By the time my head is stitched and cleaned and I’m ready to go, I realize I have no way to get anywhere. With my car totaled, I’m stranded without wheels. I also don’t have my cell phone and assume it is still inside the wreckage somewhere. I curse myself for not realizing my dilemma sooner and asking Hurley for a lift. The idea of using him as my personal chauffeur, even for a little while, is pretty appealing.
I run through a mental list of possible rides and use one of the ER phones to start making calls. There’s no answer at Izzy and Dom’s house and I can’t remember Izzy’s cell number, which was the only number programmed into my own phone, done by Izzy himself when he gave me the thing. I call the office and Cass informs me that everyone is very busy, and that Izzy heard about my accident and called in a couple of coroners from another jurisdiction to help him with the Heinrichs’ autopsies. They are in the midst of doing them now so the good news is I won’t have to assist with the rotting bodies, but the bad news is there is no one in the office that has the time to ferry me around.
Next I try my sister, Desi, but there is no answer there, either. Fortunately the paramedics did bring my purse with me and, after cleaning off the cottage cheese and jelly remnants, I dig out my wallet and check my cash status to see if I have enough for a cab.
One of the advantages of living in a small town is that the cab service is relatively cheap. They’ll take you anywhere in town for three bucks. But the flip side is that the cab service only runs until sundown. That’s because it’s owned and staffed by a group of senior citizens whose ability to see and drive in the dark is limited. Based on the number of dents I’ve seen on their vans, their ability to see and drive in the daytime is not much better. But the risk of a fender-bender is offset by their maximum speed. Those images you see on TV of New York City cabdrivers busting speed limits and weaving in and out of traffic couldn’t be further from the Sorenson truth.
Though I’m not too keen on risking my involvement in another car accident, my choices are limited so I place the call. The cab’s office is only a few blocks from the hospital and the dispatcher assures me she has someone there waiting to go, but it takes a full half hour for my van to arrive.
Behind the wheel is Bjorn Adamson, an eighty-something gentleman I know from working at the hospital. I took care of him a few times in the ER: once when he was having problems regulating his blood pressure, once for a nosebleed, and once for a minor heart attack. I’d also cared for him in the OR twice not long ago when he had hernia and cataract surgeries. I recall how his daughter said he was having problems passing his urine because of an enlarged prostate and that she thought he might be showing the beginning signs of senile dementia.
Trying not to worry over the fact that my cabdriver’s current state of health could probably generate enough medical bills to send an internist’s kid through college, I climb into the front seat of the van. I do a quick physical assessment honed from my years of nursing and note that his white hair is much sparser since I last saw him—except for the tufts growing out of his ears and nose—and his skin has so many age spots he appears to have a tan. His clothes are wrinkled and I detect the distinct odor of stale urine.
I greet Bjorn by name and ask him how he’s doing.
He doesn’t answer my question; he just sits there staring at me. I assume he’s trying to figure out who I am and how he knows me, so I offer up a little help.
“I’m Mattie Winston. I’m a nurse here, or used to be, and I’ve taken care of you a few times. Remember when you came in for your hernia surgery a few months ago?”
I think I see a faint spark of recognition in his rheumy eyes and he smiles. “You’re a nurse?” he says.
I nod.
“Thank goodness. I could sure use some help with this dag-gummed thing.” With that he reaches down and pulls up the leg of his pants. There, strapped beside his knee, is a urinary catheter leg bag. I can see the catheter snaking its way up his pants and the bag itself is so full it’s about to burst. “Doc says I need to have this goddamned tube stuck up my wiener so I can pee because my prostrate is so big.”
“Prostate,” I correct him.
“Yeah, that’s right, my prostrate. Anyway, my arthritis has gotten so bad these days that my fingers don’t always work like they should and managing this little cap thingy here about drives me nuts. Every time I try to empty this bag I end up with piss all over my hands and my shoes, everywhere but the toilet. See, it’s supposed to just pop off here when you grab this little tab but I never can seem to. . . .”
With that, he manages to pop the cap off just fine and nearly half a liter of urine starts draining out onto the van floor.
“Aw, dammit!” he whines. “See what I mean?”
I do indeed. It’s pretty hard to miss a river of urine flowing toward your feet. I manage to open the van door and hop out before the flow reaches me. It spreads across the floor in a giant pool.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell him. “Let me run inside and get some stuff so we can clean that up.”
He nods, pulls a tissue—one individual, two-ply tissue—from his shirt pocket, and starts dabbing at the urine pool. It’s like trying to wipe up the Mississippi River with a single roll of paper towels.
Inside the hospital I round up a bunch of towels, some sanitizing cloths, some isolyzer powder—a nifty substance that will turn any liquid into a dry, sweepable solid—and some linen, and trash bags. Ten minutes later the cab is as clean as it’s going to get—though the stale urine aroma is still present—and Bjorn’s bag is empty and recapped.
Since I never did get to eat lunch, I ask Bjorn if he’d mind taking me to Dairy Airs before he takes me home. I’m hoping Jackie Nash’s mother might be there. He is so grateful for my assistance with his catheter and the parting of the yellow sea that he offers to take me to Dairy Airs for free. When he finds out that my car was totaled in an accident and I have no idea when I’ll be able to get a replacement, he tries to work out a deal with me.
“Tell you what,” he says. “If you’ll empty this dag-gummed bag for me a couple of times a day, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go for free in return. Whaddaya say?”
I give his proposition some thought. It does offer me an alternative means of transportation temporarily, but I’m also afraid of Bjorn getting a little too used to the idea of me caring for him and getting stuck doing it for a lot longer than I’d like. So I counter his offer with one of my own.
“Tell you what, Bjorn. We can try that for a few days but then I want to reevaluate things. I’m pretty sure I can get you a different kind of leg bag, one that has an easier gizmo for opening it. It might cost a little more and it’s something I’ll have to order so it will take a few days to get here, but I think it will solve your problem. In the meantime, we can help each other out.”
He thinks about my offer for a few seconds and then says, “Okay. But if this newfangled bag doesn’t work any better, will you help me out a little longer?”
“We’ll deal with that when the time comes,” I answer evasively, hoping it never will. He seems satisfied with that answer and we finally pull out into the street at a blistering ten miles an hour.
Dairy Airs is just over a mile from the hospital but it takes us nearly fifteen minutes to get there. Along the way at least ten drivers honk, yell obscenities, and make rude gestures as they pass us by in a cloud of disgust.
Unsure how long I will be here, I suggest to Bjorn that I call for him when I’m done but he insists on coming in with me, saying the length of the wait won’t matter. “They have the best cheesecakes in this place,” he says, pulling into a parking place and nudging the van’s front tires into the curb. “I try to get a slice at least once a week.”