“Okay, Whiskers, hope this is okay with you,” I whispered.
I leaned over and shoved Whiskers into the nurse’s hand just while she was in mid-yell. “…and we’ll find your kitty—what the—oh, hey, HERE SHE IS, KEN! FOUND HER! HERE’S YOUR KITTY!”
The huge old man stopped and swung around from wrestling with one of the porters.
His desperate face crumpled. He stumbled over and took Whiskers in his arms like she was a precious baby. He gently stroked her dull, matted fake fur with a huge, shaky, bony hand, leaning over her protectively, as though he was worried someone would snatch her away.
I saw his face, Nina, and I wish I hadn’t. He looked confused and upset and happy and dazed and terrified all at once, tears snaking down his craggy, flushed cheeks. I looked away. Poor old Ken. It’s not fair to look at someone when their poker face isn’t working anymore, when every confused thing in their brain is out there for the whole world to see.
“There you go, Ken. There, see? Got your cat now.” Triathlon-Hero rubbed the big man’s shoulder and talked quietly and kindly to him while the other nurse jabbed at the intercom, telling somebody to “contact the night resident about sedation. Stat.”
They persuaded Ken back to his room at 0243 hours (2:43 AM). He was still clutching the cat, and he seemed completely different—shrunken, hunched and old, old, old. His cowboy boots even seemed too big for him.
Triathlon-Hero (whose name is Jackie, actually) came back in a few minutes to see if I was okay. Even though I did the “oh, I’m fine” thing (because I’m a big girl and a brave girl, as everyone keeps telling me), she sat down on my bed beside me like she didn’t really believe me. And I was glad she didn’t.
“Sorry about that, Kasey. That must have been scary for you. That was the worst Ken’s been in the two years I’ve been here. He’s usually such a sweetie, a real gentleman. He has dementia, a disease old people sometimes get where they really don’t know what they’re doing. Or they don’t know their own families or friends. Their minds don’t work properly. It sometimes makes them upset and hard to reason with.” We sat together, both of us thinking what a sad, hard life that would be, to be a stranger in your own life.
“I feel sorry for him,” I said.
“I know, honey. So do I. But,” the nurse said brightly, “he’s happy right now. And right now is what matters for most of these old folks. Not the past or the future, but right now. You’re a total hero for the quick thinking about the cat.” She gave my shoulder a little punch. “Kasey saves the day! Well, actually, the night. We’ll get your cat back, but maybe Ken could borrow her for a little while?”
“He can keep her,” I said quickly. “Don’t take her away from him. Please don’t. He needs her more than I do.”
I won’t ever see Whiskers again, but I don’t mind. Maybe we all have a purpose, Nina, even grumpy, mangy, semiforgotten stuffies. Maybe her purpose is to comfort a confused and desperate old man who can’t figure things out for himself anymore.
And that’s not actually such a sad story, is it?
Your friend who is so tired her eyes are crossing,
Kasey
Sixteen
Dear Nina,
I have officially become a night creature. Nocturnal, like those scuttling, furtive animals in the dark room at the zoo. I wonder if my eyes are getting bigger and rounder. (Next time you visit, tell me if you think they are. It’s hard to tell when you see yourself every day.) Between the death-snorer, the red-eyed clown puppets, and poor old Ken, I haven’t had great luck in the sleep department. Honestly, can you really blame me for being afraid to go to sleep?
Somehow, lying in bed waiting for something to happen makes things worse. It makes me feel like a target. So I wander. Ivy and I have perfected the art of gliding soundlessly through the hallways, her on her smooth, wheely feet, me in my slippers, the bottoms of which must be so incredibly germy that I don’t even want to think about it. Teeming with billions and billions of germs. There’s no way I’m bringing them home or even into our van. I am throwing them in the hospital garbage the second I can leave here.
There are only two nurses on at night, and the really sick (and sad) patients in rooms 216 and 217 keep them pretty busy. I’ve heard the nurses talk about the people in those rooms, and they all seem to have a ton of medical problems as well as being old. The nurses, amazingly, seem to be able to stay cheerful even though it must be a hard job to nurse very sick old people. I can’t even imagine how sad and depressing that could be. But they’re still people, after all, right? They were once even kids like us! Maybe they even still feel young on the inside.
Anyway, night in the hospital is a secret time, a quiet time. Down at the end of the hall, in my room, it’s a scary time. But when I get out of my room, it helps me remember that it’s still the hospital, still the same people. Nothing changes just because it’s nighttime. Or so I tell myself.
Oh, who am I kidding, Nina? Have you ever wandered around your house, or even your room, in the dark? It feels different. Not necessarily spookier or creepier, but with the definite possibility of it feeling spookier and creepier. I think it’s the actual darkness that’s the problem. Darkness with only a hint of light creates shadows that make things look weirder, which makes a person jumpier and creeped outier. Goose bumpier. It makes things look different, sometimes only slightly different, like in a dream where your mom looks mostly like your mom, but then she does something and you think in your dream brain, That’s not really Mom at all.
The night is when you make discoveries. I’ve discovered that the two night nurses are friends. I’ve told you about Jackie, the hero-triathlete who was so nice to Ken. I call the other nurse the Night Owl, which isn’t even very clever, because if you asked anybody what animal she most resembles, they would say “owl” before you’d even finished the question. She’s plump, with feathery hair, a little hook nose and big round glasses. And she wears fluffy sweaters draped over her shoulders that billow out when she walks. I’m always relieved she doesn’t have a mouse in her beak.
The Night Owl says her son (the one that goes to school with Louise) has “got in with a bad crowd,” and both of the nurses don’t like one of the doctors at all. I believe I heard the words “arrogant jerk.” I’ve also discovered that the Bouncer, though she bounces by day, isn’t very popular with the night staff either. They seem to think she deliberately hides things to make it seem like the unit can’t operate without her.
I know, I know, this sounds boring or worse—like I’m a complete creeper eavesdropper. But actually, when you live here like I do, it’s interesting. A hospital unit is like a very small town, and you know me—I like to know what’s going on.
I discovered something last night. Or should I say someone? At 0310 hours (3:10 AM), I turned the corner in the hall, and there in front of me, alone and unprotected, was Missy Wong! She was out of her wheelchair, walking! Actually, kind of shuffling very slowly down the hall away from her room, heading for the doors to the unit! She looked very tiny, like a little girl in the K-4 hallway at school. Her thin white hair was brushed back from her face, released from those ridiculous pigtails, and her shawl had slipped from one shoulder, the long black fringe trailing along the germy floor. In all the times I’ve sat with her and pushed her down the hall, I’ve never seen her upright without her wheelchair, let alone without her pigtails. It made me feel strange, Nina, like when you see your mom or dad asleep, or when our teacher takes off her glasses and rubs her moist, pink eyes and doesn’t really look like Mrs. D. at all until she puts them back on.
Missy Wong was leaning with both hands on the long railing running the length of the hall, and her pink slippers moved more up and down than forward, if you know what I mean. Up and down, up and down. Her little feet moved like they remembered they had to move in order for walking to happen, but they’d forgotten exactly how walking actually worked. They moved like puppet feet on strings. I wondered how long it had taken her to get
that far.
“Missy Wong!” I whispered, wheeling Ivy down the hall toward her. No answer. She didn’t pause or even turn her head.
“Missy Wong!” I tried again, walking right up beside her and putting a hand on her shoulder. She gave a sort of startled jump, and I jumped at her jump, and Ivy skittered and clattered, and we all did a group flail until I steadied her.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. Just me.” I giggled nervously and pointed at myself, smiling and nodding. “Just Kasey. You must be cold.” I picked up her shawl and wrapped it around her. I looked around for a nurse, but the hallway was deserted.
Missy Wong looked different. Excited. Lit up. She smiled her toothless grin, tilted her nodding head, grabbed my hand and pulled me with her toward the door, as if she’d been waiting for me. If she could have spoken, she might have said, “Oh, good, you’re here. Hurry, let’s go!” Her feet stamped up and down in a restless, impatient way.
“I’m not sure we can…I don’t think we’re allowed…we should go back,” I stammered, sounding annoying and exactly like the Fussbudget. Missy Wong paused, took my hand in both of hers and jabbed it down at her shawl, then up at the ceiling. She gave me the feeling that this was urgent, important.
“You want to go upstairs?” I asked. She looked down at the shawl, smoothing her tiny, wrinkled hand over the colorful embroidery, over the peacock and the stars and the river. And her feet started up with that dancing up-and-down motion.
The Night Owl rounded the corner up ahead and stopped when she saw us.
“And just what are you two doing out of bed? It’s the middle of the night!” She hurried toward us, her open sweater wings flapping.
I explained that Missy Wong seemed to want to go upstairs, but the Night Owl shook her head, took charge of her and steered the old woman around in a brisk U-turn.
“She doesn’t know what she wants, Kasey,” she said. “She’s never even been upstairs. What on earth would she want with Urology? Or the cardiac unit? That’s all that’s upstairs. She’s just confused. AREN’T WE, MISSY WONG? ARE WE A LITTLE CONFUSED? WE NEED TO GET BACK TO BED, DON’T WE?”
The Night Owl looked over at me. “Are you okay, Kasey? Do you want me to stop by your room after I settle Missy Wong? Do you need anything?”
“No, I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep.” It was nice of her to ask, but I said what she expected me to say. I’m a big girl, a brave girl, remember. When you’re big and brave, how can you say, “Yes, please come by and talk to me about your teenager getting in with a bad crowd and being not a bad guy even though he’s a total druggie, and about the doctor who’s a jerk, and how it feels being a human owl and really anything you want to talk about to help me get through another long, scary night.” How can you say things like that? You can’t.
But I wasn’t fine. Because when I looked at Missy Wong, when I said goodnight, I saw that all the light had drained out of her face. She wasn’t dancing anymore or even nodding. She hung her head and looked terribly old and very tired. I couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow I’d failed her, that somehow I hadn’t understood.
What do you think? If you have any advice, Nina, I’d be glad to hear it.
Your friend, the hospital hall roamer,
Kasey
Seventeen
Dear Nina,
Are you sitting down? Huge news! But first, you might want to put on gloves to read this letter—in fact, I strongly advise you to. And after you finish it, wash your hands with soap and warmish to hot water for as long as it takes you to sing “Happy Birthday” twice. Promise? The reasons for these complicated instructions will become clear.
I am now allowed to be even more paranoid than usual about germs, Nina. Legitimately paranoid.
Our unit is under quarantine! Isolated! Separated from the rest of the hospital! Roped off!
We have a terrible, germy, very contagious illness oozing invisibly through the rooms and possibly infecting all the patients! So we’ve been sealed off from the rest of humanity so we don’t spread the disease to anyone but ourselves. But help! I’m thinking of the “ourselves” part of that sentence, the people in this unit. Are we all going to be sacrificed so this disease doesn’t spread to the rest of the world? I’ve never felt more like escaping.
Everyone is panicking quietly. Me—not so quietly. This is an example of how I greet people coming into my room:
Random nurse or aide: Hi, Ka—
Me (interrupting): SANITIZE YOUR HANDS! WHERE’S YOUR MASK? KEEP YOUR DISTANCE! DON’T TOUCH ME! DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING! DON’T BREATHE ON ME!
I’m not even exaggerating, Nina. All the staff have to wear these paper robes and masks and gloves whenever they go into a patient’s room, and then throw them away when they leave. That’s how bad it is! We’re using disposable clothes, the germs are so dangerous. Even visitors have to wear them!
The place looks like a sinister science-fiction movie. Mom and Dad have stopped bringing my brothers and sisters, so they don’t get sick. Now Mom’s stopped coming because she’s nursing the baby, and nobody wants him to get sick. And Mom’s freaking out, worrying that I’ll get sick, and her freaking out is making me freak out, so we’re freaking out in jittery circles. I told her to stay home and stay healthy.
So Dad has been my only visitor for the last few days. I make him wear gloves and a mask, because, of course, he doesn’t think about these things very deeply. He’s all “Hey, Pumpkin, how’s it going?” in this cheerful voice, as if I’m not drowning in deadly bacteria and teetering on the brink of a desperate and terrible illness! Not good, Dad, not good. Honestly, Nina, I love him, you know I love him, but I want to shake him sometimes.
I read the notices about this disease—every single one of them. Even the private nurses-only ones in the nurses’ lounge area. And now, having quite enough information about this disease, I have officially barricaded myself in my room.
The disease is called C. difficile, which is such a stupid name for a disease. There shouldn’t be an abbreviation for something in a serious disease, am I right? C. What does that stand for? And why aren’t they telling us? It makes it seem like there’s something somebody’s hiding. But besides that, C. difficile sounds creepy and oddly French somehow. I think it must be French, because of the way you pronounce it. Like it rhymes with bloodthirsty eel.
What annoys me is that diseases should end in itis, as everyone knows (tonsillitis, appendicitis, even my osteo-something-something-itis). And if they don’t, their names should clearly describe the actual disease rather than leaving a person guessing. That’s only fair.
I can’t get a straight answer about what the mysterious C. stands for. The nurses’ notice said something like Clostrilium (which sounds like a plant with possibly purple flowers—to me anyway). The Fussbudget said something about “colon,” made a wrinkly nosed you-don’t-want-to-know face and shook her head vaguely. Very helpful.
It’s definitely something to do with evil and cunning bacteria (there was also something in there about “spores”—what the heck is a spore?) multiplying into more and more toxic bacteria and making everyone so sick they have to go to the bathroom almost constantly. I know that’s a fairly disgusting, nontechnical explanation, but that pretty much sums it up.
And that’s not all. The notices also said that this disease can be very serious, leading even to death! I swear they say that, Nina. In fact, I’d pull one off the wall and send it to you as proof, but I don’t want to C. difficile-bomb you and your whole house. Those bacteria are real survivors, apparently, and can last for months on things, and how do you scrub paper? You’ll have to take my word for it.
C. difficile, my notices tell me, is especially dangerous to old people and children! Well, hmm…let’s see. Who do we have on this unit? I know! Old people and a child! And yet, Nina, nobody seems to be panicking quite enough for my liking. I’d like to have sirens wailing, lights flashing, gowned and masked people running around doing something, and the strong, strong
reek of detergent and sanitizer in the halls. Also, those fire-blaster guns they use in action movies would come in very handy. Or can C. difficile bacteria even survive fire? Calm, Kasey, calm.
I’m very worried for my old people here. So I’m taking precautions. I’m washing my hands probably fifty times a day and trying not to touch anything, including Ivy (she understands). I wear surgical gloves when I’m not washing my hands. I wear a mask as well, which gets hot from just my breathing and makes my voice sound like Darth Vader’s (“hrhhh, hrhh, hrhhhh”). I am also helpfully reminding all the staff about gowning and gloving and masking whenever I see them. Rosie calls me the “unit cop.”
So don’t come to visit, Nina, until I give you the all clear.
Stay away. Stay healthy. Scrub your hands.
Your friend in the fight against this deadly disease,
Kasey
PS. Burn this letter.
Eighteen
Dear Nina,
We have been under this plague for six days now.
Unfortunately, some of the old folks have gotten very sick. Missy Wong has—I haven’t seen her for days. I hope she’s okay. She’s so old and so little. I made her a card and have been drawing her pictures to cheer her up. They aren’t very good. It’s hard to draw well when you’re wearing rubber gloves, I’ve discovered. Especially adult-sized rubber gloves. Anyway, I sure hope she gets better soon. It’s funny how you can miss somebody who doesn’t actually even speak!
I miss you too, Nina. I’ve missed writing to you, because when I write to you I have a very clear picture of you in my head. And after I finish a letter, I feel like we’ve talked, even though it’s just me moaning about being in the hospital. I deliberately haven’t written to you, to avoid germing up your house. You’re not sick, are you? I haven’t got a letter from you for a while, so I hope you’re not sick.
Kasey & Ivy Page 7