It’s 7:30 and I become aware of someone enthusiastically expounding in the corridor. This has never happened during my six weeks on the recovery ward. There has been occasional moaning at night, but mostly it’s convalescents, quietly gathering our strength. Intrigued, I eagerly secure my oxygen line, struggle to my chair and then to my wheelchair, and push it to where I can peer into the corridor. I see a man striding and gesticulating. “Wanna pair of tickets, honey?” he asks the desk nurse.
“No Caetano, I can’t,” she responds lightly, not glancing up. Caetano doesn’t stop moving. And talking. About his upcoming party – he’s going to rent an empty container ship in the harbour and he’s selling tickets to the biggest event in Toronto ever! It’s going to be a solid week of party during the Euro Cup soccer finals. Non-stop soccer and dance action! He holds forth on the relative merits of Croatia and forza Italia (not that he is prejudiced in the matter) and the relative size and weight of their respective stones.
Caetano is an interesting piece of work. He is maybe 40, in good shape and tanned. And looking very red – Detroit Red Wings shorts, a Red Wings shirt and Red Wings cap. My mind can’t grasp what this man is doing here. Is he a visitor? “So, I gotta be goin”. The topic has suddenly switched. He parks himself as the nursing station and starts to unload. He is ready to get discharged at 11 o’clock this morning, and he lets us know, staff and patients, in great detail, that he has plans. It’s the NHL semifinals, and he has a game to get to. Tonight. But in the meantime, there are several ladies who are pining for his attention. He needs to leave NOW. He has places to go, and he needs to go now!
But unfortunately, that’s not quite how hospitals work. By 11:30 he is still walking relentlessly up and down the hall. He wants a real meal, with real food, not this hospital crap! He was just supposed to be in here overnight for observation, and he was supposed to be discharged this morning! He has money in the hospital vault “fer chrissakes!” ten thousand bucks! Why don’t they let him order a pizza? “Hey honey, nice ass! I like chocolate!” He blurts out.
He is easily distracted by the female staff, but quickly returns to the main topic. “I’m leaving if I don’t get a decent lunch in 30 minutes! The toast I had for breakfast was garbage! Call 911! I’m outta here! Get me to the psych ward! I want my assessment! I’m outta here! Call the cops on me! Heeey honey! What say you n me go check out the supply room? Boom! Boom! Know what I mean?”
Some of the younger staff women twitter in breathless excitement. They blush and giggle. Some of the older ones upbraid them. “Don’t engage! It just encourages his behaviour!” The twittering youngsters seem egged on by this upbraiding and continue the banter. The display of rampant testosterone continues.
Eventually someone does call 9-1-1. The cops do show up. A team of two has a 30 minute conversation with him outside the door of his room. The police are low key and sotto voce while Caetano continues his boisterous tone. “Buongiorno,” I say, in vague solidarity. I’m on my way to the elevator with my walker, off for my second attempt at a solo circumnavigation of the property.
“Paesan!” he calls out.
“Compagno” I respond. “Io sono tedesco.”
“Make a bum” he shoots back in Italian, in beautiful pear shaped tones. I shake my head laughing and head into the elevator.
When I get back, the police are gone, Caetano is in his room, in full voiced discussion with one of the medical staff on the various shortcomings of the august institution whose guests we both are, and whose hospitality is clearly wanting. And so say all of us, but only Caetano in his madness tries to bell the cat. Like Jack Nicholson facing off with Nurse Ratchet in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Compagno vero he, cynical slug I.
The next time I wheel out of my room, it’s almost supper time. Caetano has been strangely silent for hours. Maybe he’s been medicated. In an alcove across the hall from his room, three older, obviously Italian individuals sit. The youngest is possibly an elder brother, the elderly couple probably his parents. They consult in hushed tones in their own language, then the youngest talks to Brenda, the head nurse. I can’t hear what they are saying as I head to the patients’ fridge, to grab a fruit juice and some of the steak asparagus that my sons brought yesterday. When I get back, the group in the hall is gone, and so is Caetano.
That night, the Red Wings win.
sloebote 