As soon as I don’t have anything to do, I panic. Think of something, Helen, anything. None of my friends, or I guess I should call them classmates, know I’m here. Only my parents know. And my brother. So the only visits I can hope for would be from my family.
And I might end up waiting a long time for that.
I didn’t want to tell any of my classmates why I had to go to the hospital. I don’t like the idea of them visiting me in the proctology unit. They all think I’m home with the flu. When I took off—how many days ago now?—because my ass hurt so bad, I told them I felt a flu coming on. That I was feeling achy. Nice word. Achy. And that I had to go home. I didn’t have to worry about having my cover blown because none of them would stop by my house anyway. Nobody wants to hang out with a sick person. They like to go out, party, hang out in the park. They drink a lot and smoke pot, and you can’t do that while visiting a sick person at home with their parents around. We only go around to people’s places when their parents are on vacation. Otherwise, being outdoors is the best place for our hobbies. My parents are always pleased I get so much fresh air. But obviously, for me and my friends, hanging out isn’t about getting fresh air in our lungs.
Robin comes into the room.
In his hand he’s holding a plastic shot glass with two pills in it. These pills are shaped differently from any of the others. I guess the nurse said something about my pain. I don’t even ask what they are. I hold out my hand, he plunks the two fat pills onto my palm, and I smack my hand to my mouth. Just like in the movies. The pills hit the back of my throat and I almost hurl. Quick, chase them with some hospital water. I cough. The uvula is a sensitive spot.
And unfortunately it’s very closely tied to the gag reflex. Which can be very disruptive during sex. God didn’t think that one out very well when he designed human beings. If I suck a cock during sex and want him to come in my mouth, I have to pay a hell of a lot of attention to make sure he doesn’t shoot his sperm on my uvula. Because then I would puke immediately. Been through it all, our Helen. Obviously I want to take the cock as deep into my throat as I can—it really makes a striking visual impact. I look like a sword swallower. But I really have to watch out for my uvula. It’s a pain. Everything has to tiptoe around it.
“Robin, did you call my parents before the emergency operation?”
“Oh, you know what, I forgot to tell you with all the commotion. I was only able to leave messages. Didn’t reach them directly. Sorry. I’m sure they’ll come at some point. Once they’ve listened to their messages.”
“Sure.”
He tidies the room. The table at the foot of the bed, something in the bathroom. He neatly organizes everything on the metal nightstand.
I stare straight ahead and say under my breath, “Any other parents whose daughter was in a situation like this would either stay with her in the hospital the whole time or sit by the phone at home so as not to miss any emergency calls. The trade-off, I guess, is that I have more freedom. Thanks.”
I ask him if he wants to taste my new specialty. I’ve invented a new dish. It’s that boring for me here, Robin.
I hold out the trail mix bag with the tear-grapes in it. If someone eats a woman’s tears, the two of them are forever bound to each other.
I explain what he has in his hand. I leave out the part about the tears. He bravely sticks the modified grape in his mouth. First I hear the skin of the grape burst, then the crack of the nut. With his mouth full he says he likes it and asks if he can have some more. Of course. He eats one after the other. He continues to clean up and keeps coming back to the metal nightstand to pop another grape in his mouth.
The pills aren’t working yet. I’m tense and tired. Pain is exhausting. It’s very hard to create attachments with people in a hospital room. I have the feeling everybody wants to get out of my room quickly. Maybe it doesn’t smell good in here. Or I don’t look good. Or maybe people just want to distance themselves from sickness and pain. The nurses’ station has a magical pull on all the nurses and caregivers, including Robin. I can hear them laughing out there in ways they never do in here. As a patient I’ll soon be gone; as employees they’ll still be here. That creates a barrier. But I’ll break it down soon. Even with no medical training I’ll join them as soon as I’m released. As a candy striper I’ll be allowed in their break room and drink sparkling water with them. For the first time, I have the feeling that Robin is trying to stay near me. He doesn’t leave. He keeps tidying. In places he’s already just cleaned up. It makes me happy. I’ve managed to create an attachment.
I pick up the phone. I dial mom’s number. Nobody answers. Answering machine.
“Hi, it’s me. When is somebody going to come visit me? I’m in pain and I have to stay here longer than I thought. At least send my brother by. He hasn’t been here yet. I would visit him if he had an operation down under.”
I hang up. Slam it down. Of course, on an answering machine you can’t tell the difference between a friendly hang up and an angry one.
I pick up the phone again and ask the dial tone: “And why did you try to kill yourself and Tony, mom? Are you sick? What’s wrong?”
You coward, Helen.
I’m spent.
I’m talking to myself, and a little bit to Robin.
“I can’t take it anymore. Not by myself. I have to constantly beg for painkillers. I lie to everyone about my bowel movements so I can stay here as long as possible in order to bring my parents together in this room. But they never come. And they’ll never show up at the same time. How is my plan supposed to work? What a load of shit. A massive load of shit. I’m an idiot and want things nobody else wants.”
I can feel the muscles in my shoulders tightening up. That always happens when I realize that everything’s pointless and that I can’t control things. My shoulders start to rise toward my ears because of the tension and I cross my arms and try to push them back down with my hands. I close my eyes and try to calm myself with exaggerated deep breathing. Doesn’t work. Never works. My butt is burning, it’s killing me, and my shoulders are attaching themselves to my ears.
My grandmother has been so tense for her whole life that she doesn’t have any shoulders at all anymore. Her arms come right out of her ears. Right next to her head. Once, when I was still young and nice, I went to massage her and she immediately let out a bloodcurdling scream. Then she told me that the muscles there had been so tense for so many years that the lightest touch felt to her as if someone were poking around in an open wound. But that’s not reason enough for her to try to do something about it. She just has all her blouses altered at the tailor so the arms are sewn right onto the collar—otherwise the extra flower-print fabric of the shoulders would hang there in big pouches. If I don’t want to end up like that, I’m going to have to come up with a way to avoid it. But how? Gymnastics? Massages? Ditch my family?
As a result of getting my back slammed in the car door, my doctor used to have me get regular massages. The first thing I’d ask each new masseuse was whether they’d ever had a male client get a hard-on during a massage.
Every one of them said yes. I’d act as if I was sympathetic, that I was as disgusted as they were about the boners.
Ah, men. In reality I was hoping to hear a story that would turn me on. I mean, what do these people think?
How can a man avoid getting a hard-on when a woman is massaging all around his cock and balls, like on his upper thigh? I get wet from that, too. It’s just that with women you can’t see the excitement.
I’ll start with that. I need to take the bull by the horns so I don’t end up like grandma. When I get out of here, I’m scheduling some more massages.
Where is Robin? I can hear him puttering around in the bathroom. Is it possible he’s worried about me? Though I have downed some strong medicine—maybe he’s just obligated to keep an eye on me. That could be it.
When was the last time I ate something?
Who cares. I only want to eat painki
llers. Nothing else. The pain in my ass keeps getting worse. My head is spinning.
Grandma can probably lie on her side very easily. The breadth of normal shoulders can get in the way when lying on your side. When she lies on her side, it’s a straight line from her ear right down along her arm. Much more comfortable. Maybe I won’t make any appointments for massages after all. I should have a closer look at grandma. Then I’ll decide.
Robin comes over to the bedside.
“Is it bad?”
“Yes.”
“In my experience, it’ll start to get better by tonight at the latest. Tomorrow you’ll probably be able to handle it without any medicine, and if you have a bowel movement with no bleeding, you’ll probably be allowed to go home.”
That’s not possible. They’d send me home in this condition? That’s it for my plan. Definitely. But I had already screwed it up. Pointless. This whole thing.
“Home? Nice.”
Shit.
Robin, I don’t want to go home. And I already had a bowel movement. I’ve fooled you all. Sorry. All because of my messed-up family. I have nowhere to go. I have to stay here. Forever.
I don’t want Robin to leave.
Maybe I can distract myself from the pain with a bit of conversation until the medicine starts working.
“Robin, can I tell you a secret?”
“Oh, man. What is it, Helen?”
“It’s not what you think.” Of course. I need to dispel the reputation I have with him. “It’s got nothing to do with my ass or nakedness or anything. I just wanted to show you my little family.”
He looks annoyed, but nods.
I turn to the windowsill and lift up the Bible.
“What is all that?” he asks.
I put the Bible down next to me in bed.
I give him a long lecture about my hobby, growing avocado trees.
He listens closely. I manage to keep him in my room for a long time. For the moment I don’t have to share him with other ass patients.
As I bring my presentation to a close, he takes off his white hospital clogs and climbs onto my bed. He looks at the avocado pits up close. This makes me very happy. Nobody’s ever shown so much interest in this hobby of mine.
He says he wants to try it out himself at home. Says they look pretty.
“If you want, you can pick one out and take it home with you.”
“No, I couldn’t do that. You’ve already put so much work into them.”
“Yes, and for exactly that reason, you should take one.”
He hesitates. He must be trying to figure out whether or not it’s allowed. Strong sense of duty it seems to me. Always following the rules, this Robin.
“Well, okay. If you’re absolutely sure you want to give one away. I’ll take this one here.”
He points to the nicest one of all. A light-yellow pit with touches of light pink. And a healthy, dark green sprout. Good choice.
“It’s yours.”
He picks up the glass and carefully lifts it across the bed, keeping it balanced so the water doesn’t spill. He slips back into his shoes and stands in front of my bed with the avocado pit. He seems really happy. We smile at each other.
He walks out.
I wrap my arms around my rib cage. It occurs to me that I’ll be released soon. My body and I shrug inwardly, and with that comes a gush of something down below. Warm. It could be anything. Out of any opening. I can’t distinguish anything down there at the moment.
I feel around with a finger. My first thought is that it’s a fluid leaking out pussywise. I make my finger magically reappear from under the sheet and see that the fluid is red. Got it.
I forgot to put in a tampon. With all the unusual bleeding I completely forgot about the routine bleeding. The bed is covered. I’m covered. Smeared with blood.
Okay. This is my own problem. I’m not going to ring for Robin and ask him to run and bring me something again. I don’t want him to think I’ve fallen in love with him and I’m just sitting here thinking up reasons to ring. I am in pain and really did need the pills. It’s fine to ring for that. But this would be too much. I don’t want to get on his nerves.
Though it’s also all right if he thinks I’ve fallen in love with him. Because I have. So there’s no reason he can’t be the first to know. But I can handle menstrual blood by myself. I’ve always managed to in the past—except that one time at my aunt’s.
I grab the plastic container from the windowsill and pull out two squares of gauze and a piece of paper towel. I also take the opportunity to pull out my old tampon. Time for it to go. I’m sure it’s already spread enough bacteria. Into the trash it goes before anyone has noticed it.
I can see condensation in the plastic container. It’s warm on the windowsill. On the inside of the box, droplets of moisture have formed. When they get too big and can’t hold on to the sides of the container anymore, they drip down, pulling other droplets with them. The droplets running down the sides seek the easiest path and leave a tiny, zigzagging trail of destruction behind, the same way a river does on a bigger scale. Then the droplets can join to form a fetid, fermenting puddle and bubble up into new steam droplets to cling to the sides of the container. Whoever stays up longest…
I need to examine my gown. If there’s blood on it, I’ll flip out. There’s no way I’m asking for another one.
Lucky. All clean. I hadn’t pushed it under myself properly. Good. I shift to the side to have a look at the mess. Not as much has come out as I thought. Good.
I lay one piece of the padding down with the plastic side up and the other on top of it with the plastic side down. I can do it with my eyes closed now. Nice to have something to do again.
I rip the paper towel in half and with one half wipe all around the folds of my pussy, soaking up as much blood as possible.
The other half I fold lengthwise so I have a long, thin, flat piece of toweling. I roll this up into a short, thick sausage and shove it as far into my pussy as I can. Take that, American tampon industry!
Then I sit on the soft gauze pads.
Ta-dah!
Done.
How well you take care of yourself, Helen.
I’m proud of myself. That doesn’t happen very often, and it makes me smile warmly inside.
If I’m in such a good mood and thinking such nice thoughts, that must mean the pain medication has kicked in.
I concentrate on trying to feel my wounded ass and realize nothing hurts. I just veer back and forth from pain to no pain in here.
I want to get up and walk around.
I’ve perfected my method of slowly getting out of bed so well that it would be a shame if I were pronounced healed and released.
I lie on my stomach and scoot my body, feet first, sideways toward the edge of the bed until I’m in the shape of a right angle with just my upper body on the bed and my feet on the ground. I call this gymnastics position “Helen kicks herself out of bed.”
The best view of it is from the doorway. Open tree-top angel gown, naked, wounded ass spread open to the door. I snap my upper body up and stand.
I stretch my right arm high in the air the way we were taught to after a tumbling routine. Smile wide and stretch your body so far out in the direction of your hand that your heels briefly leave the mat. I snap my right hand down to the side of my thigh. Nod my head, curtsy, and wait for applause. Silence. Wipe the smile off my face. What can you do, Helen, you always give your best performances when nobody’s watching. It’s just the way you are.
I’m not in any pain and want to move my body. Where should I go? Not outside. Don’t feel like running into other people. And besides, I’d either have to put on an ass parade in the hallway or put on underwear.
Do I even have any underwear here? I can’t remember what mom brought me.
There’s the first thing I can do on my tour of the room. Have a look. I go to the wardrobe. Open the door. It’s true. Pajama pants and T-shirts. Untouched. I’ve used
hospital gowns right from the start. Haven’t put on any of my own things.
Robin said I might be released as soon as tomorrow.
Time to pack my bag if it’s going to go according to that plan.
I’m not going to be able to make it work with my parents. It was a good plan. But they haven’t even shown up despite the emergency operation. I would love to continue trying to make my plan work. But it’s not going to happen here. They don’t visit often enough, and I’d have to have something much worse to be able to stay any longer. They won’t let me stay here long enough to pull it off. It’s nice here. Nicer than at home, at least.
Maybe I can go somewhere else beside home if I’m going to get kicked out of here so soon?
I pick up the empty bag on the bottom of the wardrobe and ball it up as small as I can. I stick it into the chrome trash can on the metal nightstand. Now my things will just have to stay in the wardrobe—they don’t have a bag to travel in.
Come on, Helen, that’s absolutely ridiculous. You can think of somewhere to go.
I have an idea. I take the bag back out of the trash can.
Move around some more. As long as I can’t feel my ass, it’s almost as if I’m here on vacation. On drugs.
From the nightstand I move along the edge of the bed to the corner that sticks out into the room. Then around the short side of the bed to the windowsill.
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