There are 256 rooms. Every room is identical: Two InvaCare CS7 beds, oxygen supply hookups, a chair with blue confetti upholstery, and a Sony TV under the ceiling. All the likeness could have the monotony of being trapped inside a nightmare. Yet, the people filled the rooms with emotion. If you really think about it, humans are these skinny poles, perhaps 5-6 feet tall. The bed is definitely twice their size and triple their weight. Yet, these small space absorbers can fill the whole room. Sometimes, their intensity is so strong that one could swear that the color in the room changes to paint the room red with anger or serene with blue. Scents could be so overpowering to take your breath away. Some patient families filled the room with a scent of spice, cinnamon once.
Kandace flipped the switch to turn the yellow light above the door on. With the back of her hand, she pushed the hand sanitizer to squeeze out a cloud of white onto her hand. On automatic her hands wrung themselves, while her hip pushed open the door. Her long brown hair swung around with the move.
"We've discussed this, mom. It's not normal to wet your bed!" a forty-year old woman with drab clothing, yet bright red high heels yelled. Her chest was rigid, holding in the air. Her face had grayed from anger.
"I don't know who you are and why you are yelling at me. I'm not stupid. I should be at work right now," barked a white haired, skinny woman in a hospital gown who was fighting to shake the blanket of her bare foot to climb over the railing of the hospital bed. "I don't understand why this blanket is holding onto me? It's trying to imprison me."
Kandace dashed forward, bouncing in her white sneakers. Being all day on her feet, having top of the line sneakers was her pride, like a jungle warrior might have a rare bowie knife to bestow that extra edge in battle. Moving around all day also kept her body trim without an ounce of fat.
"Ms. Wellington, I am Kandace. Your boss as called and asked us to run some checks. He wants you to be in top form for the upcoming project," Kandace cheeks rouged a little. They always did that when she was lying.
"He did?" asked the frail woman in the hospital bed. "But, I haven't finished the floor design for... it's that word... it sleeps my tongue... I can feel it... I'm not stupid."
The presumable daughter eased out of her wide stance with the arms in the side to sink into the blue confetti upholstered chair with her face falling into deep chagrin. An inhale rose out of her tight chest as a snap for oxygen.
"Oh, you are an architect," exclaimed Kandace with an overly squeaky voice and big grin. Her cell phone vibrated. A task list flashed on it. "Antibiotics rotation due for room 103a. Call button in room 105b. Day shift due in 20 minutes." She slipped the black phone back into the pockets of her blue drawstring scrub pants.
"Yes," said Ms. Wellington proud. "Here, take my card. Our firm also has a residential building division." Ms. Wellington found her purse on the nightstand behind her. It was tiny, white little thing with creases that suggested it was older than the Civil War. Perhaps, three packs of cigarettes would fit into it. The scrawny, wrinkled fingers fumbled around in it. Kandace licked her lips looking again at the task list on her phone. The daughter buried her face in her palms not being able to watch her mom struggling to search her purse. "Just a little longer," said Ms. Wellington with an angelic smile of a little girl trapped inside of a decayed body. Her long hair had thinned so much that it had to be carefully combed.
Kandace placed her hand lovingly on the shoulder of the old woman. There wasn't a shred of flesh were the deltoids should have been. The face on the old woman melted. "You are so kind, child," Ms. Wellington said, and a tear rolled down her face. "I'm not working anymore, am I?"
"No, Ms. Wellington. You are seventy-two years old. It's unlikely that you are still working. Your daughter loves you a lot," Kandace explained slowly, while checking the IV line on Ms. Wellington's wrist. She tucked on the heart rate sensor to ensure a good fit. The daughter let her arm sprawl open on her lap. The tension had given way to long-term exhaustion from caregiving.
"It's so sad. It's so sad. It's so sad," repeated in Kandace's head as she looked between the two. Her fingers swiftly checked off boxes on the clipboard, while the phone vibrated again. "Have you had a bowel movement today?" The daughter shook her head in place of Ms. Wellington.
A last loving look were all the blessings that she could send the two before she had to swiftly walk, carefully restraining herself from running, out of the door. She flipped of the on-call light. Her sneakers were squeaking as she turned to a sprint to room 103a. She flipped the on-call light no. She pushed down the handle.
Mr. Rosen was listening to Jazz music playing an air saxophone. He was a gentleman with a British silk morning robe wrapped over his hospital gown. His gray hair was carefully groomed, as if he were ready to step of an airplane and wave at an audience of press photographers. "I ain't got anything else to do all day here," he'd explain his habit of keeping a meticulous appearance.
"How are we doing today, Mr. Rosen," asked Kandace putting a little extra pep into her voice, eying the early morning gray outside of the window.
"With you, my dear, it's all sunshine," belted the old gentlemen with a charismatic smile.
"How is your pain on a scale from 1 to 10 today?" asked Kandace taking the little come-on with a wink of her right eye.
"Just splendid. There is no pain at all," said Mr. Rosen. He was the only senior man who had this meticulously trimmed nose hair. He must have gotten up two hours before sunrise to be ready for her daily morning visit.
