The Crone

Something's chirping in the house. At first I thought it was the smoke alarm, but now I think it's a cricket.
I hate men. I hate getting old. I hate the cat who only loves me because I feed him. I hate Jay. I hate everybody.
Not really.
3 days on the floor. We have a patient on our floor--good looking older guy. Comatose. All these women are showing up. Two of them were fiances, the rest were girlfriends. A new one pops up every day. Nice women. A little older--late forties, fifties. Realtors and schoolteachers. Middle class. Not the usual Jerry Springer regulars who frequent the unit.
The family finally said "no more girlfriends." So we're literally barring the door. They're so tricky and aggressive! They stand around the door and watch the nurses go in. One of them got the door code and just started showing up.
I asked her to leave.
"I'm so sorry," I told her. "I understand how hard this must be for you, but the family has been very clear about visitors."
"I understand," she tells me. She's a well-kept red head with too much foundation. "My daughter's a nurse, so I know exactly what position you're in."
"Good," I tell her. "That's a relief. So often we get people who don't really understand. What a gift you are! Thank you for understanding."
We eventually had to call security. She stayed all night in the waiting room and kept showing up in the unit.
Another one was sitting beside his bed, staring at him, holding his hand and sobbing.
"Will you give him a note for me when he wakes up?" she asked.
"Of course."
"Do you think I should mention that I know all about the other women in the note?" she chokes out.
"No, I think you should just keep it to 'get well soon'. You can work all that out later."
Geraldine, our tiny elderly unit clerk, who hasn't figured out how to use the paging system (she just screams) and has a voice that could wake the dead, shakes her head, looking at the women on the monitor, buzzing to get in.
"Women are fools." she barks
"Geraldine, if I am ever acting like this over any man, you need to thump me."
She reaches over and hits me.
Great.
"Shame on you," Wiz says. "Call no man a fool...and on the sabbath."
"Call no man raca" I correct him, "and I'm talking about women."
I got back together with Jay, but I'm ashamed to tell anyone.
I like the sex.
Even though I don't really like him any more, I still like the sex. And I don't want to touch anyone else Ever again.
Is this how the French feel?
Maybe that's what this guy has going for him.
I don't know....maybe we expect and want too much. Maybe these ladies were lucky to get a little loving in the last flash of their sexual viability and if they needed to lie to themselves to enjoy it (he loves me, I'm the only one), maybe that's okay on some level.
I mean, don't we all really know the truth about things? Who is ever really surprised by the actions of a loved one.
And it's amazing...how many "fiance's" show up when someone's injured and can't give them the lie. You're loved more when you're silent, when someone can project their dream on you. So who knows. Maybe these women, lonely, past their motherhood years, out of their marriages, just wanted more out of him than he could give. Although he tried very hard to please them all.
Or maybe he's just a shit, and karma got him.
We were standing around his bed, wondering where he found the time or energy to keep all these relationships going? One of the benefits of retirement.
I've got to face the fact that I may end up alone. I keep telling myself it will all work out one day and I will find someone wonderful, but you know, that just may not happen.
I'm already getting kind of funny, I think, kind of old lady in the hills with her axe and weird hat and peace signs and cats--funny. I mean, I'm still okay, but I can see her crazy sharp crone's eyes staring through mine. I can see the shadows of her jowls, hear her coarse hooting cackle.
Oh, well.
That's my 1/2 hour.