Sacrificial Lambs by Paula Louise Shene/cover by Patrick Shene (best free ereader .TXT) 📕

the room as if the stool will magically appear within this ten-foot square, Shari grunts, “Humph! I don’t know where it is.” But after looking at my raised eyebrow, she grumbles, “I’ll go look for it.” and adds sarcastically, “Make yourself comfortable.”

I wonder if Shari is the one Chatty Cathy thinks about when she’s putting down the whole new generation? She’s a good model. Ah, here comes Miss Congeniality now, dragging the stool behind her. Lovely. Scuff marks. Bet the custodians love her too.

“Here ya go,” she says as she slams the stool down and turns to leave the room.

“Er, Shari, dearest! It seems I’ll be needing your help to steady the stool.”

She stops and spins around, closing the gap between us quickly. She grasps the handle in the style of a Toreador with a cape, sighs and says, “Okay, then! Hop on!”

I want to yell at her, “Look at my foot, you silly bitch. Hop? How high do you think I can hop, dearie?” But I don’t. I just let the sound of silence show my displeasure. There are patients resting in the room across the hall and they don’t need my anger at this insensitive clod spilling into their ears. Got to wonder why this gal is a nurse. Not a compassionate bone in this reedy body; better suited for mannequin strutting, I’d imagine.

It’s not easy climbing the stool. The leg with the wound and boot is my strong leg while the left is useless when pushing down to go up, so I must put the heel of the boot onto the stool, grab the bar, sharing the handle space with the nurse from hell, and swivel my butt onto the chair. Not too hard when you know each step to make it happen and you get cooperation from a steadying hand. I warn her I will be clasping onto the handle so she moves her hand to the side allowing the room. Another sigh punctuates the silence.

My adjusting scrunches the paper but does not totally dislodge it. Again I cock my eyebrow at her. She is showing her displeasure with a frown. Well, what does she expect? That I’ll hover an inch off the pad thus leaving it pristine? I smile. She frowns harder. I chuckle. She leaves. Works like a charm. Now she can go dribble her displeasure on someone else.

This chair has its back too far away to get comfortable. And I’m too short to recline. The top of my head would poke it, then I’d have a pain in my neck. Ha! I could shut my eyes and pray I don’t pitch forward. That would be the ticket. Get rid of a headache with a face-plant on the tiles. Right. Better not. I already look like the walking wounded. And the poor custodian would have a bigger mess to clean up.

Wonder which miracle worker I’ll get today. Dr. Optimistic or Dr. Doom. Dr. D and Shari make a good pair. She tees them up and he knocks them out.. and off. I always seem to get him when I’m cranky. He’s like the reward for my attitude.

Dr.O steps in to tell me Dr. D will be along shortly and trots off before I can say, "That is really just peachy keen. I wouldn’t think of leaving." I can’t get off this flipping chair!

When he finally sails into my frigid holding cell, Karen in tow, there are no hellos from Dr. D, just “Let’s see if this wound has healed any better.” Then to the one bright sight in the room, Karen, he turns and rapidly shoots off instructions on what he needs and how he needs it to deal with this pesky, slow healing wound.

And then he’s back to me with questions, ”Have you given any thought to what we discussed last week? Are you going to do what I said?”

Knowing exactly what he is talking about but unwilling to give in to this little Hitler, I ask, “What would that be Dr. Dixon?”

A big sigh, one that rivals Shari’s and would have her bursting with pride on hearing, he mutters, “Pain in the ass.”

“Excuse me, Dr. D. Did you just say, … can’t let this pass?”

“No, no, Mrs. Case. Just thinking aloud. I’m wondering if you have thought about placing your husband in a nursing home as I suggested?”

“No.”

Another sigh escapes before he grittily asks, “Is that no you didn’t think about it? Or no you won’t do it?”

“Both.”

“You realize you won’t ever heal if your stress load is not lightened. Putting your husband in a home would greatly reduce your stress. You’d get the sleep you obviously need. And then, your bones will knit quickly and your wound will disappear in no time.”

“How old are you Dr. Dixon, if I might be so bold to ask? Forty-five? Fifty?”

“I’m thirty-seven!”

“Really? Your stress load must be heavy because you do truly look to be between forty-five and fifty. My wound will heal, my bone will knit. It takes time and when and if you make it to my age, you will understand acceptance. Things you can change you do, things you cannot, you accept. Do you want to ask me that question again?”

“No. You obviously have your mind made up, so I’ll not waste my time. Karen, finish up here and make an appointment for Mrs. Case for next week,” he says, making a hasty retreat. Coward!

“I’m sorry Mrs. Case but Dr. Dixon sometimes is a bit overzealous. He’s also a tiny bit on the vain side and I truly think you offended him with your observations on his age.”

“I probably would have let his question go with a wink and a shrug as I have for the past month, but, he was right, I do need more sleep. I am cranky. I was listening to an oldster earlier on how the younger generation needs handling and then ending the appointment with a relatively young man who thinks the oldsters should be handled. It’s ironic. They cancel one another out.”

 

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Text: 3000 word story
Publication Date: 11-09-2011

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
for the ones in society that feel their age is the only viable one