Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
I'm in the mood to chat about bruises today. This is the bruise I got from the IV that was in my hand when the alien inserted the probe in my butt, a.k.a. I had a colonoscopy.
It's more noticeable in person. The back of my hand looks as if it's been attacked.
I have always bruised easily. My mother bruised easily. The Hurricane bruises easily. No one has ever been able to tell me why I brush against something and get a bruise. Draw a little blood from my arm, and I look as if I've been punched.
My bruise reminds me of something that happened at the nursing home. I had a ton of bruises when I worked there. I was always bumping into things––like the patients' beds––or the patients would fall on me, unintentionally. One of them (sort of) intentionally threw her bed alarm at me. I caught it and felt rather proud of myself. She had dementia and didn't really know what she was doing.
Occasionally I had to work with a charge nurse I detested. Her name was Carolyn. One day I was in the midst of patient care, and she was passing out medications. How did you get those bruises on your arms? she inquired smarmily.
I don't know, I said. Bumped into something, most likely.
It looks kinda like, you know, handcuffs, she said snarkily.
For a moment, I thought she meant that my husband (not yet X) and I had played with handcuffs.
Then I realized she was insinuating that I had been arrested!
I bruise easily, I said.
I don't remember which of my colleagues was working the floor with me that day, but she became quite irate.
Janie is not the sort of person who would be in handcuffs! she said boldly, and loudly.
I felt very pleased that I had someone who would speak up for me. I usually have good relationships with co-workers.
As for Carolyn, she ended up being fired. I don't know why. Maybe she suggested that the Director of Nursing had been in handcuffs.
Some people don't know when to keep quiet.
Infinities of love,
I wish my hair looked like Art Garfunkel's.