

-He is good at sports. And wins!

And this one from his teacher: Brian is a leader.

She read all the rest, and put them and the supporting documents back in the envelope. Placing it on the small pile on the right side of her desk, she looked at her assistant, who smiled and handed her another one.

© 2010 Marisa Birns

Minstrel

It was always at the corner of the west side of the street where she went to sing. Every Monday morning at 7 a.m., while I sat drinking the first of many coffees of the day, I would see her. She would shuffle in her backless slippers to the entrance of the train station. She never looked at anyone, just walked with her head down as she moved to the left foot, right foot, do it all again beat until she reached the stool the news vendor had placed under the awning for her use. A guitar accompanied her musical notes of protest. They were Vietnam-era songs that baffled some of the commuters rushing to get to work.
 
“Make love, not war.” She would tell anyone this mantra of her long-ago youth as they tried to give her  coins, which she refused. She, in turn, would hand out little slips of paper imprinted with a drawing of the peace symbol and smile whenever I took one, though I never stayed to hear the music. All I wanted was to look at her face before I went to work. I could not explain why but her serene blue eyes offered a cooling antidote to the anxious start of my work week.
 
On a day I was to leave for vacation, I stayed and waited for her to finish her song.
 
“Here,” I tried to press money into her hands. “I really want you to have this.”
 
She shook her head and tugged at the tie-dyed cotton blouse she wore.
 
This upset me. “Don't be crazy anymore. Please. There are other things to worry about. Vietnam is over. There is no war!”
 
She lifted her guitar and strummed the opening notes to a Bob Dylan tune.
 
“There's always something,” she said, and sang her song, blowing out the message to the wind.
 
Not many weeks later, she was dead. Mugged by someone who most likely thought the frail woman  wearing the colors of the rainbow and singing of peace and love was an easy mark to rob, though he must have been surprised to find papers of the non-monetary kind in her pockets. The person did not even take the guitar – just left its splintered remains next to her body.
 
For several days, the community placed wreaths at the site of her last breaths and made plans.
 
It's my turn to join the neighborhood watch group that will patrol the streets tonight for several hours - veritable soldiers in the fight against crime. She might be pleased to know this. Though it probably would sadden her that we were not making love.

Mother’s Day – Twitter Chats Blog Tour

Welcome to the Twitter Chats Blog Tour, organized by Mari Juniper at Mari's Randomities and Anne Tyler Lord at Don't Fence Me In

Today's theme is Mother's Day.

You'll be traveling with us through the blogs of some of the fantastic authors and writers who participate in our weekly -- funny, entertaining and educating -- Twitter chats. This tour will feature writers from #writechat, #litchat, and #fridayflash.

You will be directed to your next stop at the end of this post. Please feel welcome here. Happy Mother's Day!

~~~~~~~ 

Never Too Old

by Marisa Birns

Ellen Newman did not expect to be stuck in an elevator with her mother. But here they were, somewhere between the third and fourth floors in Aunt Judy's building. Her mother, of course, knew about Ellen's discomfort of being confined in small spaces, so she tried to distract her.

“Now, it's supposed to be my surprise party, but honestly, has your father ever been able to keep a secret from me?” She laughed. “Do you remember when – ”

“Mother. Please don't. It's not helping.”

Ellen sat on the floor and hugged her knees. Fortunately, the phone in the control panel worked, so the doorman knew about their predicament and promised it would be mere minutes before an employee from the  maintenance office came to help.

“Are you hungry, dear?” Her mother took out an energy bar from her bag.

A shrug from Ellen. “Well, I didn't have lunch, so I guess I could eat something.”

She reached up and took it from her mother, along with the napkin she held out to her.

“I also have a bottle of water we can share.”

“Don't fuss over me. Please.” Ellen said, though she took the water. After a few seconds of thought, she looked up at her mother and patted the space next to her on the floor.

They passed the time remembering funny stories about various members of the family they would see tonight. Though she realized she was enjoying herself, Ellen still could not push away her worriment that it was taking too long for them to be rescued. Her mother noticed. She put her arm around Ellen's shoulders and kept on talking. Moments later, the elevator jolted in movement. “At last!” they said at the same time, and laughed as they helped each other to stand.

Her mother took out a comb from her bag and handed it to Ellen, who sighed before taking it.

“What am I going to do with you?

“Well, you want to look nice at my party, don't you?” Her mother said as she smoothed small creases from her dress. “And, sweetheart, don't forget that I don't know about it.”

As the doors finally opened to the anxious faces of her husband and sister-in-law, she turned to her daughter and offered her hand. They walked out together.

When they entered the apartment and the lights turned on, her mother acted properly startled at the shouts of  “Surprise!” that came from every corner of the living room. But before she moved across the room for hugs, she looked over at Ellen, who winked and blew her a kiss.

“Yes, it was scary. But you know how Mom is.” Ellen said seconds later in answer to someone's question. “She made it all better.”

~~~~~~~

Thanks for stopping by. Your next stop for the Mother's Day Twitter Chats Blog Tour is at Jemi Frasier of Just Jemi

The complete list of participants can be found at the hosts' blogs: Mari Juniper and Anne Tyler Lord